Chapter 23
Friday morning, Molly headed into the village square, where the Harvest Festival market – the unofficial start of the festival weekend – had transformed the cobblestones into a colorful maze of canvas stalls.
The older buildings stood sentinel around the temporary stalls, their weathered stone providing a perfect backdrop to the bustling commerce.
Something about the rhythm of this place settled her in a way that truly surprised her. For the first time in forever her shoulders no longer felt knotted with tension.
‘Mornin’!’ called an elderly woman arranging jars of honey on a wooden table nearby. The amber liquid caught the morning light, glowing like trapped sunshine.
Molly approached, drawn by the golden display. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, picking up a small jar. The glass was cool against her palm.
‘Taste?’ The woman offered a tiny wooden stick drizzled with honey. Molly accepted, touching it to her tongue. The flavor bloomed; sweet certainly, but complex with floral notes and something deeper, almost smoky.
‘That’s incredible,’ she murmured, genuinely impressed.
The woman beamed. ‘My bees spend the summer up in the hills where the heather blooms purple. Makes all the difference.’ She tilted her head, studying Molly with curious eyes. ‘You’re the American staying at the Glen Arms, aren’t you? The one helping the Flynns with their marketing?’
Word sure traveled fast in Golden Valley. ‘That’s me.’
‘Well, work your charms on meself if you like; I could always do with the extra business.’
Molly chuckled. ‘With stuff this good, I don’t think you need any help from me.’
She purchased the honey jar, tucking it carefully into a canvas bag, before moving deeper into the market’s heart.
The stalls formed uneven rows that created winding pathways between them.
Molly wandered without hurry, pausing to admire hand-thrown pottery glazed in blues and greens that mimicked the lake’s changing colors, then lingering over a display of wooden carvings – small animals and Celtic knots polished to a warm glow.
A street busker played a tin whistle from a bench at the square’s edge, the plaintive melody weaving through the market’s ambient sounds.
Farmers arranged their produce in colorful displays – purple and green cabbage heads nestled beside orange carrots and ruby-red beet.
Apples too, of course – though few with the character of Goldenridge’s heritage varieties.
She’d spent enough time with Jack over the last few days to recognize the commercial types, their uniform shape and color pretty but predictable.
The thought of him sent a small flutter through her stomach. Their interactions had improved markedly since that tense moment by the lake boundary.
While he remained guarded as Molly filmed and took notes, especially when Patrick wasn’t around, something was shifting between them – moments of genuine connection breaking through his suspicion like sunshine through clouds.
Yesterday especially when she’d walked him through the business plan she’d compiled for his bank meeting.
And then there was that moment in the rain-soaked barn …
A savory aroma pulled Molly out of her thoughts and, following her nose, she found herself at a butcher’s stall where a ruddy-faced man in a striped apron tended a small portable grill.
Sausages sizzled on the hot surface, their skin browning as fat rendered with a seductive hiss.
The scent was mouth-watering – pork and herbs and something sweet-sharp that she recognized immediately.
‘Hello, yourself,’ the butcher greeted, noting her interest. With practiced movements, he speared a sausage, sliced it into bite-sized pieces and offered one to Molly on the tip of his knife. ‘Goldenridge apples in these. Makes all the difference.’
Molly accepted the sample, the meat still almost too hot to touch. The flavors melded beautifully – savory pork, herbs she couldn’t quite identify, and the distinctive sweet-tart note of apple providing the perfect counterpoint.
‘Mmm … delicious,’ she moaned. ‘The flavor comes through so clearly. Bloody Butchers?’
He nodded, eyeing her with newfound interest. ‘You know your apples, so.’
‘I’m learning,’ Molly chuckled. ‘Hard not to pick up a few tips around here when you’re surrounded by them.’
Sunlight had strengthened, burning through the morning mist and illuminating the scene with golden clarity.
At a cheese stall, she paused to admire rounds of farmhouse cheddar aged to varying depths of color.
The cheesemonger, a woman with strong forearms, offered tastes on small wooden paddles – creamy young cheese, sharp mature cheddar and a crumbly variety washed in local cider that once again, carried echoes of the fruit that had flavored it.
‘The cider wash is my husband’s invention,’ the woman explained, watching Molly’s reaction to the complex flavor. ‘Goldenridge of course.’
It was as if the orchard was woven into the village, the fruit central to so much of its produce, and its people too. ‘Mmm … wonderful,’ Molly said, the taste tangy and rich on her tongue.
Next came a stall of woolen goods – scarves, hats, and blankets in natural shades and vibrant dyes. Molly ran her fingers over a scarf the color of forest moss, the wool surprisingly soft against her skin.
‘Golden Vale sheep,’ the vendor told her, an older woman with knitting needles clicking steadily in her hands even as she spoke. ‘Not as fancy as merino, but wears far better, I’ll tell you that. My mother’s blankets lasted forty years or more.’
Molly examined the scarf, immediately thinking of Pops. Her grandfather would appreciate the craftsmanship, and the connection to his wife’s homeland. ‘I’ll take it,’ she decided. As the woman wrapped her purchase, Molly caught the tantalizing scent of fresh bread on the breeze.
Following it led her to a stall where loaves in various shapes and sizes covered a rustic wooden table.
Behind it, an older man, with arms dusted white to the elbow, shaped dough with practiced movements.
The results were works of art that would give Eva a run for her money – crusty baguettes, rustic country loaves, and perfectly formed rounds of soda bread.
The baker worked on a fresh batch, his strong hands kneading dough before shaping it into a round and placing it on a floured board.
With easy precision, he took a sharp knife and cut a deep cross into the top of the unbaked loaf.
‘Deep enough to let the fairies out,’ Molly joked with a smile, another well-worn Aoife phrase emerging automatically.
The baker looked up, surprise flickering across his features before his face creased with laughter. ‘My mother swore by that too.’ He studied her with new interest. ‘Not many visitors know it.’
‘Irish grandmother,’ she repeated, smiling. ‘Religious about the bread cross – said it was practical and magical all at once.’
‘Wise woman, so.’ The baker nodded, flouring another ball of dough. ‘Practical because it helps the dough cook through, magical because it keeps the fairies from spoiling the bread.’ His eyes twinkled with humor. ‘Though between ourselves, I think it was just to stop the youngsters stealing it.’
Molly chuckled in agreement, immediately recalling how Aoife used to slap Cole’s hands away when her brother tried to break into a fresh loaf.
‘She made the most incredible soda bread,’ she continued, the memory vivid and sweet. ‘Dark with caraway seeds and raisins soaked in tea overnight. The place would smell like heaven when it was baking.’
‘Ah, tea-soaked raisins! That’s an old local trick.’ The baker nodded approvingly. ‘Your granny must’ve been a Tipp woman so?’
‘Yes.’ Molly traced a finger along the rough wooden edge of the stall, suddenly caught between worlds – their Brooklyn apartment where Aoife had baked and told stories, and this village square where those same stories had been born.
‘I learned to bake watching her, though sadly I’ve never been able to match her soda bread. ’
‘The secret’s in the buttermilk,’ the baker said, conspiratorially.
‘And a light hand with the mixing – too much and you’ve made yourself a doorstop.
’ He picked up one of the finished loaves, its crust a perfect deep brown, the cross clearly defined on top.
‘Take this one,’ he said, wrapping it in brown paper.
‘Still warm from the oven. Slather it with good Kerrygold while it’s hot – no better taste in the world. ’
Their fingers brushed as Molly handed over payment, his hands warm and flour-soft. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it for more than just the bread.
‘Enjoy,’ he replied. ‘And if herself had any other baking secrets, I’m always keen to learn a new trick.’
Molly hesitated, wondering what Aoife would think of her now, standing in the village square she’d left decades ago, in the midst of the Harvest Festival weekend holding bread made by hands that might even have known hers.
Cradling the warmth against her chest, she continued her market exploration.
The square had filled considerably now, a mix of locals and a handful of festival day-trippers and tourists. She found a bench at the market’s edge and sat for a bit, watching the scene with a contentment that felt both new and familiar.
Children chased each other between stalls while their parents browsed.
Older men gathered near the fountain, caps on heads, discussing what looked like serious business.
The whole village seemed to breathe together as they turned out for the day, connected by the invisible threads of shared history and present community.
Molly broke off a small piece of the still-warm soda bread, the crust crackling pleasantly between her fingers.
The interior was tender and buttermilk-tangy, with a familiar homey perfection that made her throat tighten with unexpected emotion.
It tasted just like her childhood, like Aoife’s kitchen, like … belonging.
She chewed slowly, savoring both the taste and the moment. In the week or so since arriving in Golden Valley, she felt not like an intruder or an impostor, but like someone who might, in some small way, have a right to be here?
The feeling was as warm and sustaining as the bread in Molly’s hands – complicated, but undeniably satisfying.