Chapter 26
The Glen Arms Hotel lobby also hummed with festival energy as Molly pushed through the heavy oak door, bringing with her the crisp scent of evening air and the faintest trace of wildflowers from her work in the square.
The antique grandfather clock in the corner had just chimed seven, its sonorous tones reverberating through the wood-paneled walls that had witnessed generations of travelers passing through.
Several suitcases were stacked near the reception desk, where Anna sorted through a chaotic pile of registration cards with the efficiency of someone accustomed to managing chaos with limited resources.
The proprietor’s usually immaculate dark hair had escaped its professional updo in several places, giving her a slightly frazzled appearance that contrasted with her crisp white blouse.
‘Everything OK?’ Molly asked, and Anna rolled her eyes.
‘Siobhan’s called in sick – festival flu, I suspect, since her boyfriend’s playing in the band tonight.’
Molly unwound her scarf, draping it over the coat stand by the door. ‘Need a hand?’
Relief washed over Anna’s features. ‘You’re an angel. The festival rush is well and truly underway, I’ve got six check-ins waiting already. Haven’t even had time to put out the welcome drinks.’
‘On it,’ Molly said, already moving behind the reception desk as if she belonged there. ‘What else do you need me to do?’
Anna quickly explained the check-in process – a blend of traditional hospitality and necessary modernization.
Guests would first be welcomed with a small glass of apple cordial, a festival tradition dating back generations.
Their details would be entered into the computer system (which was prone to freezing if you typed too quickly, Anna warned), and then they would be escorted to their rooms by staff – or in tonight’s case, by Molly.
‘Most importantly, make them feel welcome,’ she concluded. ‘Like yourself, this is the first taste of Golden Valley for most. First impressions matter.’
Molly nodded, remembering her own rain-soaked arrival twelve days ago – how the hotel had seemed both foreign and oddly familiar, how Anna’s welcome had contained that curious mix of professional warmth and personal interest that characterized Irish hospitality.
It almost felt like months had passed since then.
The lobby filled gradually with new arrivals – an older couple from Dublin who’d been attending the festival for years; a group of young women from Cork, excited for their first visit; an elderly man who announced he’d been staying in the Ash Room every festival weekend since 1978 and expected the same service his late wife had always enjoyed.
Molly moved between them with growing confidence, pouring cordial into small crystal glasses, explaining festival highlights, answering questions about local attractions.
The knowledge she’d absorbed over her stay flowed easily – which paths offered the best lake views, which pub served traditional music, where to find the best soda bread in the village.
Information gathered from Eva, from Jack and Patrick, her own explorations – and perhaps, in some small way, from memories passed down through her grandmother’s stories.
‘You’re a natural,’ Anna murmured as they passed each other behind the desk. ‘Are you sure you haven’t worked in hospitality before?’
‘Lots of this stuff in marketing, really,’ Molly replied. ‘Different industry, same principle – make people feel they’ve made the right choice.’
Between arrivals, she helped Anna sort welcome baskets containing local products – small jars of honey, lavender sachets for pillows.
The routine established itself quickly, a rhythm of welcomes and directions and key handovers that felt surprisingly satisfying in its immediacy.
Unlike her work projects that often took months to show results, here the appreciation was instant – visible in the smiles of guests as they stepped into rooms with lake views, in their exclamations over the freshly cut flowers on bedside tables, in their evident delight at the small touches that distinguished the Glen Arms from generic chain hotels.
‘You’ve a good eye for the details,’ Anna observed as Molly refreshed a slightly wilted flower arrangement in the lobby. ‘Most people wouldn’t even notice that.’
She smiled. ‘You can tell everything about a place by how they tend to the little things.’
Anna nodded. ‘My mother says the very same.’
As if summoned by her daughter’s words, Brid herself appeared in the doorway connecting the Ryan family quarters to the hotel proper.
Her silver-streaked hair was arranged in its usual elegant coiffure and tonight, she wore a deep burgundy dress.
She paused on the threshold, her gaze falling immediately on Molly as she led a newly arrived couple toward the staircase.
‘The Rowan Room is on the second floor, third door on your right,’ Molly was saying, her posture unconsciously mimicking Anna’s professional stance. ‘The windows face west, so you’ll catch the sunset over the lake. If you need extra pillows or have any questions, just dial zero on the room phone.’
The couple nodded appreciatively, the husband already asking about the best lake scenic spots as they ascended the stairs. Molly answered with suggestions she’d gleaned from her own explorations.
Brid stood perfectly still, her lined face composed in an expression of puzzled concentration. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, her eyes following Molly with the intensity of someone trying to recall an elusive memory.
‘Mam,’ Anna called, breaking Brid’s focus. ‘You’re blocking the passage. Come in or go out, but don’t stand there like an eejit.’
Brid moved forward with the fluid grace that belied her years, her gaze still returning to Molly with distracted frequency. She approached the desk where Anna was entering data into the computer, but her attention remained divided.
‘Committee meeting ran late,’ she explained, setting her handbag on a small table beside the desk. ‘Betty O’Toole wanted to discuss parking, and you know what she’s like when she’s on her soapbox.’
Anna made a noncommittal sound, her fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced efficiency. ‘Was anything actually resolved, or was it just the usual arguments going nowhere?’
‘We’re using the church grounds for overflow tomorrow,’ Brid replied, then paused and looked back toward the stairs. ‘That girl really reminds me of someone,’ she said, her voice dropping but still audible in the small lobby. ‘The American one. But I just can’t put my finger on it.’
Anna glanced up from the computer screen. ‘Half the tourists remind you of someone, Mam. Remember that Canadian fella you were certain was your cousin Michael’s grandson?’
‘That was different,’ Brid protested. ‘This is …’ She trailed off. ‘There’s something in the way she moves, the tilt of her head, even. It’s just so familiar.’
Anna sighed, smoothly changing the subject. ‘Did you bring the festival programs? We should put them on the counter.’
Brid reluctantly turned her attention to her daughter, extracting a stack of colorful brochures from her handbag. ‘Fresh off the printer. Added a special mention of Goldenridge sponsors too, thanks to advice from our marketing expert.’ She nodded again toward the stairs and a now-absent Molly.
The check-in rush gradually subsided as the grandfather clock struck eight, its resonant chimes filling the lobby with sonorous dignity.
Most new arrivals had now settled into their rooms, leaving only the occasional latecomer to disturb the newly established calm.
As Molly reappeared downstairs to check if Anna needed anything else, Brid told her she’d gone to check on dinner service in the kitchen.
‘You’ve been a godsend tonight,’ she said, studying her. ‘Anna doesn’t like to admit when she’s overwhelmed.’
‘Happy to help,’ Molly replied. ‘It’s nice to feel useful.’
Brid’s shrewd eyes seemed to be studying her. ‘You’ve settled in well here, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. It feels …’ Molly hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t reveal too much. ‘Familiar, somehow. Comfortable.’
‘Golden Valley has that effect on a lot of people,’ Brid observed. ‘Especially those with Tipp blood, no matter how distant. It calls them home, in a way.’
The comment struck far closer to truth than Brid could know. Molly nodded noncommittally and headed back toward the stairs.
The movement brought her face-to-face with one of the old photographs she hadn’t noticed before.
Mounted a few steps from the bottom in a simple wooden frame, it showed a woman she now recognized as a much younger Brid – perhaps twenty?
– standing arm-in-arm with another young woman beneath a Harvest Festival banner.
Both wore bright dresses adorned with autumn leaves, flower chains on their heads, their faces alight with laughter and youth.
The other girl was slender and dark-haired, her features blurred slightly by the photograph’s age but beautiful in a delicate, serious way that contrasted with her joyful expression.
Molly’s heart stilled in her chest. She knew that face – had seen it in family albums, in the framed portrait that had stood on her grandmother’s bedside table until the day she died. Younger than in any photograph she had ever seen, but unmistakably Aoife Brennan, before she became Aoife Harris.
‘I was Harvest Queen,’ Brid’s voice said close behind her, making her start a little. ‘What year it was I couldn’t tell you, but a long time ago now, that’s for sure.’
Molly swallowed hard, forcing herself to maintain a neutral expression as she turned to face Brid. ‘Looks like you were having fun,’ she managed, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tumult inside her.
‘And that’s my old friend, my best friend,’ the older woman continued, her eyes fixed on the photograph with the dewy-eyed focus of someone looking into the past. ‘We were inseparable in those days.’
‘What happened to her?’ Molly asked, the question emerging before she could consider its wisdom. ‘Your friend?’
Brid’s expression clouded slightly. ‘She left Golden Valley not long after that picture was taken. Went to America, we heard eventually. We lost touch over the years – ’course, this was well before the internet or cheaper international calls.
’ She sighed, the sound heavy with old regrets.
‘Life takes people in different directions.’
Molly nodded, unable to trust her voice.
The photograph seemed to pulse with significance, a visual confirmation of the very connection she’d come here to honor.
Her grandmother had stood in this very building, had even laughed with the woman beside her, had been part of the festival Molly herself was now helping to prepare.
The realization made her feel simultaneously more authentic and more fraudulent – her presence here both a homecoming and a deception.
Should she say something to Brid? Maybe tell her …
‘There you are.’ Anna’s voice broke the moment as she returned to the reception area. She smiled at Molly. ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help. Go on away now and enjoy yourself after all your hard work.’
Molly nodded. ‘A pleasure.’
Anna turned to Brid. ‘Your friend, Mrs Donnelly, is looking for more towels in the Hawthorn Room, Mam.’
Brid turned away from the photograph. ‘I’ll sort it,’ she said, looking conspiratorially at Molly. ‘She likes to reminisce about the days when towels were proper towels, not these modern thin yokes.’
As Brid moved away, Anna gave Molly another smile. ‘Honestly. Thanks again for stepping in tonight. You’ve been a tremendous help.’
‘Not a problem,’ she replied, her mind still half-captured by the photograph. ‘I should probably go get ready for tonight.’
Anna nodded. ‘You’ll enjoy it I’d say. The band’s brilliant and the craic is mighty.’ Her smile turned conspiratorial. ‘Jack Flynn might even be persuaded to play a tune or two in the pub after-hours. He’s quite talented on the guitar, though he’d die before admitting it.’
The mention of Jack added another layer of complexity to Molly’s already tumultuous thoughts. Jack, a musician? The man had hidden depths she’d barely uncovered.
As Molly ascended the steps, the weight of the photograph’s revelation followed her. Her grandmother had been here in the Glen Arms Hotel, had breathed this same air, had been young and full of dreams in this place before life took her in unexpected directions.
The thought was both comforting and unsettling.
Especially since unlike Brid it seemed, Molly knew exactly the direction Aoife’s life beyond Golden Valley had taken.