Chapter 31
Mid-morning mist clung to the valley as Molly picked her way through the dew-soaked orchard rows, her boots leaving dark imprints in the silvered grass.
She’d risen early, unable to sleep through the anticipation that hummed beneath her skin. Light filtered through the eastern hills, casting long shadows across Goldenridge.
Today was the day.
Jack had said midday, but Molly couldn’t wait that long. The need to see the tree alone first, to experience it herself and all it represented, had pulled her from sleep and out into the morning.
The orchard appeared transformed in this nascent light – rows of apple trees standing straight, their fruit gleaming with dew.
As she walked deeper, the trees seemed to watch her passing.
The air smelled of earth and apples and something greener, more primal – the scent of growth and decay entwined in perfect balance.
Her pace quickened as she rounded the final bend, anticipation tightening her chest. And then, suddenly, it stood before her.
The Wishing Oak.
Molly stopped. Nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it up close – this ancient giant rising from the earth like something born of myth rather than nature.
Its massive trunk twisted upward in gnarled majesty, splitting into enormous limbs that reached toward the sky.
The canopy of leaves spread outward in all directions, creating a cathedral that filtered the morning light into dappled patterns on the grass below.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, the sound escaping without conscious thought.
She approached slowly, almost reverently, as if drawing near to something sacred.
The tree commanded such respect by its mere presence; a silent witness to centuries of human drama played out beneath its branches.
How many generations of Golden Valley locals had sheltered in its shade?
How many lovers had whispered promises against its bark?
Closer now, she could see the countless markings etched into its trunk – initials, dates, hearts, and symbols carved by lovers, and friends.
Some were fresh enough, the wood still pale around the edges; others had been smoothed by time until they were barely visible, just ghosts of past connections.
Names and dates spanning decades, a physical record of human connection in this place.
Molly ran her fingers over the carvings, feeling the indentations against her skin. The bark was rough and cool beneath her touch, deeply furrowed with age.
She circled the massive trunk slowly, taking in the full circumference with wonder.
On the far side, where mid-morning sun now illuminated the bark more fully, she found older carvings, their edges softened by decades of growth.
Her fingers traced these more tentative etchings from another era, wondering about the hands that had created them, the hearts that had felt compelled to leave their mark.
Had her grandmother carved her initials here too, she wondered. And if so, with whom?
Not her grandfather; Eddie barely left Brooklyn, let alone America and she knew for sure he’d never spent a second in Ireland. Perhaps whoever it was, was the reason for all the mystery?
The song from last night echoed in her mind – ‘Beneath the ancient oak’s protection, where lovers carve their names with care …’ The lyrics seemed to hang in the air around her, as if the tree itself had written it.
Then suddenly Molly saw it. She leaned closer, feeling her heart rate accelerate as she studied the carving. A little different from the casual etchings of passing lovers, and something done with care, the letters perfectly formed despite the decades of growth that had distorted them.
PF + AB
The initials were enclosed in a carefully carved heart, with a date beneath, that time had rendered almost illegible.
Molly’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the letters, a strange vertigo sweeping through her.
AB. Could it be Aoife Brennan? Had her grandmother stood in this exact spot, watching as her beau carved their initials into the living wood?
Had this been their special place, the refuge mentioned in so many of her stories?
‘Golden Valley is where I first knew what love meant, mo chroí,’ Aoife had told her on her deathbed. ‘Under a tree so old it seemed to breathe with its own life. Where the roots went deep into Irish soil and the branches reached for heaven itself.’
Molly had always assumed it was just another of her grandmother’s famously poetic reminiscings.
But standing here now, feeling the solid presence of the oak, she understood the truth in those words.
This tree did seem to breathe with its own life, its roots anchored deep in the soil of Golden Valley, its branches creating a sanctuary from the ordinary world.
A sudden urge to share the moment overwhelmed her. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket. She tapped her brother’s contact, the phone connecting with soft electronic burbles. Seconds later, his voice came through; groggily given the time difference, yet alert.
‘Mols, everything okay?’ he asked, sounding worried.
‘It’s perfect.’ She smiled through tears, turning slowly to take in the full majesty of the oak. ‘Sorry to wake you but I’m here, Cole. I’m standing under Nan’s tree. Right now.’
‘You got there, amazing! What’s it like?’
‘It’s …’ She searched for words adequate to the reality before her.
‘It’s even more beautiful than she described.
Massive, ancient. You can feel the history in it.
’ Her voice dropped to an awed whisper. ‘There are initials carved everywhere – generations of them. I think I even found … well, you can guess.’
‘No way,’ Cole breathed. ‘Nan’s initials. Are you serious?’
‘I think so,’ Molly confirmed, her fingers returning to trace the carving.
‘Holy shit!’ He laughed softly. ‘All those stories, but seeing actual evidence …’
‘I know.’ She couldn’t stop smiling, imagining her grandmother here as a young woman, perhaps standing exactly where she stood now. It made everything so much more poignant somehow.
And better explained her dying wish.
Molly walked around the tree again, phone pressed to her ear, describing details to Cole as she moved – the way morning light filtered through the leaves, how the ground beneath felt different, softer somehow, as if centuries of fallen leaves had created a special soil.
She told him about the song last night, the lyrics written specifically about this very tree.
‘So,’ Cole said finally, his voice shifting to a more pragmatic tone, ‘are you doing it right now – what she asked?’
Molly looked up, studying the branches overhead, then surveying the surrounding area. ‘No, I wanted to see it first.’ Plus she wanted to tell Jack, take him into her confidence before carrying out such a deeply personal and ceremonious task on his land.
‘I can’t remember, did she give any specific instructions?’ Cole asked. ‘I mean, besides the tree?’
‘Not really,’ Molly sighed, moving to examine another angle.
‘Just that it was where she felt most at peace, where she was happiest.’ She gazed at the carved heart again.
‘I guess it has to be here, on this side, where the initials are.’ She walked the wide perimeter of the trunk again, studying the ground, the way light fell, the view outward from different positions.
‘I just can’t quite figure out the best vantage point,’ she mumbled, uncertain.
‘Far superior views of the lake on the north side, but the light is better where the initials are.’
‘What about—?’ Cole began, but Molly suddenly stiffened, a prickling awareness creeping up her spine. Had she imagined it? But no – a twig snapped in the distance, followed by the soft crush of footsteps on dewy grass.
‘Better go,’ she said softly. ‘Call you back later?’
Molly ended the call quickly, slipping the phone into her pocket as she turned in the direction of the orchard.
The quiet of the morning seemed different now, charged with unseen presence.
She straightened her shoulders, composing her features into a casual smile.
She would say she couldn’t wait, that she’d been too excited after the festival to sleep properly.
Molly felt the weight of eyes on her back, an assessing silence that stretched several seconds too long.
When she finally turned, the smile froze on her lips.
Jack stood at the edge of the clearing, his face a mask of rigid control that did nothing to hide the storm brewing beneath. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tight with tension, eyes narrowed in a gaze that cut straight through her practiced composure.
‘Jack,’ she began, her voice unnaturally bright to her own ears. ‘I was a bit early so I—’
But his expression stopped the words in her throat.
‘I knew it,’ he said, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘I should have known better than to trust you.’
And Molly realized, with sinking clarity, that whatever Jack Flynn thought he knew was far worse than the truth she’d been hiding.