Chapter 37
Exhaustion settled deep into Molly’s bones then, the kind that sleep alone couldn’t cure. She sat on the edge of the bed, her body heavy with fatigue while her mind continued to spin much like the loading circle on a buffering video.
The reel had posted, beginning its journey through the algorithms, finding its audience – or not.
She’d done her professional best for Goldenridge, for Jack.
But the other half of her purpose in coming to Golden Valley remained unfulfilled – the promise that had brought her here in the first place, her grandmother’s final wish still waiting in the velvet pouch she’d carried across an ocean.
Her phone buzzed with a notification. Cole’s response to the reel was a string of fire emojis and a simple message: Holy shit, sis. This isn’t a marketing video. This is a declaration. You in love with the orchard? Or the guy running it?
Molly set the phone down without responding.
Her brother’s jokey perceptiveness, usually endearing, felt too raw right now.
She’d poured everything into that campaign – not just her professional skills, but all the complicated emotions she’d developed for Golden Valley and its stubborn, principled orchard keeper.
The evidence was there for anyone to see, especially someone who knew her as well as Cole did.
The room felt suddenly confining, its cozy charm transformed into a space too full of unresolved intentions.
Molly moved to the window, pushing it open to let in the cool evening air.
Traditional music from a different band drifted up from the square, the jaunty tune at odds with the heaviness in her chest.
She should be down there, enjoying it with the locals who’d welcomed her so readily. Instead, she was hiding in her room, nursing wounds both professional and personal.
She needed to call Pop. The thought settled with certainty, though her stomach knotted at the prospect of admitting failure.
Her grandfather had been so confident in her ability to fulfill his beloved wife’s final wish, had buoyed Molly before she left with assurances that Aoife would be ‘so proud, so proud of their girl.’
She picked up her phone again, her finger hovering over Eddie’s contact for several seconds before she finally pressed it. Three rings, then the familiar booming voice that had narrated so much of her childhood.
‘There’s my girl! I was wondering when you’d call. How’s Tipp treating you?’
The warmth in his voice nearly undid her. Molly swallowed hard, fighting for composure. ‘It’s beautiful here, Pop. Everything she said it would be.’
‘I never doubted that for a minute,’ he replied. There was a slight pause, then: ‘So did you do it? Did you find the spot?’
The directness of the question left no room for evasion. Molly sank back onto the edge of the bed, suddenly grateful for its support. ‘I found the tree, yes,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s exactly as she described – ancient, massive. Covered in carved initials going back decades.’
‘That’s amazing.’ Eddie’s enthusiasm faltered when she didn’t immediately continue. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘The tree is on private property,’ Molly explained, her voice catching slightly. ‘The landowner, he …’ She sniffed, despite herself, eyes filling with tears. ‘I think I’ve made a mess of things, Pop.’
‘Tell me,’ he encouraged gently.
The story spilled out then – how she’d met Jack Flynn the first morning, his initial suspicion, their gradual warming to each other, her decision to help with a business plan for the orchard.
How this morning had shattered everything when Jack overheard her conversation with Cole and jumped to the wrong conclusion.
‘He thinks I’m working for developers trying to buy his land,’ she concluded, embarrassed to hear her voice crack with emotion. ‘He won’t listen to me. Won’t let me explain. And without his permission, I can’t …’ She trailed off, unable to voice the failure explicitly.
There was silence on the other end for a moment, just the soft sound of Eddie’s breathing. When he spoke, his voice carried the measured wisdom that had guided her through every crisis since childhood. ‘That’s a pickle, all right. Guy sounds like he’s got a helluva stubborn streak.’
‘Titanium,’ Molly confirmed, with a watery laugh.
‘Reminds me of someone else I know,’ Eddie observed, the smile evident in his voice even across an ocean. ‘Someone who doesn’t give up easily when something matters.’
‘This is different,’ she protested. ‘He won’t even talk to me.’
‘Maybe,’ Eddie allowed. ‘But, honey, I’ve never known you to accept a first no as final, especially from someone who matters to you.
’ He paused again, and she could picture him running a hand over his closely cropped white hair, a habit when he was choosing his words carefully.
‘That’s not like you, giving up before all options are exhausted. ’
‘What options?’ Frustration edged Molly’s voice. ‘He won’t let me near the tree again. I can’t exactly sneak onto his property.’
‘Couldn’t you?’ he challenged mildly.
‘Pop! That would be trespassing.’
‘Just checking your ethical boundaries.’ He chuckled. ‘Your grandmother would have had no such compunction, believe me. Woman could justify nearly anything when her heart was set on it.’
The observation drew a reluctant smile from Molly. Aoife’s moral flexibility had been legendary within the family – not dishonesty, but a certain … creative interpretation of any rules that stood between her and her objectives. And that she blithely insisted was ‘a Tipperary thing’.
‘Sweetheart,’ Eddie continued, his tone softening, ‘don’t make any snap decisions. Give yourself time to think, to explore all possible routes.’ He paused, then added, ‘Like Nan always said, the right path only reveals itself to those who start walking.’
The familiar saying settled over Molly like a warm blanket. How many times had she heard those words from Aoife throughout her childhood? When she’d struggled with which college to choose, or a job offer, when she’d debated ending a relationship that no longer served her.
Heck, even last week when she’d first arrived here and was trying to locate the hotel, that very phrase had popped into her head. Always the same gentle guidance – start moving, and clarity will follow.
‘I miss her so much, Pop,’ Molly whispered, the admission raw with longing. ‘Being here, seeing the places from her stories … sometimes it feels like she could be just around the next corner.’
‘I know, honey.’ Eddie’s voice roughened with his own grief. ‘I feel that way every morning I wake up, expecting to hear her clattering around in the kitchen. A whole year on and I still reach for her in the night.’
The shared loss hovered between them, acknowledged without need for further words.
Eddie cleared his throat, pulling them both back to practical matters. ‘Whatever you decide about staying or going, about this orchard guy or the oak, just remember that Nan believed in you. Trusted you with this for a reason.’
They spoke for a few minutes more – Eddie updating her on neighborhood gossip. The familiar rhythm of his stories grounded Molly, reminding her of the bedrock beneath the shifting sands of her current situation.
The call ended, leaving her with the whisper of accordion music below the window, and her own thoughts for company. She moved to the closet, opening the creaking door. Hidden beneath a sweater was the velvet pouch, its navy fabric soft against her fingers as she drew it out.
The weight of it was familiar in her palm – not heavy by any measure, but substantial with meaning. The contents were seared into her memory, as was the promise she’d made while holding her grandmother’s fragile hand in those final days.
‘I’ll see it done, Nan. I promise,’ she’d whispered as Aoife’s breathing had grown more labored, her once-vivid eyes cloudy with approaching demise. Her grandmother’s fingers had tightened briefly around hers, a fleeting pressure that had conveyed more than words could have.
The trust in that gesture had been absolute – Aoife Brennan, who had crossed an ocean and built a new life from nothing, placing her final wish in the hands of the granddaughter who had inherited her stubborn spirit, if not her accent.
Now, sitting in an Irish hotel room less than a mile from the exact oak tree that was the very center of that promise, Molly felt the weight of that trust transform into the leaden reality of failure.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to the pouch cradled in her hands. ‘I tried. But I can’t finish what you asked of me.’
She traced the pouch’s embroidered edge, following the pattern of Celtic knotwork that had so fascinated her as a child.
Her grandmother had used it to store various keepsakes over the years – a lock of baby hair from Molly’s first haircut, a pressed flower from Cole’s high school graduation, the small smooth stone from Coney Island that Eddie had given her on their fiftieth anniversary.
Now it held something far more significant, the physical embodiment of a final journey home.