Chapter 40
When Molly returned to the garden, Patrick hadn’t moved, though his expression betrayed the tumult of emotions he’d experienced in her absence.
The garden had grown darker, the lanterns creating an intimate circle of warmth against the night. She resumed her seat, carefully placing the velvet pouch on the table between them.
‘This is why I came.’
Patrick looked at the pouch, then back to her face, confusion evident in his expression.
‘To bring Nan home,’ Molly explained, her voice soft with reverence for the wish she carried. ‘She wanted her ashes scattered beneath the tree where you carved your initials, The Wishing Oak. Where she was happiest, she said.’
Patrick’s intake of breath was audible in the quiet garden. He stared at the small pouch, understanding transforming his features into a mask of profound emotion. ‘Aoife,’ he whispered, the name a prayer on his lips after decades of silence.
‘She made me promise,’ Molly continued, ‘in her final days. Said there was nowhere else she’d rather rest for eternity than beneath that oak, watching over the orchard, the lake and the place she loved so much.’
A tear escaped from the corner of Patrick’s eye, tracking slowly down his weathered cheek before disappearing into the collar of his sweater. He made no move to wipe it away, his dignity in grief somehow more moving than any attempt to conceal it.
‘That was why I was so interested in getting to it,’ she said, finally explaining the mystery that had caused such friction with Jack. ‘I didn’t know how to ask Jack for permission without telling the whole story, to say nothing of the fact that I didn’t know …’ She hesitated. ‘About you.’
Patrick reached out, his hand hovering above the velvet pouch without quite touching it. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime wondering about her. Wondering what became of the only woman I ever truly loved. To think she remembered too. That she wanted to come home to us after all these years.’
‘She never stopped loving here,’ Molly said, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.
‘Our house in Brooklyn was filled with Irish music, stories and legends. She taught me how to bake soda bread and apple tart. To recognize wildflowers from a country I’d never visited.
When she spoke of Golden Valley, her whole face would transform.
’ Molly smiled through threatening tears.
‘She’d say, “mo chroí, it’s where my heart first opened”. ’
Patrick’s breath caught at the endearment. ‘Mo chroí,’ he echoed. ‘She called you that?’
Molly nodded. ‘Cole too – my brother.’
‘A grandson as well,’ Patrick murmured, as if testing the reality of all this new knowledge.
His fingers finally made contact with the velvet pouch, tracing the embroidered Celtic knotwork with reverent care.
‘And she remembered our oak.’ His voice broke slightly on the word ‘our’, the simple pronoun containing decades of loss and connection.
‘She described it so perfectly that I recognized it immediately that first day at the lake,’ Molly said.
‘The massive trunk, the way the branches spread like protective arms. She said it was ancient even then, that it had witnessed countless lovers’ promises.
’ She paused, gathering courage for her next words.
‘She told me that’s where she first discovered what love was. ’
Patrick closed his eyes briefly, the statement clearly piercing some deep place within him. When he opened them again, they shone with a mixture of grief and gratitude. ‘Did she …’ He hesitated, vulnerability naked on his face. ‘Did she ever regret leaving, do you know? Not telling me?’
The question hung in the cool evening air, laden with decades of wondering. Molly chose her words carefully, honoring both the man before her and her grandmother’s memory.
‘I think she regretted not saying goodbye,’ she said gently. ‘She told me once that running away was both the hardest and the easiest thing she’d ever done – hardest because she was leaving her heart behind, easiest because she couldn’t bear the disappointment.’
‘Disappointment?’ Patrick’s voice cracked on the word. ‘I would have married her that very day. Would have cherished both her and the child.’
‘I think she knew that,’ Molly assured him gently.
‘But she was young and scared. She feared bringing shame to both families in such a small community.’ She reached across the table, placing her hand on his.
‘She didn’t regret the life she built, the family she raised.
But here remained her heart’s first home. ’
Patrick nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the velvet pouch that contained the earthly remains of his first love. ‘And now you’ve brought her home,’ he said, his voice steadying with each word. ‘Back to where she belonged.’
‘I’ve tried,’ Molly admitted. ‘But without permission …’ She let the sentence hang unfinished between them.
‘Permission?’ Patrick straightened, sudden determination replacing his emotional vulnerability.
‘Pet, you need no permission. That oak has stood on Flynn land for centuries, bearing witness to generations of love stories, including mine and Aoife’s.
’ His hand closed gently around hers. ‘Of course you must fulfill her wish. And I—’ his voice caught briefly before he continued ‘—I would be honored to help you if you’d let me. ’
The simple statement, offered with such dignity and grace, broke something inside Molly that had been held taut since her confrontation with Jack that morning. Tears spilled over, tracking silently down her cheeks as relief and gratitude washed through her.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I would love that.’
Patrick reached toward her with trembling fingers, his weathered hand gently brushing away a tear from her cheek – a grandfather’s tender gesture toward a granddaughter he hadn’t known existed until minutes before.
The touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if Molly was something precious and fragile.
‘No,’ he said, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. ‘It is I who should be thanking you. For bringing her home. And for bringing yourself back to me as well.’