Chapter 43
Molly shielded her eyes against the morning sun, scanning the empty road that led into the square.
The airport bus was due any minute, bringing her grandfather to Irish soil for the first time in his seventy-seven years.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, stomach fluttering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
Eddie Harris, former Brooklyn firefighter, stubborn as granite and soft-hearted as fresh bread, was about to meet Patrick Flynn – the man who had carved his initials alongside his late wife’s in an oak tree decades before.
Golden Valley looked different this morning. The festival bunting still hung between lampposts, but the frenetic energy of yesterday had subsided. Locals moved at a more measured pace, nodding to each other as they went about their business.
A few curious glances came Molly’s way from passing villagers – word of her connection to Patrick had already spread, she suspected, traveling through Golden Valley’s intricate social networks with the efficiency that only small communities can manage.
The memory of what else had happened last night unfurled, vivid and immediate.
Jack.
The hotel garden, its old stone walls holding the day’s warmth long after dusk had settled.
The way the lantern light had caught in his eyes when he’d revealed that he knew the truth – about Aoife, about why Molly was really there, about the burden she carried with her like a secret she’d been holding her breath around.
And the kiss.
Molly closed her eyes and let herself return to it.
He had smelled like the orchard itself – clean and grounded, apples and damp earth, the faintest hint of rain. Not cologne, not anything manufactured. Just Jack, as if the land itself had marked him. That scent had drawn her in before she’d even realized she was moving.
The first touch of his mouth had been tentative, almost questioning, giving her space to step away.
Molly hadn’t. She’d stepped closer instead, her fingers catching in the fabric of his jacket, the solid warmth of him beneath her hands anchoring her in place.
The taste of him had surprised her; sweet with a sharp edge, like cider not yet finished fermenting.
When the kiss deepened, when his hand settled at her waist as though it belonged there, the thought had come to her, sudden and terrifying in its clarity.
She wanted it to last forever.
Not just the kiss. The promise of what came next. The quiet certainty of more.
What if she stayed? The thought rose unbidden.
Mornings by the lake instead of crowded subway platforms. Work that smelled of apples and rain rather than burnt coffee and gridlock.
Days shaped by walks by the lake, café conversation and music drifting through open doors in the evenings.
Jack, steady and rooted, looking at her as if she were something worth choosing.
And Patrick, her grandfather.
Yet New York waited. Her career. The responsibilities she’d spent years shouldering without question. The life she’d built through discipline and sacrifice.
The distant rumble of an engine drew Molly’s attention back to the road. A white coach appeared around the bend, sunlight glinting off its windows as it made its steady approach and her heart rate quickened.
The bus slowed as it approached the village square, hydraulics hissing as it came to a stop beside the stone shelter.
The doors swished open, and a few travelers descended – a teenager, an elderly couple clutching a guidebook and finally, a tall figure with military-straight posture despite his years.
Eddie Harris stepped onto the square with the careful deliberation that characterized everything he did.
His white hair was neatly trimmed, his blue eyes sharp beneath bushy eyebrows that had retained their original dark color.
He wore a pressed button-down shirt beneath his old bomber jacket; and carried a weathered duffel bag that had seen him through decades of weekend fishing trips.
‘Pop!’ Molly called, emotion thickening her voice as she rushed toward him.
His face broke into a smile that erased years from his features.
‘There’s my girl,’ he said, setting down his bag to engulf her in a bear hug that smelled of Old Spice and coffee.
His arms were still strong, a testament to his old firefighting days and now the carpentry work that kept him busy in retirement.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually here,’ she gasped, pulling back to study his face. ‘How was the flight?’
‘Better than I expected, far scarier than I hoped,’ Eddie replied with characteristic dry humor. He glanced around, taking in the surrounds with keen assessment. ‘So this is it, then. The place she never stopped talking about.’
The bus driver – the same one who had brought Molly to Golden Valley what felt like a lifetime ago – handed Eddie his suitcase from the luggage compartment. ‘Welcome to Tipperary, it’s not that long a way after all,’ he quipped, giving Molly a knowing smile before climbing back aboard.
The doors closed with a pneumatic sigh, and the bus continued its journey, leaving them standing in the quiet square.
Eddie turned slowly in place, absorbing his surroundings with deliberate care. His gaze lingered on the stone buildings, the narrow lanes leading away from the square, the distant hills that embraced the village like protective arms.
‘Exactly like she described,’ he said softly.
Molly slipped her arm through his, steadying him as much as herself.
They walked slowly through the square, Eddie’s worn boots falling into rhythm beside Molly’s.
She pointed out landmarks that had become familiar to her over the past two weeks – the stone fountain where local children still tossed coins for wishes, the church whose bells Aoife had described so accurately that he nodded in recognition before Molly even mentioned it.
‘That’s Wildflower Books,’ she said, gesturing toward the shop with its painted sign and bay window display. ‘Maeve, the owner, supplied the song for my video. Her son wrote it about the oak tree.’
Eddie nodded, his attention caught by each detail as if cataloging them against memories of Aoife’s stories.
‘And there,’ he said, pointing to The Orchard Pub before Molly could, ‘is where she worked summers. Said the barman back then had hands like hams and a laugh that shook dust from the rafters.’
‘You remember everything she told you,’ Molly said, surprised by his recall.
Eddie’s expression softened. ‘Fifty-seven years together, sweetheart. You learn to listen when something matters to someone you love.’ He paused, squinting toward the hills where apple trees were visible in neat rows. ‘That the orchard, then? Where that guy tends his trees?’
‘Goldenridge,’ Molly confirmed. ‘It’s beautiful, Pop.’
They continued their walk, Eddie’s pace unhurried as he absorbed the village that had shaped his wife’s early years. As they passed The Cherry Blossom Café, the door swung open, releasing the scent of fresh baking and coffee into the cool morning air.
‘Molly!’ Eva called, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped onto the cobblestones. Her curly auburn hair was secured in a messy bun this time, and her cheeks were flushed from the kitchen’s heat. ‘Is this himself, then?’
Molly made the introductions, watching as Eddie shook Eva’s hand with the courteous firmness that was his hallmark.
‘Patrick’s been at the Glen Arms since dawn, pacing like a man half his age.’
‘We’re headed there now,’ Molly said, her own stomach tightening with renewed anxiety.
Eva reached out, briefly squeezing Molly’s arm. ‘All will be well,’ she said with quiet certainty.
They continued toward the hotel, their pace slowing as it came into view.
The Georgian facade gleamed pale gold in the morning light, ivy climbing its walls in intricate patterns.
Jack’s truck was parked nearby – he’d offered to drive Patrick into the village, understanding the older man’s need for support during this momentous meeting.
‘Nice joint,’ Eddie commented, his voice betraying none of the nervousness Molly knew he must be feeling.
The Glen Arms lobby welcomed them with the scent of beeswax polish and fresh flowers.
Anna nodded from behind the reception desk, her usual professional reserve softened by a genuine smile.
She’d been among the first to congratulate Molly after the video went viral, her quiet pride in Golden Valley’s sudden online fame evident beneath her practical concerns about increased bookings.
‘They’re in the lounge,’ Anna said, gesturing toward a doorway to their right.
Molly thanked her, then turned to Eddie. ‘Ready?’
He took a deep breath, adjusting his collar with fingers that betrayed the slightest tremor. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
Patrick stood immediately as they entered, his posture straight.
He wore a deep-green sweater over a collared shirt, his silver hair neatly combed, his walking stick leaning against the chair beside him.
Jack rose too, positioning himself slightly behind his great-uncle, a solid presence offering silent support and Molly’s heart melted afresh at the sight of them both.
The room crackled with unspoken emotion as Eddie and Patrick faced each other for the first time – two men who had loved the same woman across different continents and decades. They studied each other with careful assessment.
Molly held her breath, aware of Jack watching with equal intensity. This moment could unfold in countless ways – awkward formality, territorial hostility, or worse painful silence. The seconds stretched, tension building until it seemed the room itself might crack under its weight.
Then Eddie stepped forward, hand extended, his blue eyes direct and clear. ‘She spoke very fondly of you, buddy,’ he said simply.
Patrick’s weathered face softened, relief flickering briefly across his features as he wholeheartedly accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, his gaze steady as he measured the man who had shared Aoife Brennan’s life in his stead.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied, his voice rough with emotion. ‘She deserved nothing but happiness.’
‘Yes,’ Eddie agreed. ‘And she found it with both of us in different ways, I guess.’
Something in the simple acknowledgment broke the remaining tension. Patrick gestured toward the chairs arranged near the fireplace. ‘Will you join me? I’ve asked for tea, but if you’d prefer something stronger …’
‘Tea’s fine,’ Eddie said, settling into one of the leather chairs with the careful movements of a man aware of aging joints. ‘Though I wouldn’t turn down a whiskey later, if you’re offering.’
Patrick’s mouth curved in a slight smile as he lowered himself into his own chair. ‘I enjoy a drop or two myself.’
Jack caught Molly’s eye, a silent question in his gaze. She nodded, and he moved toward a small table near the window, pulling out chairs for both of them – close enough to be present, far enough to give the older men some privacy.
The hotel staff appeared with a tea tray, setting it on the low table between Patrick and Eddie before discreetly withdrawing. Patrick poured with precision, his hands steady as he passed a cup to Eddie.
The conversation began tentatively – short observations, careful questions, each man offering small pieces of Aoife like gifts to the other.
Patrick described her as a young woman, collecting wildflowers and reciting poetry beneath the oak tree.
Eddie spoke of her fierce independence in Brooklyn, how she’d worked double shifts at the diner until she could afford night classes at the community college.
‘She never lost her accent though,’ Eddie said, his own American cadence a stark contrast to Patrick’s soft Irish lilt. ‘Not entirely. It would come back strong when she was tired or angry or telling those old stories to the grandkids.’
Patrick nodded, his eyes distant with memory. ‘She had that lilt in her voice, even as a girl. Could charm the angels with it.’
They fell into a natural rhythm, their initial awkwardness gradually giving way to shared laughter and occasional misty eyes as they recognized pieces of the woman they both loved in each other’s memories.
The tea grew cool in their cups, forgotten as the two men leaned forward in their chairs, bridging decades of separation through their common love for Aoife.
‘She kept this,’ Eddie said then, reaching into his jacket pocket to extract a small, worn photograph. He handed it carefully to Patrick. ‘Never displayed it, but I’d find her looking at it sometimes.’
Patrick’s hands trembled slightly as he took the photo. It showed a much younger version of himself standing beside Aoife beneath the oak tree, both smiling widely at the camera, her dark hair blowing across her face in the breeze.
‘I remember that day,’ he gasped softly. ‘My cousin had just got a new camera, was practicing on anyone who’d stand still long enough.’ He traced the edge of the photo with one finger. ‘But I never knew she had this.’
From her vantage point nearby, Molly watched the two men with a sense of wonder, tears pricking at her eyes.
Jack’s hand found hers beneath the table, his fingers warm and reassuring as they interlaced with her own. She turned to find him watching her, his dark eyes soft with understanding.
‘They’re finding their way,’ he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
‘They are,’ she agreed, squeezing his hand gratefully. ‘Just like you and me.’