Epilogue
Molly paused outside The Cherry Blossom Café, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp March air as she studied a poster in the window. Golden Valley Blossom Festival, it proclaimed in swirling pink letters above a watercolor illustration of apple trees in full bloom.
She pushed open the door, and the café’s familiar interior enveloped her immediately, carrying the mingled scents of cinnamon, coffee and freshly baked goods. The wooden floors creaked beneath her boots as she unwound her scarf, still necessary despite the warming spring temperatures.
Each small detail here had become precious to her over the last six months – the worn leather bench in the corner where Patrick often joined her for a chat, the antique mirror behind the counter that reflected the village square.
But most of all …
‘Helloooo,’ Eva sang from behind the counter, her hands busy with a steaming teapot as she poured for the morning regulars.
Her curly hair was piled into its usual messy bun, held together today by what appeared to be a wooden spoon.
‘Just in time, I’ve a fresh batch of those fruit scones you’re so fond of. ’
‘You’re a mind reader,’ Molly replied, settling onto her usual stool at the counter. The familiarity of the routine – this daily morning treat in town before heading up to the orchard – still struck her with occasional wonder. How quickly the extraordinary could become habit.
Eva placed a steaming mug before her, strong with just a splash of milk, no sugar. ‘Sleep well in that drafty cottage of yours? I warned you those west-facing windows needed new seals before you moved in.’ Due to all those property shows she watched, Eva was a self-proclaimed renovations expert.
‘They’re fine,’ Molly assured her, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. ‘Jack helped me weather-strip them in January.’ She smiled at the memory; the two of them working side by side in comfortable silence, gentle rain falling beyond the windows as they sealed out the bitter cold.
Eva winked with a knowing smile. ‘Not all he stripped, I’d say.’
‘Stop it,’ Molly replied, blushing traitorously. ‘Besides, the sunset view over the lake is worth a bit of a draft.’
The cottage at the western edge of the orchard had become Molly’s passion project throughout the winter months.
What began as a temporary stay had gradually transformed into something more permanent; shelves filling up with interesting recommendations from Maeve at the bookshop, the kitchen updated with new countertops that Patrick himself helped install and a front garden area cleared and ready for the native planting and wildflower seeds she’d ordered.
Eva glanced around to ensure other customers were attended to before leaning forward. ‘Cranky Jack not with you this morning?’
A flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the tea spread across Molly’s cheeks. ‘Probably covered in dust and arguing with Patrick about the best way to herd the tourists.’ The affection in her voice was impossible to disguise, even had she wanted to.
Before Eva could respond, the café door swung open with authority, admitting Brid Ryan in a gust of cool morning air. The older woman wore her silver-streaked hair in its usual elegant coif, a sunflower yellow coat belted tightly at her waist and her signature all-business expression.
‘Morning, all,’ she announced briskly to the café at large before zeroing in on Eva.
‘I’ve the final approval from the council for the market layout.
We’re cleared for twenty stalls this time, and they’ve granted permission for the bandstand to be set up for three nights instead of two.
’ Brid settled beside Molly at the counter, nodding a greeting ‘The Tidy Towns committee had another meeting about your video. They’re projecting triple the usual visitors for the Blossom Festival – all wanting to see the famous oak tree and the good-looking farmer.
Mostly the good-looking farmer, I’d say, so better be on your toes,’ she added, and Molly wasn’t sure whether the warning was intended as a joke or for real. With Brid, you could never tell.
‘It’s still so surreal,’ she admitted. What had begun as such a personal tribute to Jack had transformed into a viral sensation that continued to draw attention to Golden Valley months later. ‘I just hope the village is OK with that kind of influx.’
‘Oh, we’ll manage,’ Brid assured her with characteristic confidence. ‘Anna’s already fully booked at the Glen Arms, and your grandfather’s offered to help out with any Yank tour groups if all comes to all.’
The mention of Eddie brought a smile to Molly’s face.
Her grandfather had returned to Brooklyn immediately after his impromptu visit in October, but the connection he’d formed with Patrick – and with Ireland itself – had drawn him back for a longer upcoming visit next month for the spring festival. And to see her, obviously.
‘So we’ll need your input on the marketing materials, Molly. And speaking of which—’ Brid extracted a folder from her handbag, flipping it open to reveal printed mockups of festival brochures ‘—the designer sent these over for approval. No better woman to give them a final review.’
Before Molly could examine the materials, the café door opened once more.
Jack stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light.
His dark hair was disheveled as always, and traces of debris dusted the shoulders of his work jacket – evidence of his morning in the dusty cider barn where he’d been in the thick of the clean-up for some of the brand-new tour offerings.
His eyes found Molly immediately, his face breaking into the smile that still made her heart flutter after all these months.
Months of slow, careful building, from tentative trust to outright passion and then something much deeper, had changed them both in ways neither had anticipated.
‘There you are,’ he said, crossing to the counter. One hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. ‘Morning, Eva. Brid.’ He nodded to each in turn.
‘Tell us about these new saplings,’ Eva prompted, passing him a warm scone. ‘Patrick said you ordered enough trees to practically double the orchard size.’
‘Not quite,’ Jack corrected, pulling up a stool on the other side of Molly.
Their knees brushed beneath the counter, a small point of contact that anchored them both.
‘But we’re expanding the heritage section a fair bit.
’ Pride shone in his eyes as he detailed their plans, his previous reticence about sharing Goldenridge’s business now completely absent.
‘We’ve sourced twenty Kerry Pippin saplings – they’re an eighteenth-century variety that’s nearly extinct.
And fifteen Cavan Russets from a conservation orchard in Donegal.
Patrick’s over the moon about those; apparently his grandfather had a few trees that died out in the frost of ’63. ’
‘The northwest field is already ready for planting,’ Molly added, pulling up photos on her phone to show Eva. ‘We spent most of February clearing it. The soil tests came back perfect – just the right mineral balance.’
Jack’s hand moved to rest at the small of her back, a gesture both protective and proud. ‘The trees will be planted in a spiral pattern that maximizes sunlight exposure while creating natural windbreaks. Nothing like the traditional grid system.’
‘Innovation with respect for tradition,’ Brid observed with approval. ‘Seems to be your trademark combination.’
‘Fascinating …’ Eva drolled, rolling her eyes, but her smile was good-natured. She refilled their mugs as Jack described the spring pruning schedule, his enthusiasm evident in the animated gestures that accompanied his explanation.
Molly watched him with undisguised affection, still occasionally struck by the transformation in the man who had once regarded her, and indeed all outsiders, with such suspicion.
While her leave of absence had initially been for another month, as winter had deepened, so had her roots in Golden Valley.
The request to extend her sabbatical to a full year had been met with reluctant approval from her New York bosses, particularly after her viral Goldenridge video had showcased her talents so effectively.
While she missed Pop and Cole, Molly still couldn’t quite believe how easily she had become embedded in Irish life, a world apart from her old one.
Her relationship with her newly discovered grandfather had also deepened through the winter months, through chatty cups of tea here at the café, evenings spent poring over old photographs at his cottage, walks in the orchard where Patrick shared stories of the land’s history, and quiet moments by the fire when words weren’t necessary at all.
Jack squeezed Molly’s hand again before releasing it, their attention turning back to Brid’s festival plans.
As always, the café hummed with morning conversation, the clatter of teacups against saucers providing percussion to the background radio.
At a corner table, a local gestured animatedly, his voice carrying above the general murmur. ‘There they are again,’ he announced. ‘Our lads on the radio.’ He nodded toward Molly, approval mingling with outright pride.
Her heartfelt tribute to the orchard had also sparked something else far beyond her intentions when Hearthland’s ‘Beneath the Oak’ had captured imaginations well beyond county borders.
The band’s success, while certainly earned through years of hard graft, accelerated with startling speed after the reel went viral.
Spotify plays had jumped from mere hundreds, to hundreds of thousands within days of the video’s release.
Music blogs had featured the band in glowing write-ups, praising their ‘authentic trad roots’ and ‘connection to the land.’ Last she’d heard, the lads were recording an album in a Dublin studio, with even talk of a small European tour in the summer.