Epilogue #2
‘They’ve signed with some fancy London record label now though,’ piped up another customer nearby, before adding with some derision. ‘Hopefully they won’t get too high and mighty.’
Along with everything else, Molly had also become familiar with the classic Irish small-town pastime that was begrudgery.
‘Not a chance,’ Jack refuted quickly. ‘Those lads won’t forget their roots.’
‘Still though – will they come back for the Blossom Festival now they’re proper famous? Can’t imagine them wanting to play again in the square when they could be at some big concert venue.’
The question hung in the air, voiced for the first time but clearly on many minds.
‘I feel a bit guilty sometimes,’ Molly admitted, her voice low enough that only Jack and Brid could hear.
The viral video’s success had brought significant attention not just to the band, but to Golden Valley itself. Tourism had increased immediately afterwards, even through the quieter winter months, with visitors making pilgrimages to see the famous oak tree featured in the video.
The Glen Arms Hotel had remained fully booked over Christmas and lots of local businesses welcomed a steady stream of visitors eager to experience the picturesque golden vale they’d glimpsed online.
For the orchard, the impact had been particularly significant. Goldenridge’s heritage cider, once sold primarily within the region, was now shipped to specialty shops across Ireland and the UK.
‘Course they’ll be back,’ Eva declared with certainty, wiping her hands on her apron as she rejoined the conversation.
‘The lads wouldn’t miss the Blossom if they were playing for the Pope himself.
’ The pride in her voice echoed what Molly had come to recognize as a defining characteristic of Tipperary – this fierce protection of their own, combined with (mostly) genuine pleasure in seeing them succeed.
Like another celebrated Golden Valley native, Declan O’Shea – the sports star Eva used to date.
The hurler had apparently moved away to the city at the height of his fame, and some of the locals had never forgiven him for it.
Her phone vibrated against the counter then, screen lighting up with an incoming text. Cole’s name appeared above a thumbnail image too small to make out clearly.
The image expanded as she opened the message, revealing her brother in his hockey gear, helmet tucked under one arm, his trademark grin slightly lopsided. But what immediately caught Molly’s attention was the hospital crutch and plaster cast clearly visible in the frame.
The accompanying text read: Shattered knee. Loooong hiatus incoming. Good timing for Irish jaunt with Pop, maybe? Miss you.
‘Everything OK?’ Jack asked, noticing her expression shift.
‘Cole damaged his knee,’ Molly explained, turning the phone so he could see the image.
‘Who damaged what?’ Eva appeared beside them, teapot forgotten in her hand as her gaze fixed on the phone screen, and her voice brightened noticeably.
‘OK now, who is THAT?’ Her eyes widened as she leaned closer to better examine the shot of Cole in his hockey gear, dark hair tousled from his helmet, his athletic build obvious despite the bulky equipment.
‘My brother,’ Molly replied distractedly. ‘Cole. Remember I told you he plays ice hockey? When he’s not breaking bones, apparently.’
‘Poor pet. Will he be alright?’
‘Not sure, but he needs to stay off the ice for a while …’ Molly turned the phone back toward herself, typing a quick response. ‘He might come visit, he says. Cole is not one for sitting around.’
Eva wiped her hands deliberately on her apron as if preparing for a serious conversation. Her tone aimed for casual interest but landed somewhere much closer to eager anticipation. ‘And when might that be? Just thinking about accommodation options … since everywhere’s so busy, like.’
Jack’s shoulders shook with silent laughter that he unsuccessfully attempted to disguise as a cough when Molly shot him a glance. ‘Plenty of room at the cottage once we finish the guest bedroom,’ he told Eva solemnly. ‘So no panic.’
She nodded, then launched into a supposedly casual line of questioning that was hilariously transparent. ‘And how long would he be staying, do you think?’ she asked Molly. ‘Any dietary restrictions I should know about for here? Or a girlfriend … who might be allergic to flowers or anything?’
‘No idea,’ Molly answered blithely, trying not to meet Jack’s eye. ‘But I’ll let you know if he decides to come,’ she promised, unable to suppress her smile. ‘And introduce you properly when he gets here.’
‘Come on,’ Jack said then, rescuing her from Eva’s inquisition. ‘We’d better get going.’
As Molly and Jack stepped outside into the spring morning, his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her close against the March chill.
‘Playing matchmaker now – is there no end to your talents?’ He harrumphed good-naturedly.
‘Just don’t ask me to play wingman, if your brother does visit.
Sure, I’m no good at all that romantic stuff. ’
Then he paused on the street mid-stride and Molly glanced back surprised when from his coat pocket, Jack drew out a square velvet box – deep green, the color of moss after rain.
He looked a little uncertain as he placed the box in her hands, and his fingers lingered for a second before he stepped back to give her space.
‘What … what’s this?’ She stared at him bewildered, and he shrugged, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful, almost shy.
‘Six months,’ he murmured, with a small shrug. ‘Felt like it deserved marking somehow.’
Inside the box lay a fine gold chain, delicate but strong, the links catching the pale spring light. Suspended from it was a small charm – an oak tree, intricately detailed, its roots and branches curling in quiet symmetry.
For a moment, Molly couldn’t speak.
‘Got it made by a jeweler in town,’ Jack stammered. ‘Thought it … was fitting.’
Molly lifted the necklace carefully from the velvet lining. The oak was tiny, but unmistakable. Steady. Enduring.
‘The roots …’ he added, stepping closer again. ‘That’s the part I liked most. Not just what you see above ground, but what holds everything in place.’
Her throat tightened. She thought of Aoife. Of the promise she’d made to her grandmother without understanding it. Of the day she’d stood beneath the oak, scattering ashes into the wind while Jack stood beside her, silent and steady.
And everything that had grown since.
‘It’s … perfect,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper, tears brimming in her eyes.
Jack reached for it. ‘May I?’
She nodded, turning as he fastened the chain at the back of her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, sending a familiar warmth through her. The charm settled just below her collarbone, light but present. She turned back to him, her hand instinctively rising to touch it.
‘I wanted you to have something that belonged here,’ he continued. ‘Like … you do now.’
Molly felt the words land deep, anchoring somewhere steady inside her.
Six months ago, she’d stood in this place as a visitor – carrying grief, promises, and a return ticket she didn’t know she wouldn’t use. Now Goldenridge Orchard was as familiar to her as her own reflection. The village knew her name. The lake marked her mornings. And Jack …
‘I think,’ she said softly, her fingers still curled around the tiny oak, a lump forming in her throat, ‘this might be the nicest gift I’ve ever received.’
He smiled that slow, sure smile she’d come to love as he leaned down for a kiss, and all Molly could think was – despite what he’d said earlier – Jack Flynn was very good at all that romantic stuff indeed.