The Cider Press – Part 2: First Taste

Maeve stayed through the winter.

She had meant to go back to Cork at the end of the harvest. She stayed to help rack the barrels, then to clean the press, then to prune the trees in the snow. She moved into the loft above the barn, with a stove and a window that looked out over the bare orchard. She learned the names of the neighbours, the best cheeses and a great many French curses.

In April, they opened the first bottle.

The barn was full: neighbours, cousins, the postman, an old couple in matching berets, children running about. The long tables were laden with bread, cheese, sausages and apple tarts. Lanterns hung from the beams. Solène, in a clean shirt, stood at the end of the table, wrestling with a stubborn cork.

Pop.

Golden foam spilled across the table. Cheers went up. She poured the first glass, held it up to the light, and looked across the room at Maeve. It was clear amber, sparkling, fragrant, alive.

She handed it over without a word.

Maeve tasted. It was dry and sharp and sweet, with a long, mellow finish and a faint note of woodsmoke. Her eyes filled.

"It's the best I've ever tasted."

"It is ours," said Solène, quietly.

The party roared on. Late in the evening, they slipped out of the barn and walked into the orchard, glasses in hand. The trees were in blossom, white and pink under a huge pale moon, scenting the whole night. Petals drifted down.

"I was going to leave," said Maeve.

"I know."

"I'm glad I didn't."

"Can I ask you something?" said Solène.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Maeve? It has been six months."

Maeve laughed, tearful. "Yes. And if you say stop, you must press with me next autumn."

"I would press with you for ever."

Solène kissed her, sweet and bright, a muddy hand rising to the red curls. Maeve kissed her back with a glad, soaring tenderness, tasting of cider and blossom. The moon rode high. The orchard whispered.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Solène.

"Green," said Maeve. "Very green."

The first label for their cider is printed in two languages: Cidre de Maeve et Solène. Patience, pressed.

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