Life itself is a thread that is never broken, never lost.
—Jacques Roumain
Contents
Epigraph
Learning to Sew
Chapter 1
That Irish Rain
Chapter 2
William the Traveler
Chapter 3
A Village at the End of the World
Chapter 4
The American Girl
Chapter 5
Absences and Visitations
Chapter 6
Cliff Walk
Chapter 7
Holy Orders
Chapter 8
A Cup of Tea & Jealousy
Chapter 9
Dirty Laundry & Contraception
Chapter 10
The Lace Society
Chapter 11
Kate’s Idea
Chapter 12
Father Byrne on Patrol
Chapter 13
Imaginary Breasts
Chapter 14
Sullivan Deane
Chapter 15
Held So Close
Chapter 16
Craic
Chapter 17
Singing to the Sea
Chapter 18
Hail the Long-Lost Mariner
Chapter 19
All Ye Sinners Bow Your Heads and Pray
Chapter 20
Another Life
Chapter 21
Of Bobbins and Pins
Chapter 22
A Hundred Little Bruises
Chapter 23
Wear It Well
Chapter 24
Famine Ghosts
Chapter 25
Lost and Found
Chapter 26
The Things That Shape Us
Chapter 27
A Turn in the Road
Chapter 28
A Soul of the Sea
Chapter 29
A Word, Please
Chapter 30
On the Mend
Chapter 31
Market Day
Chapter 32
Fame & Fortune
Chapter 33
Finishing Work
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Heather Barbieri
Copyright
About the Publisher
Learning to Sew
What you need:
A sewing machine, your mother’s, yes, the sky blue Singer, its hum a lullaby from infancy, you in a Moses basket at her feet, grabbing bright threads
Notions (tools and thoughts in equal measure), such as
Scissors, three to six inches long, sharp pointed, pinking shears, thread clips, buttonholers, seam rippers—there will be edges to neaten, material to cut
Tissue (dressmaker’s and Kleenex)
Tailor’s chalk and tracing wheel, for dots, dashes, cutaway marks, arcs, outlines, traces, what has been and what will be
Pins, for forming attachments
Needles—sharps, betweens, milliner’s, darners, tapestry, embroidery, beading, for all that must be pierced and adorned and joined together
Pin cushion, apple-shaped, with a felt stem, to keep pins from getting lost
Thimble, your mother’s, gold, on a chain, a tiny loop soldered to the top; wear it on your index finger so you won’t prick yourself, or around your neck, to remember
Measuring tape, for determining shape and size, yards, inches, centimeters, the distance from here to there
Thread—mercerized, nylon silk, textured, floss
Fabric, swatches and yards and bolts, wool, silk, linen, net, whatever will come next, whatever will be made
The pattern?
Will it come from a drawer at the fabric store—McCall’s, Butterick, Simplicity, names from your childhood, the instructions in an envelope, the outcome preordained? Or will you make it up as you go, letting the spirit guide you, trying to pick up the loose threads, fix the holes, make something new? Each step, each diagram, fig. 1, fig. 2, fig. 3, revealing itself in time?
You hesitate, thinking of past mistakes, when you threw the pieces across the room in a fit of anger because nothing was coming together the way it should, and you cried over a misshapen collar or sleeve, lying prone in your lap as an injured child.
And yet you must press your lips together, pick up the thread. Don’t be afraid. You’ll find your way.
This is a place to start.
Chapter 1
That Irish Rain
Kate had been traveling the road for hours, the rain her sole companion. It was an entertainer, that Irish rain, performing an endless variety of tricks for her amusement. It blew sideways, pounded and sighed and dripped. It hailed neat little balls of ice that melted off her hood and shoulders. She did her best to ignore it. She knew the type. She was from Seattle, after all, the city of her birth, life, and heartbreak. She’d left a few days after the separation on a day much like this nearly a month ago. She didn’t know if she’d ever return, but the rain, or its cousin, followed, along with the memories that had driven her from that place.
The story was simple enough, or seemed to be, on the surface, as stories often are. She adopted a deadpan delivery in the telling, an amusing shtick, as if she were a warm-up act at a comedy club. She’d told the story on so many occasions, drawing laughs and knowing nods and sympathy, that she had the timing down pat. Three minutes. Three minutes was all it took to dissect the end of a five-year relationship.
It came down to this, she said: Ethan ran off with a model. A girl with black hair and pale skin and aquamarine eyes and a sizable trust fund. A girl who would have been courted by princes and lords if she lived in another time and place. A girl thin and angular as a praying mantis, who wore Kate’s designs at her failure of a fashion show and claimed to be her friend.
The model spoke five languages, was a champion fencer and violin virtuoso. Kate lacked such impressive qualifications. She knew enough French to order three courses in a