there have always been others with us, helping us learn,” Colleen said.
“So I’m the lace makers’ apprentice, am I?”
“And we are to you, learning about garment design,” Bernie said. “You’re ready to take the next step, to enter the most challenging part of the lace and lace maker relationship.”
“So we have relationship with our lace now? That sounds a bit kinky,” Oona said, making them laugh again.
“But really, Bernie has a point: there’s a give and take involved, the need to trust, open yourself up to the work,” Colleen said.
“You’re sounding rather philosophical this afternoon,” Oona said.
“I have my moments.”
Kate stretched a thread between one pin to the next, thinking of Sullivan, the distance between them another bridge to cross.
Chapter 22
A Hundred Little Bruises
At first, Moira thought Cillian wasn’t home, that he’d gone off to the pub with his friends. She didn’t mind it so much, his being away. The house was quieter then, no complaints, no roar of the telly—he tended to turn the volume up so loud the house shook, the voices in the box shouting at each other, giving her a headache, though she rarely complained.
Little fear of what he’d do for a while.
No, fear was the wrong word. She wasn’t afraid of him, not always, rather she found it necessary to be attuned to his needs and moods. Life was easier that way, and it wasn’t as if it was such a sacrifice, not really.
Moira had finally brought the lace home, the knickers and bra stitched with the green of the land, the green of her eyes. She’d left the lingerie behind each time before, uncertain about bringing it home, what he’d say.
“Why are you hesitating?” Oona asked. “Men like this sort of thing. You wouldn’t believe what it’s done for Padraig and me.”
Moira hadn’t even tried the pieces on until that afternoon. She didn’t want to model them for the lace society. She was too shy.
“What about the fit?” Colleen had asked her.
“I’ll bring them back if they need altering. I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Moira replied.
They all knew it wasn’t the garments that needed fixing.
Now, in the bedroom, she slipped out of her clothes—the jeans and jumper Aileen had passed on to her. (Aileen gave her hand-me-downs, even though they were no longer children. Moira accepted them, grateful but resentful too that she should have to take charity, yet again, just to keep going.) She couldn’t look at her naked self in the mirror yet. She’d never been comfortable in her body, not even when she was younger, didn’t believe Cillian when he told her she was beautiful, suspecting that he was the only one who would think so.
What happened to your confidence? Aileen’s words came back to her again.
Moira brought the hooks to the front to fasten them, as Aileen taught her to do years ago, when she kept trying to put on her training bra the hard way. A strap over one shoulder, then the other. Now she must turn and face her image. She closed her eyes at first, opened them to a squint. It was a small thing, but she felt different when she looked at her reflection, not a complete transformation, no, but a new perspective—one she could maintain as long as she kept the lights low so the bruises on her upper arms and legs were nearly invisible. The body she’d thought too thin, the face too haggard, looked softer, perhaps even hopeful. She touched the edge of the lace with shaking hands, considered the possibility that she could be stunning, strong, the type of woman who wouldn’t settle for less, who Cillian could love without force, who could be attractive in her own right.
The children shouted outside where they were playing, reminding her of who she was, where she was. She took the pieces off quickly and got dressed, slipped the lingerie into her bag, the euphoria fading. She didn’t know when she’d wear them, if she’d wear them. They were works of art, not meant for that body, that house, that life. She peered into the bag—the lace gleaming, gorgeous, a secret treasure—then closed it again. She might put them on for their anniversary. Cillian might like that.
She returned to the kitchen to start dinner. The children ran through the field behind the house, the grass uncut, a jungle. She’d need a scythe before going at it with the push mower. She’d gotten good at mowing in the dark. There weren’t enough hours in the day.
She