The next morning, Kate helped Bernie pin clothes on the line. The weather was fickle, the sky edged with clouds. The women seemed to stand in the only circle of light in the county, a place where the sun had managed to break through, if only for a short while. Kate’s head felt heavy, not so much from the late night as from her bewilderment over how distant Sullivan had seemed when he dropped her off at Bernie’s house. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before, and she didn’t know what to make of it. “Do you think it’s going to rain?” she asked.

“Hard to say.” Bernie squinted at the sky. “The clouds seem to be having a hard time making up their minds.”

Kate fingered the faint stain on the cuff of her shirt, a reminder of the unsettling scene on the cliffs; it wouldn’t come out, despite numerous rinsings in the sink, the mark a shadow along the seam.

“At least that stain won’t set,” Bernie said, “not as it would have if we used a dryer.” Bernie had told her she couldn’t abide the machines. They ruined clothes, and since it was only her and John—and now, her alone—she had little use for them. “He cut his head, did he? Is he all right? How did it happen?”

Kate told her, adding, “He said he didn’t need stitches.”

“Even the smallest head wounds tend to bleed excessively.” Bernie nodded. “Will he be by today?”

“I don’t think so. He said he’s busy. He was acting kind of strange when he dropped me off.” She paused, then added, as if to convince herself, “But sleeping on the ground all night would make anyone irritable.” She rubbed her back. “I know I’m feeling where some pebbles pressed on my spine this morning.”

“You slept outside? In this weather?”

“He knew a place near the cliffs; there was some shelter, and he had a blanket in the van—”

“Kept you warm, did he?” Bernie teased.

“In a manner of speaking.” Kate’s smile faded as she touched the spot on her shirt again, the memory of trying to help him, help he didn’t seem to want, returning. She pinned the garment on the line. The fabric stirred listlessly in the breeze. “He seemed to be having a bad dream. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about.”

Bernie didn’t say anything, directing an inordinate amount of attention to the clothespins she was attaching to the line.

Kate touched her arm. “Do you know something?”

“I guess since everyone’s aware of it, there’s no harm in my saying…” She hesitated.

“Everyone except me.”

“I’m sure he’d tell you, in time,” she said.

“I hope so. I want him to feel that he can trust me—”

“You see, his girlfriend died in the London tube blast last year,” Bernie said finally, “and I think he felt he should have been with her. That’s why he moved back here. There’s been the occasional woman since, but nobody he seemed to care for seriously—until you came along.”

“How awful for him.” Kate put her hand to her mouth. “He’s never said anything—”

“He doesn’t speak of it to anyone. He keeps it all inside.”

That afternoon, Kate went cycling. She told herself she didn’t have a fixed plan, no deliveries for Bernie that day, just sightseeing, to clear her head, but somehow she ended up near Sullivan’s house, curiosity and desire drawing her there. To her disappointment, the van wasn’t in the drive. Where had he gone? He hadn’t told her what he was doing that day. She considered leaving a note, but what would she say? She stood there for a long time, unsure of what to do, waiting for some sign of him, the wind swirling around her, a few scattered drops of rain falling. She shivered. She hadn’t dressed for the weather. She’d been too preoccupied. She sighed and glanced at her watch. It was time to go back. The lace makers were expecting her.

Fifteen minutes later, when she walked in the front door of Bernie’s cottage, the lace makers were already gathered around the table, a pot of tea in a cozy in the center, a cup by each hand, a lace pillow on each lap. They were working on bobbined lace that afternoon, the threads woven with the complexity of snowflakes. The women were whispering among themselves.

“Why so much secrecy?” Kate asked as she joined them, trying to shrug off her mood.

“We have a surprise for you,” Bernie said.

Aileen’s chair was empty. Ever since the church incident, she’d kept her distance. Whenever Moira or Bernie called, she made excuses to hang up the phone. “She’ll come ’round,” was all Bernie had said. “She always does in the end.”

Kate had to admit she didn’t mind Aileen’s absence. “A surprise?”

“You’ve graduated from the crochet to the bobbin method.” Colleen handed her a lace pillow and a collection of pins and bobbins. “Now the real work begins.”

“And here I thought you were giving me something soft to sit on.”

“Not unless you want a bunch of pins in your arse.” Moira laughed.

“Padraig sat on mine once. Never saw him get up in such a hurry,” Oona said.

“Must have been why he was standing up so straight at mass that Sunday,” Colleen said with a wink.

“I told him he could think of it as acupuncture,” Oona replied, “but he didn’t think it was funny.”

“Ouch,” Kate said, giggling with the rest.

“Cillian had a fit when he found a pin in the chair the other day,” Moira said, eyes widening with the realization that they might take it the wrong way.

The women stopped to look at her. Cillian having a fit could be a dangerous thing.

“I didn’t mean it literally,” she said quickly.

“He’ll be happy when he gets a look at your lace.” Colleen pulled a bra and knickers from her bag. “I did the finishing work on these last night. They’re ready for you to take home.”

“Oh, thank you,” Moira said, though she looked more pensive than pleased.

“You will wear them, won’t you?” Oona asked.

Moira shoved the pieces into her bag and zipped it closed. “Of course I will.”

Kate studied the bobbins the lace makers had given her. “These look old.”

“They are,” Bernie said. “We gave you one of each of ours. They were handed down through our families. Some are carved from bone, others wood.”

“This one has a face on it, like a doll.” Kate cradled the bobbins in her hands, aware of how precious they were. The women had given her part of their histories. She hoped she’d prove worthy of the gift.

“My da made me a set of those when I was young,” Colleen said. “He thought they might cheer me up when I was getting frustrated learning the steps. He whittled in the evenings after the boats came in.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Lord, no. He died a long time ago,” Colleen said, her voice soft, before continuing, “Here, you set the pins this way.” Her hands moved with swift assurance over the cushion as she set up the form. “Now, follow me.”

Kate imitated Colleen’s motions. “It’s almost like meditation,” she said of the focus required to execute the design. Even though she still felt shaky, there was a rhythmic quality to the endeavor that was deeply satisfying.

“That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it,” Moira encouraged her.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here, showing me the way.”

“That’s the beauty of it: 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.