“Which house?”
“That one,” she said, pointing. “The red door. Just drop me here. I’ll be fine.”
Rory pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “I’ll carry the box inside for you.”
Before Soline could protest, Rory was out of the car, retrieving the dress box from the back seat. Soline struggled with her seat belt a moment but eventually climbed out of the car and sailed past, keys at the ready.
Rory fell in behind her, eyeing the house’s Georgian facade as they moved up the walk. Weathered red brick, glossy black shutters, a pair of chimneys at each end. And in one of Boston’s most desirable neighborhoods. Apparently, Soline had done quite well for herself.
After some fumbling with the key, Soline pushed inside, leaving Rory to follow her into a spacious entry hall dominated by an ornate pedestal table and a French empire chandelier. She shed her sunglasses, depositing them on the table along with her handbag, and immediately set to work on her gloves.
Rory looked on uncomfortably until it became obvious that Soline wasn’t making much progress. “Those buttons look tricky. Why don’t I help you?”
Soline’s shoulders sagged, like a flower wilting all at once. She said nothing as she held out her hands. Rory set down the box and unbuttoned both gloves, then met Soline’s gaze. “Would you like me to . . .”
Soline nodded. “But don’t pull them off by the fingers. Peel them back. Slowly.”
Rory did as she’d been instructed, holding her breath as she eased back the leather. There was an audible sigh as the first glove came free, though whether hers or Soline’s, she couldn’t be sure. When the second hand was presented she set to work again, aware that Soline’s lower lip was now caught between her teeth. Clearly, embarrassment wasn’t all she was suffering.
When the job was done, Rory laid the gloves on the table, limp now and turned inside out, like the molted skins of some enormous insect. The thought sent a shudder through her, and she looked away, back to Soline, who’d begun to massage her hands with long, repetitive strokes. They were waxy white in places, puckered and pink in others, the fingers curled and faintly clawlike. Rory averted her gaze, not wanting to appear rude.
“Go on,” Soline said evenly. “Look at them.”
A lump formed in Rory’s throat as she surveyed the damage. The contracted palms and thickened scar tissue, the slightly webbed appearance of the fingers. Useless to a woman who made her living with a needle and thread.
“It happened in the fire,” Soline explained. “But of course, you’ve guessed that.”
Rory nodded. “I did wonder why you were wearing gloves in June.”
“Scars make people uncomfortable, so I cover them when I’m in public, which isn’t often anymore. It’s easier to keep out of people’s way than to endure their pity. It isn’t their fault. They are rather awful to look at.”
It was on the tip of Rory’s tongue to say she was sorry, but she caught herself. No pity. “That’s why you never reopened the shop,” she said instead. “Because of your hands.”
“For a while, I thought I might be able to go back. I wanted to believe the doctors could work some sort of a miracle. I think they believed it too, in the beginning. But there was too much damage.”
“Is it . . . painful?”
“Not in the way you’re probably thinking. They’re numb, mostly. Scar tissue has no nerve endings. But there’s a thing called contracture that happens with deep burns, especially to the hands. As the scar tissue forms, it draws the fingers inward or twists them sideways.” She held up her hands again, inviting Rory to look more closely. Most of the nails were gone from her right hand, leaving the fingertips shiny and flat.
“I’m one of the lucky ones, if you can believe that. There isn’t a lot of pain involved, but when I wear the gloves for too long, my fingers are stretched, which makes the joints ache. Like arthritis, I suppose.”
“Isn’t there . . . Can’t they operate or something?”
She’d begun to massage them again, alternately applying pressure to each palm with the balls of her thumbs, wincing as she worked at the scarred flesh. “I’ve had six operations. Debridement, tendon repair, skin grafts. And every kind of splint known to man. Then came the therapy. Pressure therapy. Stretching therapy.” She shrugged. “Eventually, one reaches the end of the road. They gave me exercises to help with flexibility and range of motion. I did them for a while, when I thought there was a chance, but I stopped eventually. I didn’t see the point once I knew I’d never pick up a needle again.”