"May I help you with something?"

Patrick spun quickly and his elbow grazed a porcelain figure on a glass shelf, almost knocking it to the floor. Timothy caught it before it fell completely, and with a stern glance toward his father, he put it back carefully before looking at the saleswoman who had spoken to them.

Patrick smiled awkwardly, ignoring the disaster that had just been averted. "No, thank you, we're just meeting my – my – er – we're waiting for someone. I thought we would step inside to be out of the rain." He gestured toward the door, where raindrops could be seen sliding hurriedly down the window. The woman glanced in that direction and gave what Patrick could only assume to be a smile – sharp was the word that came to his mind when he looked at her – and nodded curtly.

"Our dressing rooms are in the back, past the lingerie. There are chairs for husbands. Feel free to wait there."

Patrick felt his face flush and tried not to think about a particular someone browsing in that particular area of this particular store. Or the word husband. He placed a hand on Timothy's shoulder. "Thank you. I think we'll wait here."

"As you like." The woman's eyes made a slow, indiscreet descent down his body and Patrick became aware of his outdated clothing, scuffed shoes and wet overcoat. He was glad when she walked away.

A ladies' dress shop was not where Patrick wanted to be. He had never felt comfortable in them; not as a boy accompanying his mother, and not with Timothy's mother. Luckily she would take pity on him and meet him elsewhere if she needed to do some shopping. Fashion was not his forte, and especially not women's fashion. There was something unsettling about the limp shells of dresses hanging without the privilege of a body underneath; it reminded him of cadaver dissection when he was in medical school.

He would have waited for Sister Bernadette – no, Shelagh - in the car, but the streets were filled and there was no place to park close to the door. Regretfully he had realized that she would not be able to see him from the shop where she told him to meet her, and the last thing he wanted was for her to think he had abandoned his promise to give her a lift to an inn until they could properly settle her in a temporary home. After waiting a short while in the car with Timothy, smoking three cigarettes and glancing at his watch every few seconds, he decided to push past his discomfort and go into the store.

The rain was an unexpected annoyance. But between getting a little wet or making her doubtful of his intentions, he preferred the rain. Timothy had brilliantly suggested they drop by their house and get the umbrella from the foyer, so they were not unprepared for the storm that had descended after they all found each other in the mist earlier that day.

Patrick tightened his grip on the umbrella with the thought and tried to distract himself by looking around the shop. After repeating that Timothy not touch anything, his eyes wandered, and his attempt to calm his nerves did just the opposite. This shop and its contents were a striking reminder of how little he knew about women aside from their physical statistics and the way their bodies worked. As a doctor, that was required of him. But seeing the various cuts and colors of dresses and skirts and blouses hanging around the large store unsettled him. He never observed what his patients were wearing, and even today he hadn't noticed the specifics of how Shelagh was dressed until Timothy asked her about it on the drive back into London. That was when she had said meekly that she needed to buy some new clothes after her meeting with Sister Julienne, and she preferred if it were not in Poplar. She knew of a place a bit west –could they wait for her outside Nonnatus and take her there after checking into a hotel?

Waiting in the car in the rain while she was in the convent, Patrick had found it difficult to form any sort of coherent thought. She was inside with Sister Julienne, in regular clothes. Denouncing her vows. She would not be Sister Bernadette anymore, and the way she looked at him on the road told him that he would not be Dr. Turner anymore to her. They would be using first names. First names and other names, hopefully. Dear, darling, sweetheart, love. Patrick's mind jumped from one thing to the next so suddenly: where she would be staying, what she would be doing, how long until he should call on her. He tried to remember his schedule but nothing came to mind; he could make no promises of when he would see her next. All he knew was that at this moment he was not on his rounds, that he was here, waiting for the woman he thought he could never have. His fractured thoughts had been disturbed as usual by Timothy, who tapped on his shoulder and told him that she was coming down the stone stairs toward them. Hardly ten minutes had passed since she had gone in. Before he could get out, her swift step brought her to the car, and he was outside holding the door for her as the rain started to fall in earnest.

He had not remarked on the tears on her cheeks or the redness of her eyes. He prayed that Timothy would not say anything and was glad that he did not. Shelagh had sat a moment without looking at him, staring at her hands with tears silently rolling down her cheeks, her lips folded into each other painfully. With a sinking feeling Patrick wondered if she regretted what she had done, if she was actually less certain than she had claimed an hour ago. When she finally turned to him he expected anything other than the wide smile she shone on him. The tears still lingered in her eyes, but he was certain they were not all tears of sadness. They'd all meandered through the streets of London until she asked to stop and said she would be a while. Timothy suggested they both go home and retrieve the umbrella, and Patrick insisted they tidy the house in case Shelagh were to visit. That took up quite a bit of time before they drove slowly back to the shop and waited in the rain.

"Dad," Timothy now whined from his side, interrupting his careening memory of the hours before. "Dad, can I go sit in one of the chairs that lady was talking about?"

Patrick nodded and watched his son bob between dress displays and disappear in the direction the saleswoman had pointed earlier. Realizing he felt even more awkward without Tim at his side, he decided to follow. Holding the umbrella tight to his chest to avoid knocking anything else off of the shelves, Patrick weaved to the curtained dressing rooms. Timothy was seated already, staring at a feminine magazine on a table as though he was afraid to pick it up. Just as Patrick was about to make a remark about it, one of the shiny white curtains swung aside and revealed the former Sister Bernadette, now the stunning Shelagh, clad in a pinkish skirt suit. Her eyes were wide with surprise when she saw them.

"Oh! Doctor Turn – I mean, Patrick," Shelagh corrected herself, fumbling with several layers of fabric draped over her arms. "Oh dear, is it four already?"

Patrick saw her cheeks flush and was sorry he had embarrassed her. "No, it just… It started raining," he said softly, unable to tear his eyes from hers. He still couldn't believe what had happened today. Was it really only hours ago? When she smiled as though she were thinking the same thing, her features warmed and he smiled back. "But we have an umbrella this time, so no need to get wet."

"That's not what you were wearing earlier," Timothy pointed out from his seat. Patrick made a mental note to reiterate that the boy should stand when a woman entered the room.

Shelagh smiled and looked down at her new outfit, a little embarrassed. "No, it's not." She clearly wanted to say more, but there was either too much or too little to say. Patrick suspected the former and tried to gather his thoughts into comprehensible words. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how happy he was, how much hope he had, but it was too soon and the wrong place.

Thankfully, the saleswoman with the sharp features strolled over. "May I take these up for you?" she asked, gesturing to the pile of clothes in Shelagh's arms. Shelagh's eyes darted toward Patrick's feet and he could see she was uncomfortable discussing this in front of them.

"Come along Tim, we'll wait for Sis – er, we'll wait for Auntie Shelagh up front." With an apologetic grimace he turned from Shelagh and his son followed him back through the store.

"I'll only take these two and the green coat," he heard her small voice say behind him. "And what I'm wearing," she added. He resisted the urge to turn back and look at her again. No, stop. There would be time to look at her later.

Shortly after they reached the front of the store they were joined by the two women, and Shelagh confidently stood next to him in front of the counter. Patrick stood very still, knowing her shoulder was so close to his own. He wanted to turn, to touch her shoulder or her arm, to make sure she was really there with him. But he knew he couldn't and remained frozen. They watched as the woman wrapped and boxed her items, listening to the hum and clink of the rain hit the windows, and when she announced the total, Patrick took his wallet from his pocket.

"No," Shelagh whispered, touching his arm, and for an instant they were Dr. Turner and Sister Bernadette until their eyes met and they were Patrick and Shelagh. "No, thank you. I'll pay. I can pay." She was opening her handbag, extracting an envelope with her name written on it. Patrick noted the unusual spelling of her first name.

"Shelagh," Patrick said, shaking his head, "you don't have to, it's all right… I want to. Save your money." He glanced at the clerk, who was starting to look at them more curiously than before. He became quite self-conscious and turned away from her, leaning on the counter.

Shelagh shook her head. "No. I have the money, Patrick." He could see her stubbornness in her set gaze.

He was torn. His greatest desire was to give her anything she ever wanted, forever, but today all she wanted was this small taste of independence. As much as it would pain him to see her throw away the little bit of money she had – the envelope was by no means full – he decided to agree.

Putting his wallet away, he raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Then you must at least let me – let us," he tossed his head Timothy's direction, "buy you dinner. All right?"

Shelagh smiled and her eyes – those eyes that could slay him and heal him all in the same glorious moment – were clear and glad. She handed over the money and he took the packages from the counter and handed them to Timothy. He opened the umbrella and turned it toward the door.

"Dad, we can't all fit under that!" Timothy said. "I'm going to get wet."

Patrick shrugged, "You know where the car is, Tim, why don't you run for it? I have to keep Auntie Shelagh dry. We'll be right behind you."

Timothy grinned at Shelagh. "All right! I'll bet I can run so fast I won't even get wet!"

The adults laughed, then watched as he zipped out of the store and down the sidewalk, dodging people and puddles and holding the boxes of Shelagh's clothes above his head. After a few seconds they turned to each other. He was glad she bought a coat and, after discarding the umbrella in his hand, helped her into it now. Gently he held her lapel, unfolding the collar around her neck as he had done with his own coat hours ago.

"Don't want you to catch a chill," he muttered as he felt one of her hands rest on his. Her touch brought him back to life and he picked up the umbrella again.

"Ready?" He asked the woman at his side who was grinning up at him, ready to start this new life. On impulse he held out his hand.

"Ready," she answered, giving him a hand that he took and held in his own as though it were the only thing ever to be held in the world.

"Let's go."