Author's note: This is pure, embarrassing fluff. Like birthday cake icing fluff, so I hope you have a sweet tooth.
Friday evening, the three of them sat around the table, enjoying slices of Mrs. B's famous coconut cake before Shelagh and Patrick left for a late dinner.
"I never get to eat cake before dinner," Timothy said, licking frosting from his fork.
Shelagh grinned. "I suppose I'm lucky then," She'd left her hair down in loose curls and the modest navy dress she wore made her eyes seem even bluer, Patrick thought. She looked lovely, and he'd told her as much when he'd arrived at her lodgings, roses in hand.
"You look rather smart yourself, Dr. Turner," she'd teased, more coy and flirtatious than he'd ever seen her.
Before they'd left the boarding house, she'd taken one tight, pale pink bud from the bouquet, slipped it into the buttonhole of his overcoat and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him.
"Thank you for tonight," she whispered.
He tucked her arm in his to lead her to the car. "Happy Birthday, darling."
"Can we do gifts now?"
His son's question brought him back to the present and he glanced at his watch. They had about 45 minutes before their dinner reservation. He nodded and Timothy dashed upstairs to his room.
"Presents? Patrick, you didn't have –"
"It's just something small, and I wanted to. So did Timothy." He reached across the table and took her hand. "You're not going to deny him that, are you?"
She smiled shyly. "No."
They heard Tim clattering down the stairs, and then he appeared back at the table, carrying two hastily wrapped packages.
He placed both in front of Shelagh. "Mine's the smaller one. Open that first."
"All right." She worked her finger under the rather familiar green-patterned wrapping paper and tore it off. Inside was a rough wooden picture frame, the edges slightly crooked, so it didn't sit quite straight.
"I made it at Cubs," Timothy said. "The picture's a bit old, but Dad said we could get a new one taken of all of us before the wedding."
The photo was from last year's Christmas dinner at Nonnatus. She remembered that night well; both Turners had come slightly late as usual. While they were enjoying their pudding Timothy had cornered her to tell her all about his presents and his upcoming violin recital and to ask whether or not she thought they'd get snow for Christmas because last year Jack had bested him in a snowball fight and he was determined to get him back.
"Timothy – stop bothering Sister Bernadette. Besides, we've got to go," Dr. Turner appeared at her elbow, a red paper hat from one of the Christmas crackers crookedly perched on his head.
She stifled a laugh. "He wasn't a bother. Happy Christmas to both of you."
They wished her a Happy Christmas in return, and just as they were leaving, Trixie snapped a picture of father and son, grinning at each other. In the background, she could see the blur of her habit as she moved out of the frame.
She ran her hand over the image now. She didn't have to move out of the frame anymore. She belonged there.
She hugged Tim. "It's lovely. Thank you. I can put it right on my bedside table, where I'll always see it."
Tim shrugged sheepishly, then pushed the larger present toward her. "Dad's turn."
Patrick cleared his throat, suddenly somewhat nervous. Perhaps he should have gone with jewelry. Perhaps this was a bad idea.
Shelagh had just torn off one corner of the wrapping when the phone rang.
He frowned and rose to answer it. "Hold on." He wasn't supposed to be on call tonight – he'd specifically rearranged his schedule for Shelagh's birthday plans. Please be a wrong number, he thought, and picked up the phone.
"Turner residence. Dr. Turner speaking."
"Dr. Turner? It's Nurse Miller. I know you're not on call tonight but Dr. Lewes is already out on a call and I'm with Mrs. Emmons at Mafeking Buildings…"
He listened carefully as the nurse gave him the details, his heart sinking to his feet. He would have to go. Plans gone awry, once again. He just hated having to disappoint Shelagh.
"All right," he said, when she'd finished. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
He hung up and trudged back to the table. Shelagh looked at him expectantly and he was once again struck by how beautiful she was, all blue, pink and gold. He sighed. "That was Nurse Miller. She's got an older first-time mother at Mafeking Buildings having some complications."
Tim huffed. "You said you took tonight off."
"I did, but Dr. Lewes is on another call and can't go." He rubbed his eyes, then glanced at Shelagh, who was trying and failing to hide her disappointment. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Patrick," she said softly. "Duty calls."
"But it's your birthday!" He realized he probably sounded a bit like Tim whining, but at this moment he didn't care.
"Well, it looks like it's going to be someone else's too," she joked, mustering up a smile. "We both know babies don't come on schedule. I understand."
She rose to follow him into the hallway to say goodbye. "Do you want me to drive you back to your lodgings on the way there?" he asked as he slipped on his overcoat.
"No. I'll stay here and have a little dinner with Timothy if you don't mind. Wait for you."
"But it could be ages. What about your curfew at the boarding house –"
"I may have intimated I'd be out later than usual and Mrs. Forrester agreed to leave the key where I could find it," she said with a shy smile. "It is my birthday, after all."
He laughed and if he had more time, he would have teased her – but Nurse Miller was waiting. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Wait for me. And in the meanwhile, enjoy your present."
It was well after midnight when Patrick trudged back up the steps at 24 Bermondsey Lane, his body and mind heavy with tiredness. He rooted through the pockets of his overcoat for his keys and the rosebud Shelagh had stuck in his buttonhole earlier fell out.
"Got a date, doc?" Mrs. Emmons had asked as he'd slipped on his overcoat to leave, baby safely delivered into the world. Patrick was confused until she'd pointed to the flower.
"Oh – something like that." He'd slipped it out of his buttonhole and into his pocket, where he wouldn't lose it. He and Shelagh were still being discreet about their relationship.
Now, he picked up the flower and remembered her, waiting for him. She was probably exhausted as well, if not asleep. He should have taken her home, but it was nice to think of her here, and to think that one day soon, she would always be here.
He quietly slipped his key into the lock and eased the door open.
The house was mostly dark, and for a moment he thought she might have found another way home and left. But then he spotted her purse and coat by the door, and the soft glow of a lamp in the sitting room.
He crept into the room and smiled at what he saw. Shelagh had curled up on the sofa, her head buried in one of the pillows. The records he'd bought her lay in a haphazard pile nearby, and her glasses rested on top. He'd thought she looked lovely earlier in the evening, but seeing her like this – shoes kicked off, hair tangled, mouth slightly open in slumber – there was a new vulnerability about her that made his chest ache.
When he bent down to pick up her glasses and wake her, he noticed the note he'd left with the records clutched in her hand. He'd gone through several drafts, so he remembered exactly what it said.
Dearest Shelagh:
Tim is probably watching, and asking you what this note says, and whether or not you like your gift, and which of these records you're going to listen to first – so I'll try to keep this relatively short.
It occurred to me the other day that we don't have a song, which is odd, considering the first time we met was not long after I heard you sing (Did you know that? Remind me to tell you that story sometime.).
You know infinitely more about music than me, so I'm entrusting you to pick it – our song. I figured some records might be a good start since I have very few and you don't have any. But if you don't like any of these, we can go back to the shop and pick some more. We can keep listening as many times as you like, until we find the right one. My one stipulation is that you let me dance with you. As long as I can dance with you, I'll listen to anything.
All my love,
Patrick
Apparently, she'd taken his request rather seriously, he thought, smiling. He gently shook her awake and pressed her glasses into her hand.
"Happy birthday," he whispered.
She grinned sleepily up at him. "You're back."
He sighed. "It's late. I should have taken you home."
She yawned. "It's fine, Patrick." She sat up, stretched and ran a hand through her hair. "Besides, if I was at the boarding house, I wouldn't have been able to complete your request."
"My request?" He sat beside her. "Oh, the song – you found one already?"
"I think so," she said, leaning into him.
"Well? Put it on."
"Patrick, aren't you exhausted? You should take me home, and then go to sleep."
"One song?" He held out his hand. "I had planned to take you dancing after dinner."
She had a very hard time refusing him when he looked at her like that. And tired as she was, she wasn't exactly keen to leave either.
Silently she rose from the sofa, crossed the room, and set the needle on the album on the record player. When she turned around, he was already there, waiting for her. She stepped into his embrace, closer than ever before, slipping one arm around his back and resting her cheek on his chest. He sighed in contentment. This was all he wanted, just to hold her for a few moments.
Their movements were slow, clumsy from exhaustion, and soon they gave up all pretext of dancing and just stood in the center of the room, wrapped around each other, while the record played.
"…when I fall in love. It will be forever…
"Good song," he whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair.
"I thought you'd like it."
"I'm sorry about tonight."
She looked up at him. "It's all right, Patrick. There will be other birthdays. And anniversaries. And Christmases." Her smile grew wider with each word.
He grinned back. "Sorry, I've already got plans this Christmas."
"Oh really?"
"Uh-huh. Got a wedding to attend."
She giggled and pressed her face into his waistcoat again.
The song finished and they stood in the silence for a moment, neither wanting to part and go back to their separate lives in separate houses, even if it was only temporary.
Patrick tried to stifle a yawn and Shelagh pulled away. "You need sleep."
"I suppose I should take you home." He kissed her once, then helped her slip on her coat and gather the records.
"You didn't listen to the Mozart? The piano?"
"No," she said, as she put on her shoes. "It got late and I wanted to save that for an afternoon with Timothy."
"Open that one. Just open it."
She frowned, but did what he asked. "There are slips of paper in here – another note?"
"Tickets, actually. There's a concert, two Sundays from now. I thought—"
"Patrick, it's too much, I can't. I don't even have a proper dress—"
"It's just an afternoon concert, nothing formal. I asked Nurse Lee for help on picking the right one. And it will be just the two of us, as I doubt Tim will want to sit through it."
The look she gave him was arch and flirtatious. "I'm surprised you want to sit through it. It will monopolize your Sunday afternoon."
"Just the afternoon? I had plans to monopolize your evening as well." He grinned, ran his hands up her arms and pulled her close again. "And no interruptions this time, come hell or high water."
"You know you can't promise that."
He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. "I know."
"Patrick? All things considered, it was a wonderful birthday. One of the most memorable I've ever had."
"Really?"
She nodded and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sweetheart. And Happy Birthday."
