Dr Turner had snuffed out his first cigarette when the first twinge of nerves questioned his decision. He had been quickly working his way through his second when he began to fear he had forced her into accepting his wild plan. And he had been lighting his third when he checked his watch and saw that the Sister had been inside the building for twenty-one minutes.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked a piece of tobacco leaf off his tongue, and then ran his free hand through his hair. He'd made a huge mistake.

It was while he had his back to the building, his chin to his chest, one hand rubbing the back of his neck and the other holding a slowly burning cigarette, that he heard: "All set."

The words were so quiet, he almost didn't believe he heard them. But he knew her voice absolutely.

When he turned around, he was determined to smile and to act normal. He wanted to reassure her. But instead he froze.

He noticed her hair first – a blonde-ish brown that curled loosely and framed her high cheek bones delicately. Without the wimple, her face seemed to have a completely different shape, all still framed by her lovely glasses.

Next, he noticed her neck. She was so pale. Not a sickly pale. The kind of pale where the skin was simply unblemished from the sun and disease.

The outfit was a good fit. Suddenly her body had shape. And gorgeous legs, strong ankles.

She was his friend and he confided in her, trusted her, enjoyed her presence because he loved her personality, her strength, her intellect. But he realized suddenly, looking at her, that he had never noticed her as a woman before.

When he snapped his eyes back to her face, he could see that she was blushing. She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. She was doing it out of modesty, he knew, but she couldn't have realized how coy she seemed, how delightfully tempting.

"You're beautiful," he said it without thinking. She looked up in surprise and he somehow found the ability to correct himself. "This dress," he said. "Looks very good on you."

Then, after an awkward pause, "Shall we?" He took the package from her hands, opened her door, and offered a little flash of a self-conscious smile.

Gracefully, she lowered herself onto the seat.

/-/-

The drive took them back into the country.

It was so quiet – flourishing fields, green grass, dust kicking up off the road behind them.

With her window rolled down, she leaned against the door. The wind tussled her hair, blowing loose strands all around her face. It used to annoy her the way the ends of her hair would whip into her eyes or, worse, her mouth.

That was a long time ago. Back when Michael would take them for drives. Just sixteen, Michael would trade odd jobs for petrol rations. They'd take his father's truck. It would smell of manure and hay, but that didn't bother them. They'd roll down the windows and drive endlessly around the countryside. And Shelagh's hair would whip into her eyes and mouth and she'd tuck them behind her ears in irritation. But she enjoyed the warmth and the sound and even the smell of the fresh air too much to roll up her window.

The drives were so frivolous. Probably reckless. There was a war ranging around those children and petrol was needed for the war effort. But they were so surrounded everyday by family; this was their one reprieve, their short moments of privacy.

In the car with Dr Turner, Shelagh stuck her hand out the window, feeling the air push her hand up into the sky. The wind whipped hair into the corner of her mouth and she simply let the strands stay, attacking her face. How long had it been since her hair had felt the wind?

She could tell that Dr Turner kept turning to watch her – the rustle of his collar gave him away – but she didn't care. She sank even further into the door, so the tip of her nose peaked out the window. She felt the late afternoon sun on her face, even her ears.

Shelagh closed her eyes. Behind the dark lids, she could just make out the outline of Michael's face, the corners of his eyes crinkling with laughter.

/-/-

They only drove for two hours when they decided it was time to stop.

Not long after, they pulled up to a cozy bed and breakfast, the address of which Dr Turner had written down before they left Poplar.

Dr Turner pulled their cases from the boot of his car and then they both made their way up the white-painted stairs together.

The moment Shelagh's fingers wrapped around the cold metal, a startled thought occurred to her: A Doctor and a Nun could travel together without raising any questions, but a Doctor and a young, single woman? Obviously, they could still request separate rooms, but would that truly erase any doubts or silence any prying?

And no sooner did the door open, then a bell chimed and the housekeeper appeared before them. She was older, matronly, a wee bit stout, but otherwise looked at them with bright eyes and a kind smile. "Looking for a room, dear?"

"Yes," Shelagh replied and hastened up to the desk, where the woman stood.

The woman nodded, flipped opened her ledger, then looked back up at the two of them. "Mr and Mrs … ?"

"Turner." Shelagh surprised herself by speaking – she really did – because she had had every intension of asking for two separate rooms and explaining their professional relationship and not letting the potential awkwardness to ruin the free night Dr Turner had gifted her. But then the reply, the name, came so effortlessly that she completely shocked herself.

"Just for the night," Shelagh added, needing to say something of her own accord to calm her nervous. She could feel Dr Turner standing directly behind her. He had said nothing; the only noise that had come from him was the thud of their cases meeting the floor.

The woman smiled and nodded and slid the book towards them. The Doctor suddenly came around her and took the offered pen. She watched him write, quite illegibly, 'Dr. & Mrs. Patrick Turner'.

Dr Turner paid for the night and the housekeeper retrieved their key and beckoned them to follow her up the stairs. Shelagh followed directly; Dr Turner picked up their cases and joined them a few steps behind.

Shelagh could feel his questioning eyes staring into her back, but she knew she had no good answer for him. The closer they grew to their shared room, the more nervous she became, the more self-conscious. She worried the gold ring on her finger as she watched the housekeeper unlock their door.

It was Patrick who thanked the woman and (seemingly) took note of breakfast and checkout. Shelagh, on the other hand, had walked straight into the room and stopped in the dead center of it.

As soon as the woman had left, Patrick shut the door behind her, locked it, and then turned to Shelagh.

"I'm so sorry," he said instantly. Those weren't the first words she expected to hear – she expected to be the one apologizing. "It didn't even occur to me," he continued, "that this… would complicate the rooms."

He looked around the room quickly, then gestured to the far corner of the room. "There's a chaise lounge. I can sleep there for the night. No harm."

Shelagh followed his gesture with her eyes. The chaise lounge looked comfortable enough but, "It's so tiny." She looked back at the Doctor and frowned. "Certainly, you can't fit comfortably. I'll sleep there."

She could tell that he wanted to continue the argument, but he let her win. Silence descended over them. Once again, Shelagh worried the gold ring on her right hand, spinning it around to the right, then the left, letting her thoughts spiral away from her in no particular order.

Dr Turner had hit on something – neither of them had really thought this through. What was the point of the charade when it would just cause more anxiety, more trouble trying to maintain the rouse than just keeping the status quo? What a silly fantasy that had gotten them into trouble now…

Her thoughts froze when Dr Turner began to walk towards her.

Her hands were still together, resting over her stomach, but they stopped moving when Dr Turner didn't. He walked up right in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his person. He smiled down at her and took her hands in his. She watched his soft, nimble hands gently pry her hands apart. Then he splayed her fingers and carefully, taking the ring between his thumb and forefinger, slid it off her right hand. Then he took her left hand in his and said:

"If we're going to have a proper holiday and not make anyone suspicious, then we ought to do it right."

His words were playful and his tone light and airy, but she saw the seriousness in his face and knew that his hand was hoovering before hers, asking permission before sliding a wedding band onto her left hand.

She smiled at him, but it wasn't a full smile, just one meant to reassure him. He took that as permission and they both looked down to watch as he slipped the ring over her knuckle.

Once the ring was on, they each seemed to expect the other to do something or say something, but neither had any idea what to do next. Instead, they both just looked down at Shelagh's dainty pale hand being cupped ever so gently in his. She liked the warmth of his hands. She liked the texture of them more – not rough like Michael's calloused skin, but not soft like a woman's.

In the silence, she could hear each one of his breathes and then she realized she could feel them too, each exhale warm against her forehead.

She noticed a dark, small freckle on the side of his pointer finger just before he released her hands and stepped away.

The Doctor took a step back, then turned in a small half-circle to move further away. As he moved, he fiddled with the wedding band he still wore. Shelagh knew they had already taken this evening off too far and now his little tick gave him away – he had no idea how to reign everything back in.

Suddenly he stopped moving and looked back at her. "Shall we go for a walk? Perhaps find somewhere for dinner?"