Chapter 9

"And the wicks get damp and they won't burn."

Her words have been replaying through his mind for weeks now. Her breathlessness, her hesitation, the lilt of her beautiful accent.

But tonight, finally, Patrick had found himself with a moment to catch his breath. It was the night before the summer fete and the cubs were spending the day camping out. So, Patrick went home, poured a whiskey and water, and set a record on the turntable. The record player had actually been Marion's; he wasn't actually sure when he last turned it on.

He watched the disc spin, barely hearing the soft tones of Rosemary Clooney.

"Ok, Patrick," he mumbled to himself, swirling the lonely ice cubes in his glass. "What's going on?"

He took a small sip of whiskey. He let the liquid sit on his tongue, allowing the smokiness to envelop his mouth before swallowing.

"You like Sister Bernadette. That's fine. She's a wonderful, intelligent woman. Amazingly compassionate. Great with Tim. She's gorgeous."

He stopped talking and looked down at the melting ice. His pointer finger tapped the side of the glass.

"Yeah, she's gorgeous all right." He brought the glass to his lips and took large swig. He wandered across the living room to the mantel. The next track started.

He looked in the mirror – it was a little dusty; his reflection was a bit clouded – but he looked into his tired face nevertheless. "What are you doing, man? She's not attainable. She's not…"

He sighed and set his glass on the mantel. His knuckles came to rest against an old picture frame. Marion's happy face grinned up at him.

"What do you think, Marion? I am I pushing myself too hard? It's too early, isn't it?"

He shook his head. That must have been it. As long as he was distracted by Sister Bernadette, he never had to worry about taking the next step. She was a safe choice because she wasn't a choice.

He lifted his glass back to his lips, but a sudden knock on the door surprised him. The glass hoovered in front of his mouth for a moment, until a second knock got his attention. It was late – well past ten o'clock – and he couldn't image who was at the door. He hoped it was an emergency. He felt a little guilty, crossing his fingers that he wouldn't be pulled away from his quiet night, but would never have guessed at what he saw when he pulled the door opened.

She was here.

Once, he might have thought he'd struggle to identify the nuns out of their habits. But now he knew that he could never not know her eyes, the shape of her face, the lightness in her expression when she looked up at him.

He was so shocked by her – here, at his house, in the clothes he bought her – that he didn't even say anything. He just stepped aside and gestured for her to come in.

She walked around him and into the little hallway. He watched her peer into the living room and he was reminded suddenly of the time, several months ago, when Sister Bernadette had helped Timothy cook them dinner. When she had come into his home and so selflessly returned some order to the Turner household. Patrick pushed the door closed and she turned to look at him.

"I love this song."

He'd almost forgotten he had music playing. "Yes, Rosemary Clooney is one of my favourites."

But she wasn't there to talk about music, he knew. And yet he wasn't sure what to say. They stood for a moment, just looking at each other. Then finally Patrick raised his glass and clanked the ice around. "Drink?"

He didn't wait for her answer, just lead her further into the house and prepared her a drink and himself another. When he offered the glass, she kept her hands against her stomach, as if she meant to decline. But then she reached her hand out. Her fingertips grazed over the glass, hesitating one last time before taking it from him.

He waited for her. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She had one hand wrapped around her stomach; one hand holding her glass just under her nose. Her eyes had fallen shut. Her head had tilted to the side and it seemed that she was drinking in the music.

As the song neared the end of the track, Patrick thought it was odd that he didn't feel awkward. This woman – an uncloaked nun – stood in the middle of his living room. And him, just leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching her. Her, eyes closed. Neither of them saying a word. But he would stand there all night waiting for her.

When the track ended, her eyes fluttered open. She lowered the glass so her hand hung at her side. She hadn't looked at him yet, not completely, but he could tell she was on the verge unravelling.

"I'm thinking," she said, so softly that Patrick leaned forward to listen, "about leaving the Order."

Her eyes darted quickly to his face. To gauge his reaction, he was sure. And he was sure that his shock registered across his face. He supposed he knew that that was possible, but he'd never heard of a nun leaving the Order.

She seemed like she was waiting for him to speak and he wanted to say something, but he could see how fragile she looked. There was a glassiness to her eyes that made her look like she might cry at any moment, a tension through her jaw that was preventing her from breathing. Rather than speak, he set his glass on the table and crossed the room to the record player.

He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled – a big, goofy, silly smile. "What do you fancy? I've got a few Rosemary Clooney. Or Dean Martin. Billie Holiday?"

Her shoulder relaxed and her expression softened into a small smile. "I'd enjoy Billie Holiday."

As he traded out the discs, he hummed a little to himself and he hoped that he was lightening the mood and not making her feel dismissed.

When the recorded spun into life, Patrick turned to see her sipping her whiskey and water and watching him.

He studied her for a moment before he spoke. "Was this on your mind before our trip, or because of it?"

She sighed. "Both, I suppose."

She gestured towards his couch, as if asking permission, before lowering herself onto the edge. "I was beginning to have my doubts before. But I needed the space to explore my thoughts and since then…" She paused and looked up at him.

"Do you know the term exclaustration?"

He shook his head.

"It's a process that would allow me to temporarily give up certain rights in the Order, in exchange for exploring life outside the religious life. I could take up to three years to decide whether to leave or not."

He felt hope gather in the pit of his stomach. She wasn't vaguely unhappy with her life in the religious order. She didn't just need a moment of space to regroup. She had been seriously considering options. She was talking about starting a formal process of separation.

Patrick suddenly realized that he was beginning to smile. He fought back and tried to relax his face into one of comfort. He joined her on the couch.

"Have you spoken to Sister Julienne about beginning this process?"

"I tried." She twisted the glass in her hand, but hadn't yet taken a drink "We were interrupted." She sighed. "And then, when I tried to speak with her earlier today, I just couldn't."

The tight ball of hope in his stomach stretched apart. He took a sip of whiskey; he tried to control his own completely unexpected feelings. "Why not? I've always found you and Sister Julienne to have a close friendship. I would have thought you'd find comfort in speaking with her."

She nodded in one large, plodding motion. "We always have been. But, I think… she's always been a friend to Sister Bernadette. She's always helped me in the past to understand my relationship to God, to our patients, to my Sisters, but…"

He waited for her to find her words, but seemed to stop breathing for a moment, so lost in thought or uncertainty or anxiety. Suddenly, she brought the glass to her lips and allowed a small sip to pass between her lips.

Finally, Patrick spoke: "But you're worried that she'll offer council to Sister Bernadette. She'll help you to find your way back to the Order." He noticed the way she stilled as she took in his words, noticed how her breathing shifted – deep and steady – and he knew that he had voiced what she couldn't. "You're worried," he continued, "that she won't understand you're desire to leave?"

She nodded and took another sip. Patrick imitated her, though his sip was rather more greedy than hers.

When she began to speak, he watched her intently. "I feel as if I don't belong at Nonnatus House any longer."

This one statement scared him. The idea of her no longer being a nun touched fantastical thoughts he wouldn't entertain just now, but of course if she were no longer a nun, what role was there for her here in Poplar? Where would she go?

"I look at my Sisters and I still feel love for them, but I find myself struggling to be quiet. Struggling to always obey and never question, never do as I wish. And the nurses – it's like I long to be one of them, but I know that I don't belong. Even if the habit were gone, they seem so much…" She struggled for a moment with the word. "So full of life. So untouched by disappointments."

Patrick hummed in agreement. He wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that, and yet he understood completely. The nurses had been born just before the war – their lives had been shaped by it, but not thrown completely off-track.

They were quiet for a while. In that silence, Patrick remembered Michael – a boy she had once known, a boy and a life the war had taken from her.

He looked up at her. She held her glass tight between both hands; the heat from them melted her ice and made the glass sweat. Patrick took another sip, let the whiskey sit on his tongue, swallowed, and let the smokiness burn his throat when he breathed out.

"Why are you here?"

He wasn't sure that was the right question to help her, but it was his question.

She looked up at him through her dainty silver glasses and shook her head. "I don't know what to do."

He tried to place himself in her shoes, tried to understand her position. She was unhappy as a nun – that had become clear. (And this strangely pleased him. He didn't enjoy that sensation.) The most logical course of action was to speak with Sister Julienne and request the exclaustration, but she was afraid of Sister Julienne's judgement – her judgement? Or her disappointment? – and concerned that someone would talk her out of her plans. (Didn't her concern that she might be convinced to keep her vows mean part of her wanted to stay? But did she want to say because she wanted to say, or because she was afraid of what awaited her once she left?)

Patrick shifted forward. He nearly reached for her hand, but instead rested his hand on his knee. "You need to do what makes you happy." She opened her mouth to respond, but instinctively he knew what she was about to say. He cut her off.

"You are one of the most compassionate, selfless people I have ever met. You do so much for everyone and never ask for a thing in return. I can't imagine how difficult this choice is for you. To leave the Order would be leaving everyone who has ever helped you, who loves you. It's such an important community to you and you don't want to hurt them. And that's truly admirable."

He paused to breathe, to look at her, to hope that she believed him.

"But sometimes we must be selfish. Sometimes we must do what is best for us – what makes us happy – in order to be at our best. You can't serve the Order, you can't help your patients, you can't be a good friend, if you aren't happy first."

He was sure he could have said more. Knowing him, he could have talked until the sun rose speaking of her merits, but he felt like he had said exactly what he needed to say.

He didn't know what she wanted that would make her happy; he really wasn't sure what was going on in her mind. But if his own experience had taught him anything, that was it. That was the most important take away from his entire life.

And so he was relieved when she smiled at him. It was a reserved smile. One more grateful than happy.

There was something bubbling up in his chest, some sort of longing that he didn't recognize. Patrick let it build as he waited for her to say something. But after a pause, after she did nothing but look out across the room, he realized what he wanted. He wanted absolutely nothing more in the world than for her – for this wonderful woman who descended like an angel into his tattered life – to be happy.

"Tell me," he said and she looked back at him, "what makes you happy."

She seemed surprised, but her answer came readily: "Music. Especially singing. I miss listening to the newest songs. I miss singing whatever I want." She looked over at his record collection. He thought he detected a hint of jealousy and desire at the sight of so many records collecting dust.

Patrick smiled. If music was what would make her happy, then he would play records throughout the night. He'd croon the latest singles during Tuesday clinic. He'd find excuses to drive her around Poplar and let her flip through jazz and pop and, hell, even that new American music if she liked it.

He got up suddenly and walked over to his record player. His collection was limited to the year Marion got sick, when she stopped taking her monthly afternoon trips to the record shop. But he had one – something a buddy of his sent him for Christmas – that he knew she would love.

"Yeah, this one," he said to himself as he plucked it from the middle of the pile.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder at her. He meant to speak, but he liked the way she was watching him – bemused and half-smiling – and so he just turned back and set the needle.

The album was by an American jazz artist. The music was new and rebellious and Patrick thought it rather fit the theme of the night. He turned around and smiled at her. Then he downed the last of his whiskey, set the glass down near the record player, and reached out to take her hand. He was surprised that she didn't hesitate. She took his hand and he helped pull her off the chair and twirled her into him.

She laughed and crashed into him, almost spilling her whiskey all over his shirt. He took it from her hand and stretched his arm to reach the end table, not willing to move away from her. Then he took both of her hands and spun her around. The music was faster than he'd anticipated and he felt it a little by the time the song climaxed and fell into its conclusion. But, by the end, she was laughing and her smile filled her features.

When the single ended, he was reluctant to let go of her, but he did and went to the record player to take the needle off. "Any other requests?" he asked as he slipped the record back into its sleeve. When there was no response, he twisted around to see her.

What he found was her standing beside the end table, elbows tucked into her sides, her whiskey in hand, staring down into the amber liquid.

His movement must have startled her. She looked over at him and said, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

But he frowned and sighed and tucked the record back into the shelf. "I'm more interested in what you were thinking."

He walked over to stand next to her. He was looking down at her – curiously and tenderly – wishing he could do something to truly keep her happy. Almost instinctually, he took her hand. That was becoming a rather natural gesture, he thought, and nearly pulled away. But the act was done. He held her free hand between his. But this time, he noticed more of her. How her hands were cool, but not cold; how her skin was soft, but calloused at the base of her first two fingers (from her bike handles, perhaps?).

When she looked up at him, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed and he assumed his were too after their dance. Then he saw how dilated her pupils were; how she seemed to be struggling to control her breathing. Probably still from the dancing, from the dark room. But a little part of him, if he hadn't known better, might have said she seemed aroused.

But certainly that was just him projecting his own difficulties. Certainly, he was a bit flushed and breathless from their dance, but honestly he knew there was more to his pounding heart than exertion.

She really was gorgeous. Stunning. Captivating. He could come up with adjectives all night. But that's not what he needed. He needed to move away from her, to calm down the tension that was building in his body, but he just simply didn't have the will. He was hoping, for his sake, that she was more disciplined – that she would notice what was happening to him – and move away for him.

But she didn't. She kept looking up at him with her dark eyes. Suddenly, Patrick realized that their breathing had synchronized.

He suddenly felt his body come to life, but he wasn't sure whether it was going to pull away or kiss her until he felt his lips press against hers. His kiss was gentle and cautious, but he would hardly have called it chaste.

Patrick was surprised by his impulsive action, but he was angry. And, when she offered no resistance, he was also relieved. Even still, he made himself pull away shortly afterwards. As their lips parted and he straightened a little, she leaned back into him and brushed her cheek against his jaw and rest her forehead against his cheek. There was a sound he couldn't identify and then her left hand came to rest on his jaw. Her chilled fingers stroked the stubble on their way down his neck.

For a while, Patrick wondered at that gentle movement. He had expected her to step away from him. Then he would have known that she enjoyed the kiss, but wanted nothing more from him. Certainly, he would have enjoyed if she had continued to kiss him, but he would have known that he had triggered a moment of sexual alertness in her, that he had started her down a path that neither of them would entirely have wanted to stop. But this… This was lovely. It was an intimacy Patrick had almost forgotten about. This was a much stronger indication of what she was feeling than even sex could have been.

And it baffled him completely.

He was still pondering this unexpected turn when she shifted. She had slid her hand from his neck to his jaw without him noticing and was now leading his lips to hers. She kissed him. At first, the kiss was very soft, almost nervous. But then, without any warning, her kisses became desperate.

It wasn't just her kissing him that surprised him. He was surprised by everything: the way she sucked a little on his bottom lip; the way her tongue darted out and skirted along his top lip; the way her hand slid along his jaw, just over his ear, and tangled itself into his hair.

His body wasn't quite sure what to do or how to react. He was afraid to touch her. He was afraid to really kiss her back. But then – his whiskey addled front brain reminded him: she was the one kissing him, she was the one playing in his hair, she was the one who had made the choice. This was what she wanted. And if he had really wanted to protect her, if he was really concerned with her reputation and her virtue, he wouldn't have kissed her in the first place. He wouldn't be letting her kiss him now. In the morning, he'd blame the whiskey for what he did next.

He settled his hands on her hips and was surprised a little by just how petit she really was. His fingertips brushed either side of her spin, nearly touching.

He felt her breasts pressing against him and he wanted to move his hands higher, he wanted to touch her. But he resisted the impulse. Even as he felt himself growing erect, even as he felt his last remnants of control sliding away, he knew that things would end before they got too far and he kept his hands exactly where they were.

When he needed a break, he moved his lips from hers. He kissed the corner of her mouth. He kissed her chin, along her jaw. His lips grazed her ear, making her moan into his. It's an accident (instinct) when his hand travelled up her side until his thumb grazed the side of her breast.

Then her hand that had been playing in his hair trailed down to his chest. He felt a little pressure and he knew in the back of his hazy brain that she was pulling away.

A violent impulse flared in the pit of his stomach, one that made his one hand still on her hip squeeze gently, that made him press his entire body against hers until there was breath of air between them, that made him nuzzle his nose into her hair above her ear. But then he fought back against that desire – that animal instinct of possession.

His hands slowly fell to his side and he took a step away from her. They were still so close. He could feel the heat radiating from her body. He was nervous to look at her; he dreaded the possibility of seeing guilt or shame or disgust in her eyes. But then noticed that he could smell her arousal. That realization made him lift his eyes to her.

Her lips were still a little parted, as if she expected him to kiss her again. But he could see the confusion on her face. And she wouldn't look at him.

He took a step further away.

He had made a huge mistake.

"It's late," she said suddenly and he realized that he had no idea what time it was. Well after midnight, he supposed.

She turned and walked towards the door.

He was glued to the spot. He was convinced that she wanted nothing to do with him, not after what just happened. But then his more gallant side – the dreamer in him – knew that if he didn't act now, he'd never get another chance. He rushed after her and slammed his hand against the door just as she was reaching for the knob.

"I'm so sorry. You came here for friend and I – I took advantage –"

He cut himself off when she suddenly turned to look at him, reached up for his shoulders, and placed a strong kiss on his lips. Then, just as quickly, she sank back down to the floor.

"You've done nothing wrong. You've just given me a lot to consider." She placed a step of space between them. He nodded but didn't speak. He didn't trust himself to.

He realized, after a moment, that she was just continuing to look at him, not reaching for the door.

"I should leave." She spoke like she was trying to convince herself of something.

In a sudden burst of clarity, he opened the door for her. She hesitated just momentarily before slipping out into the night. He watched her retrieve her bike and briefly worried about her cycling all the way back to Nonnatus House in the dark. But the nurses and nuns travelled so often at night that he was sure she'd refuse any offer to escort her.

Once her figure had disappeared onto the main road, he closed the door and returned to the living room. He found his empty glass and poured himself another whiskey and water and slumped down into his couch.

"Well, Patrick," he said with a sigh as he started through the glass at the amber liquid. "Now what are you going to do?"