The air was crisp with autumn coolness, clean from the previous day's rain. Patrick stood at the open doors of the garden shed searching for his garden gloves.

"Angela, have you seen my gloves?" he called over his shoulder. Just last week his daughter had held a puppet show out here, his garden tools the featured players.

"Nope," sang Angela. "Sorry, Daddy."

"Not 'Nope,' young lady. Say 'No,' please."

"No, please," she giggled.

Patrick grinned. "You are too charming for your own good, miss. Come help me look in the shed, please. You've left a mess behind."

"Sorry, Daddy. Shall I clean up now? I can help you," Angela slipped her hand in his. "You know what Mummy says about a mess."

Patrick clicked his tongue to his teeth. "I hadn't heard. What does Mummy say about a mess?" Tilting his head, he assumed a look of innocence that did not convince the young girl that he was ignorant of his wife's oft-repeated line.

"You know, Daddy. She says it to you all the time. "A little mess now-"

"Makes a bigger mess later!" Patrick finished. "Well, then, Miss Turner, let's start with the rakes and spades. We'll get this shed straightened up in a jiffy, then we can do the fun work."

Before long, the tools were sorted and a large collection of flower pots teetered against the shed wall. Angela peered into the dim space, searching for the old tan gloves. "It'd probably help if the gloves weren't the same color as everything else," Patrick muttered.

Angela stepped in and looked behind the workbench. Resurfacing, she held out an old can to her father. "What's this, Daddy? It looks like rubbish."

Patrick took the old coffee can from her small hands. He laughed softly and shook his head. "This is an old coffee can," he told her.

"Yes, Daddy. I can read the label. I'm almost six, you know."

He tilted his head as he smiled down. "Hmm, as old as that? Well, sweetheart, this is a very special coffee can." He held it out for her to examine the contents closely.

"Daddy," she gasped. "There are cigarette ends in there. Millions of them!" Angela was shocked. Her parents had warned her many times of the dangers of smoking. "Who put them here?"

Patrick crouched down and met his daughter's eyes. "Angela, you're grown up enough to hear an old secret. It was me. I used to smoke."

Angela's eyes grew very round. "But Daddy, they're so very bad for you. You tell me that all the time. You never do bad things."

His hand came up to stroke her hair. "Well, I try not to. I started a long time before we knew smoking was bad for you," he admitted. "And once you start smoking, it's very hard to stop. You're lucky. You already know how bad they are for you. You'll never start, so you won't have to work so hard to quit like I did."

Angela considered this for a moment. "So if you had known what I know, you never would have started?" she asked.

Patrick let out a breath. "I'd like to think so," he hedged.

"How long did you smoke?"

"Oh, years. Maybe thirty." He grimaced, remembering.

"Thirty years!" Angela cried, her voice very serious. "Daddy, that's a terribly long time. When did you stop?"

"When you were a baby. I decided I wanted to dance at your wedding."

"Eww. I am not getting married, Daddy. Jimmy Croft asked me the other day in the playground, but I told him I was never getting married. I want to live with Mummy and you and Timmy forever." Angela confided.

"Forever, eh?" laughed Patrick. "I have to say I like the sound of that. And you tell Jimmy Croft a gentleman always speaks to a lady's father first." He stood up, grunting as his knees complained. "We should get rid of this can."

"Were you collecting the ends, Daddy? Like Timmy's butterflies? Or your compasses?" Angela wrinkled her nose. She liked the idea of collections, but this one seemed very strange, indeed.

"No. It's not a collection. It was a sort of ash tray. I used to come outside to smoke and think sometimes, and I suppose I never threw them away."

"What would you think about?"

"Oh, lots of things." He looked towards the house and could see his wife in the kitchen window, smiling at them. He smiled back, and Angela turned to see. With a wave to her mother she asked, "Did you come out here to think about Mummy?" she asked. "Jimmy says that a man has to think long and hard before he can ask a lady to marry him. Did you think about marrying Mummy out here?"

Patrick shook his head in amazement. He was going to have to watch that Jimmy Croft. "Yes, I did think about Mummy out here. I knew I'd have to work very hard to convince her to marry me someday. She's rather special, you know."

Angela grinned up at him. "Daddy, Mummy is the most special person, ever. Even Sister Julienne says so, and she's never wrong."

"No, she's never wrong," he agreed quietly. His mind raced back to those long months of heartache. Even now, Shelagh safe and healthy, bound to him in vows of devotion for eternity, he felt the poignancy of those dark nights alone. The fear and dread that had engulfed him when he thought she was lost to him, the shame of being the source of any pain to her, the torment he felt when he thought he would lose her due to his own past dark chapters, all flooded his memory.

"I guess you had to think a lot if you smoked this many cigarettes, Daddy."

Angela's voice brought him back to the present. With a deep breath he replied, "I certainly did, Angel girl."

"But Mummy did marry you, Daddy. Why do you look sad?"

Smiling his lopsided grin, he answered, "Not sad now, sweetheart, grateful. But I was very sad before Mummy married me. For a very long time, I didn't think she would." He tugged a lock of her hair. "But she did, and we have Tim, and we have you. Now you'd better get in there and find my gloves or we'll never get Mummy's tulip bulbs planted."

Angela skipped into the shed. Soon, her head peeked around the door. "Daddy, we should bury the old can, too. That way your hopes to marry Mummy can help feed her flowers."

Later, as the sun began to set over the neat garden, Shelagh found Patrick sitting on the old bench in the corner.

"Angela's gone up to take an early bath. How that child can get so dirty I will never know." She stood next to her husband, her hand caressing his shoulders. Patrick reached around and swung his wife on to his lap.

"Patrick," she protested.

Grinning into her neck, he answered: "Shelagh."

Giving in, Shelagh wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his. "This is a lovely spot," she said.

"Mmhmm." Patrick agreed. His lips had found her ear.

"What were you and Angela talking about out here?" She removed a dried leaf from his hair. He would need a bath tonight, too.

"My sordid past."

"Really. I'm surprised she's not still out here. Which disgraceful chapter today?" she teased.

"Smoking."

"Oh. That." Shelagh looked up, meeting her husband's eyes. "Any tarnish on the shining armour?"

"No, I think she's fine. I told her how it was to hard to quit, but that you all meant so much to me that it was worth it." He nuzzled her neck, making promises for later. "And I told her how I brooded over you. The little romantic in her approved of that. Though I pity poor Jimmy Croft."

Laughing, Shelagh answered, "I know. Poor boy. She'll trample his little heart."

Pushing off his lap, she continued, "Dinner's almost ready, and you need to get cleaned up, too. Timothy's going out again, so you'll have to hurry." Suddenly, Shelagh started. "Patrick! You didn't tell her I'd smoked with you sometimes?"

Closing the shed door, Patrick grinned wickedly at his wife. "No, dear. She's not ready yet for that dark chapter."