For a Tuesday morning, the Turner family kitchen seemed a bit casual. Both Doctor and Mrs. Turner were still in their dressing gowns, and little Angela breakfasted in her nightdress, a rare occurrence. Only scholar Timothy Turner seemed ready to face the day, dressed in his school uniform.

“Neither your father nor I will go into the surgery or clinic today, Timothy. Dr. Henderson said your father isn’t to do any lifting or much movement with his hand today, it could start the bleeding again.” She turned in answer to her husband’s growl.  “Patrick, it was an accident. I’m sure Nurse Noakes didn’t mean to cut you. It will heal before you know it.”

“Does it hurt much?” Timothy Turner asked his father. He peered closely at the bandages that immobilized Patrick’s hand.

“Yes. Now leave it be, Tim. You’ll bump it and then it’ll really hurt,” came the tense reply.

Ever the peacemaker, Shelagh intervened. “Timothy, thank you, but you’re not really helping. Your father is not an opportunity to work on your First Aid badge. Leave your father be and go get your bag. The bus won’t wait, and it’s a terribly long walk.”

Sighing, Tim got up from the table. “I was only trying to help. I wasn’t thinking about Scouts at all.” He stopped at the doorway and turned. “But I could get some requirements taken care of, Dad. You know how eager you are for me to make Queen’s Scout.”

“Go, Tim,” ordered the cranky man at the table.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Tim tossed his bag over his shoulder as the door slammed behind him.

Shelagh moved to refill Patrick’s teacup. “He always has an answer for everything, doesn’t he?” she giggled.

Testily, Patrick tapped a piece of toast against his plate.

Hiding a grin, she asked, “Would you like me to butter your toast, dear?”

A pained expression crossed Patrick’s face. “I suppose I have no choice. I can’t do anything with my left hand bound up like this.” He dropped his toast and grumbled. “There’s no way I can see patients with it, or–bloody hell, Shelagh! I can’t drive my car! My car!”

Shelagh waited for the storm to pass and put a tad bit more butter on her husband’s toast than usual. She had wondered when that particular shoe would drop. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and determined her course.

“We’ll get Fred to drive you about this week. It won’t be for long, Patrick. The stitches will be out before you know it.” Lifting Angela from her high chair, she placed her in the playpen, then turned back to her husband. “We have bigger problems to solve, dear. Finish your tea, and then join me down the hall.”

Feeling very sorry for himself, Patrick harumphed and slumped in his chair,  his cheek resting against his right fist. His eyes wandered over to the playpen. Angela, contentedly playing with her favorite giraffe, looked at him seriously.

The ridiculousness of his mood started to sink in. “Sorry Daddy’s such a bear today, Angel Girl. I can’t even pick you up. Doctor’s orders. Though how that Henderson is old enough to have qualified, I’ll never know,” the growl returned. Angela continued to chatter with her giraffe, unfazed.

Shelagh’s voice came down the hall. Sighing heavily, Patrick stood. “Mummy’s calling. Be good and don’t break anything.”

Patrick followed the sound of his wife’s voice, softly singing in the bathroom. He pushed the door open to find Shelagh standing at the sink, steam rising from its full bowl. She held his badger shaving brush and mug in her hands, efficiently swirling the soap into a lather.

“What’s this? You know I can’t shave with my right hand. I’ll simply have to be a bit scruffy for a few days.”

Shelagh smiled, and a looked coyly back. “You know I do like your face a bit scratchy, Patrick, but smooth is nice, too. Besides, I thought you might like to see that sometimes it’s nice to have someone give you a hand.” Her eyes twinkled at her pun.

“Shelagh, love, you know I trust you in all things, but I’m not quite certain I want you to use that safety razor on me. It’s a bit tricky.”

The frothy mug and brush clinked against the surface of the sink’s edge, and Shelagh opened the cabinet. Carefully she removed the abandoned straight razor from its case. “I’m not going to use the safety razor. I’m going to use this instead.”

Patrick’s eyebrows came down in consternation. “My straight razor? How…?”

“I am a nurse, Patrick,” Shelagh huffed. “Of course I know how to use it. Now, sit down and let me help you.” In moments she had him sitting, a dry towel covering his injured hand and a hot, wet towel wrapped about his face.

“That should get that beard a bit softer. Now sit still and relax. I’ll go check on Angela and then we’ll get started.”

Small footsteps disappeared down the hall and Patrick found himself grinning beneath the steam towel. Shelagh certainly managed him well. “Imagine if she went into politics. She’d have the whole country in order by noontime!”

The effects of the warm towel began to ease the tension in his shoulders as well, and Patrick forgot about his wounded hand. By the time Shelagh returned and removed it, his bad mood had completely melted away.

“I’ve given her the toy telephone, she’ll be busy for a good long time.” Shelagh used the towel to rub his cheeks a bit. “She may be picking up some habits from watching me in the surgery!”

The froth in the mug had dissipated a bit, so Shelagh gave it a few more swirls. His eyes watched her as she began to soap his face with the rich lather. Her lips pressed together a bit as always when she concentrated, and he fought a grin.

She placed the brush and mug down and reached for the straight razor. As she gave it a few strokes on the honing block he asked, “Why don’t you use the safety razor?”

Shelagh shook her head in disapproval as she gently turned his face to begin. Slowly, she ran the blade down the curve of his cheek.  “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it feels in my hand, and I can’t get the same closeness. I cut myself with it once. I haven’t used it since.”

The blade glided over the contours of his face, and she stopped to make short strokes above his lip. He tightened his mouth to give her better access to the tight corners there, then shifted his face to the other side. She moved the blade slowly, but purposefully, her touch light.

Shelagh turned to rinse the foam from the blade and he asked, “What do you mean, cut yourself?”

“My leg. I cut myself just above my right ankle last month. You remember, the plaster kept sticking to my stockings?”

An image began to form in his head. “You mean you use my straight razor to shave your legs?” His voice hadn’t cracked like that in a very long time.

Seemingly unaware of the change occurring in her husband, Shelagh turned his face to the side and began on his left cheek. “Yes.” She paused to trace the curve of his nostril. “It’s so sharp I hardly need to shave more than once a week. Now, Patrick, please still your throat. I can’t put the blade there if you’re going to swallow so hard.”

“Sorry,” he gulped.

Eyes twinkling, Shelagh finished the last stroke and cleaned the blade, then turned to rub the last vestiges of foamy soap with the cooled towel.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” She stood before him, her hands holding his face as her fingers smoothed over his cheeks. “Not scruffy at all.”

“I thought you liked me scruffy,” he murmured.

Shelagh nuzzled her own smooth cheek against his. “I like you any way I can have you, dearest.”

Patrick’s good hand found its way beneath her dressing gown and he ran his fingers up the length of her leg.

“Smooth,” he whispered against her lips.

“Not for very long, Patrick. I think I may need you to repay the favor when your stitches come out.”

“Yes. my love. Always happy to lend a hand.”