It had been another long day. She was his right hand, his Girl Friday; Paul was there, of course, always working beside them and helping out where he could, but his roving eye dragged his attention away at times. Della was the one who always stood by him, when it really counted.
It had been another long day. The trial had finally ended and young Miss Murphy had been cleared of all charges. They had known from the start that the young beauty could not have killed her lecherous old uncle, no matter the inheritance she stood to gain at his demise.
The beautiful girl had certainly turned Paul's head, but that much was to be expected, and it never really bothered her. It was the other, the one who mattered most to her, that had caused her no small amount of anxiety. Della had felt more than a little pang of jealousy, watching as he placed a tender hand on the sobbing woman's shoulder, made his promise to do his best to help her.
Because that's who he was: a helping hand to whoever came to him, no matter their situation. She'd seen his heart break for the small child who came in sobbing, begging for help for her mother; she'd seen his inner battle at helping the hardened criminal who, perhaps just for that one moment, was the innocent man accused of a crime he did not commit. She watched all this and fell a little more in love with each passing day.
Della wasn't beautiful. She wasn't a doe-eyed beauty, desperate for his help. She was a wealthy heiress, oozing sensuality in designer clothes and French perfumes, giving soft touches to his hands with silk evening gloves and asking for assistance in dulcet tones. Della was just his secretary; she wore sensible shoes and utilitarian blouses with tweed skirts. She didn't spend hours each morning perfecting her hair and makeup; she simply woke up, got dressed, and hurried to his side, to give him whatever assistance she could.
It had been another long day, and Della had felt oddly cold, watching the way he smiled at Miss Murphy, laughing as the young girl jumped to embrace him in all her gratitude. Eventually he had shooed the child away, sending her off with peaceful thoughts of a home no longer haunted by the terrible old uncle and looking forward to an art school education, paid in full and then some by her inheritance.
"Alright," Della had called, forcing the cheerfulness into her voice after the day's tribulations. "Which one of you two gentlemen is going to buy a lady dinner?"
Paul had laughed, attesting that he would attend but Perry could foot the bill – the usual arrangement. They gathered their things, Della slipping her sensible coat over her shoulder and picking up her department store handbag, heading towards the door with a sigh. Paul had gone out before them, and as they reached the door, the other man stopped, regarding her with a strange expression in his wide blue eyes.
The stopped together in the doorway, and he regarded her for a long moment, this enigmatic man she was utterly devoted to peering at her with his inquisitive stare. The man who had given her a job when the family money she had counted on had run out; the man fifteen years her senior who held her heart cradled in the palm of his hand like a small toy, easily bruised but belonging to him alone.
One strong gentle hand touched the small of her back, and he cocked his head to the side.
"You know you're my girl, don't you Della?" he asked.
Della smiled, a tired, sensible smile. "Of course I do, Perry," she replied, and he returned her tired smile with the grin he reserved just for her, clandestinely brushing his lips to her forehead.
Perry Mason reached a helping hand to everyone who asked for it; but when the long day ended, and he headed off to the night, it was Della's hand he held in his own.