Chapter 9
In the tradition of the Bartholomew L. Mason family, Christmas Eve dinner of deep fried chicken, French fries, onion rings, and cole slaw was served on the coffee table in the family room. Pushed into the center of the room before the fireplace, positioned so that everyone could gather around it comfortably, protected by several layers of newspaper and paper plates, Della thought it was the most beautifully set table she had ever seen. The only thing she thought might be missing was taper candles, but Valerie cautioned her that candles weren't a good idea around teen age boys and newspaper. So Della gathered up every single candle and holder she could find and placed them in corners of the room firelight didn't reach.
Perry found her standing next to the fireplace, hand on hip, finger on chin, contemplating her handiwork, tears in her eyes. If he hadn't already fallen in love with her at first sight, he would have at this sight of her, slender and fragile, brought to tears by a newspaper-covered shop class coffee table bathed in firelight.
"Wait until you taste the food. Then you'll really have something to cry about."
Della sniffled and smiled, upset with herself for letting Perry catch her crying. "That bad?"
"No, that good."
She turned toward him, to the accompanying whisper of rustling silk and tulle. "I should go dress the cabbage."
"There's plenty of time. I like what you did in here." Please don't begin to avoid me, baby.
Her eyes traveled around the cozy room. "It looks like home," she whispered brokenly.
"Your family's home?"
She pilfered a paper napkin from a pile on the table and blew her nose. "Oh Lord no." She laughed shakily. "My family's home is…not this nice."
He really didn't think she would say much, but he had to try. "Tell me what happened, Della. Tell me why you came back to L.A. earlier than planned."
"Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home again, and boy, was he right."
"I'm sorry your trip wasn't what you expected." And I'm sorry I made you unhappy.
Della gave the most ladylike snort Perry had ever heard, but a snort nonetheless and he smiled. "But it was everything I expected. My hair was wrong, my clothes were wrong, my – my morals were wrong…I'm sorry, Chief, I shouldn't have spouted off like that."
Perry took her hand and kissed it. She had told him virtually nothing, and yet she considered it 'spouting off'. "I like your hair. And you know what I think about that outfit you're wearing. As for your morals…" his eyes bored into hers until she simply had to avert them or she would melt into a puddle. "I think your morals are above reproach."
"That's why I came back early," she said quietly, not letting go of his hand, thanking him for his words by not pulling away from him.
"I'm sorry – "
"Stop apologizing, Chief. I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt, because it did, but I'm also not going to dwell on it. You said it wouldn't happen again, and I'm willing to take your word for it, now that we have a better understanding of what is going on."
He turned her to face him full on and took her other hand in his. "But not without some form of punishment?"
She hesitated, searching for the right words, because the right words were so important right now. They had managed to keep the situation on a serious but not tragic plain and that's where it had to remain if they were to continue on their journey. Cripes. She really had to stop with the theology. "It's not punishment. It's caution. A penalty flag." Great. Substitute football vernacular for theology.
Impressed with the football metaphor but properly chastised, Perry couldn't contain a sigh. "So we're back to caution."
"We still have to work together, Chief."
He leaned across the small space between them and touched his lips to her forehead. "Bless you, Della, for being so loyal."
"Work is what got us this far." And work may just get us to that destination…cut it out, Della!
"I meant it, Della. I'm never going to disappoint you again."
"I know you meant it."
His hands released hers to frame her face, her beautiful, beautiful face. He wanted to see that face the rest of his life, yearned to be the man who would witness first-hand how much more beautiful she would become as the years added character and depth to its unmarred canvas. There was a lot to be said about the freshness of youth, and many men pursued it relentlessly, seeking younger and younger women in misguided attempts to decelerate their own aging process, but he knew that there was so much more maturity would add to this already amazing young woman, and that chronology would only work to his benefit.
Della grasped his wrists and squeezed lightly as he remained silent, her silence accepting of and comfortable with his.
A throat was cleared behind them, and they smiled at each other before turning to see who had drawn the short straw this time.
Bart pulled the piano bench out for his wife, who slid past him to take her seat at the keyboard. Brett, her designated page-turner, took his seat from the other side.
"Wait until you hear this," Perry whispered to Della, holding his head close to hers. Had she always smelled so good?
"The last time you said something like that was right before I enjoyed one of the best meals of my life," Della whispered back. "I can hardly wait."
Dinner, served at the early hour of five o'clock, was over, dinnerware and 'tablecloth' discarded; the kitchen spotless, and all seven of them were now in the spacious living room, lit by the Christmas tree and a few candles transferred from the family room. Brad and BJ had immediately stretched out on the floor in front of the tree to play cards while their parents and younger brother headed for the piano. Perry dropped to the sofa and patted the cushion next to him when Della would have taken a seat in the overstuffed chair nearest the piano. Caution was one thing, she decided settling down next to him and arranging her voluminous skirt artfully around her with much rustling, aloofness was part of a game she didn't want to play.
What followed was a lovely little concert of popular Christmas songs in mostly three parts – Valerie singing melody in a passable soprano; Brett in a bright, clear tenor; and Bart in a rich, full baritone befitting of his size. Occasionally Brad and BJ joined in on the melody an octave lower, but largely only listened, the toes of their stockinged feet curling and uncurling in time to their mother's expert playing as they concentrated on their game of War.
It was halfway through 'Silver Bells' that Perry realized there was a fourth part mingling with the trio at the piano, and turned to find Della's head tipped back against the couch cushion, eyes closed, humming along in a flawless alto harmony. The song ended, and the silence forced her to open her eyes to find six other pairs of eyes staring at her in awe.
"That sounded really cool, Aunt Della," Brett said on behalf of the entire Mason family.
"I didn't know you could sing." Perry noticed the dim light couldn't hide the fact that Della blushed at his nephew's compliment.
"Come up here and sing with us," Valerie ordered in a voice that wouldn't accept no for an answer. "I never realized how much we needed the alto part before. I'll Be Home for Christmas is next. You can decide what version we do: Elvis, Bing, Sinatra, or Perry Como."
"Hey guys," Della began to cover her uncharacteristic bashfulness, rooted to her seat on the couch, "did you know your Uncle Perry knows Perry Como?"
Valerie appeared to be the most interested in that tidbit. "Really? Is he a client?"
Della shook her head. "If he was a client I wouldn't be able to tell you about him."
"Then how do you know Perry Como, Uncle Perry?" BJ inquired, slamming down an ace and stealing his brother's last king.
Perry grimaced slightly. "Well, Della thought it was a good idea to sign me up for the 'Perry Club' because I guess I lack certain basic social skills."
"The Perry Club? What the heck is that?" Bart asked as his wife tittered.
Della grinned. "It's a club for anyone with the first name 'Perry'. They meet only in months with five Tuesdays, so only four or five times a year, to enjoy the company of others named Perry. Mr. Como showed up at a meeting, and he was quite taken with your Uncle Perry."
Now it was Perry's turn to blush uncomfortably, which only made Valerie laugh harder and Della grin wider. All three boys looked at their uncle, famous in his own right; impressed that he knew someone famous. "Della thought I might bond with those unfortunate enough to have the same first name. She's paid dearly for it. I make her type all the meeting notes, and the recording secretary is a doctor."
Della's grin became full out laughter. "You pointed out the advertisement in the classifieds to me."
"Not because I wanted to join the damn club," he shot back with mock indignity. "I merely thought it was interesting and the next thing I know, I'm attending meetings and becoming President in a criminally rigged election. And I know a couple things about criminality…"
Della's laughter now came in merry gales. "Mr. Como nominated him," she told everyone, wiping tears away with the back of one hand, "and then moved to close nominations. Uncle Perry became President in an immediate unanimous vote."
"His name isn't even really Perry," Perry said in good-natured disgust. "Perry is short for some Italian name. I'm going to find a 'Della Club' and sign you up for it. See how you like it."
"I'd love it!"
He scowled, threat foiled before it could be carried out. "You would too, wouldn't you?"
Valerie wiped tears from her own eyes. "That's all very amusing, Della, but don't think for a moment this little diversion will get you out of singing with us."
"Ha!" Perry exclaimed, clapping his hands and all but pushing Della off of the couch. "The lady of the house has spoken."
"Elvis," BJ called.
"Bing," Valerie contradicted.
"Sinatra," Bart overruled.
Della leaned her hip against the piano, arms crossed over her chest. "How about we do our own version? Do you know the intro?"
"What intro?"
"Well that answers that question," Della said sotto voce, leaning over and peeking at the sheet music in front of Valerie. "Give me the key and I'll see what I can do with the intro, then just come in when I nod my head."
Valerie struck a C chord and everyone sucked in their breaths simultaneously in anticipation.
Della's voice was lush and slightly low, like her speaking voice, and harmonized perfectly with Valerie, Bart, and Brett as they joined in on the rest of the song, singing it twice through.
BJ and Brad jumped up, applauding enthusiastically, both giving piercing whistles of appreciation while the quartet gathered around the piano congratulated each other on a fine rendition despite never having sung together.
Perry was stunned, his applause tardy and out of sync. He knew Della loved music and danced divinely, and she hummed quite a bit around the office, but he had no idea she could actually sing. Did the wonders of Della Street never end?
Discovering this latest surprise about Della degraded his shabby night of illicit kissing even further. How could he, even for a split second, have thought anything he once had with Ellen could compare with what he already shared with Della? Every day he learned some new fascinating fact or saw some never before revealed detail about her, truly a flower blossoming petal by exquisite petal before his enraptured eyes. Ellen was smart and capable, but much like Laura Cavanaugh was 'high maintenance'; the kind Della identified as the worst kind of high maintenance women: the kind who were definitely high maintenance but considered themselves to be low maintenance. They needed all attention on them at all times, and it had exhausted him after the early rush of new romance evaporated.
Della's perfection shone the light on how similar Ellen and Laura were, how each, in spite of their intelligence and accomplishments required, no demanded to be taken care of, pampered, acquiescence expected so the way was always their way. And he had gladly fallen for it, because his mother had told him to be kind and gentle, to pamper and spoil, to take care of the women he involved himself with, to shower them with jewelry, and above all to be respectful. But what his mother hadn't told him, and what he had learned from his beautiful Della these past months, was that pampering and spoiling and taking care of a woman was so much more fulfilling when it wasn't demanded or expected, when it was met with genuine appreciation and reciprocated in gently humbling ways. He placed his hand over his heart, where the shorthand symbols representing her name were an invisible tattoo he would carry with him the remainder of his life.
"Planning on reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, Chief?"
Perry blinked. He had been so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed Della retake her seat next to him. Closer to him this time, her fabulous skirt partially covering his leg, not fanned out as a protective mote around the castle. "Concert over already?"
Her eyes were full of merriment. "What song do you remember hearing last?"
"I'll Be Home for Christmas. You just sang it."
"That was two songs ago, Uncle Perry," Brett said, rolling his eyes. "Our talent is wasted on this audience."
Della patted Perry's knee. "Continue your daydream. We're taking a dessert break now that dinner has settled."
"For the time-being," Bart intoned in a deeply ill-omened voice, which his sons thought was hysterical. "Come on, Miss Street. I'll make the Irish coffee while you and my lovely wife set out whatever it was you spent all morning creating."
What Valerie and Della had been creating all morning turned out to be frosted icebox cookies made from the last of the dough Valerie had mixed up a week earlier, crescent-shaped almond cookies liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar (Bart's favorite), tiny cheesecakes made in muffin tins, and what Della called 'bark'.
And what a treat it was.
Perry had eaten bark before and been unimpressed. The two forms he was most familiar with – chocolate and peppermint – weren't his favorite flavors (and chocolate tended to repeat on him, which to his embarrassment Della had witnessed several times during stressful cases when the only sustenance was Paul Drake's never-ending supply of candy bars), so when Della offered him the platter laden with her special bark, he was pleased to see she had made a batch of white chocolate just for him.
Here was another revelation about Della: the woman could cook, and had a knack for identifying a secret ingredient or a new way of preparing something that was interesting and very palatable.
"Saltines," she replied to Bart's question about why her bark was so much better than all the other bark he had ever eaten. "Butter, brown sugar, and saltines."
Perry reached for his fourth piece. "Who would have thought…"
Della raised an eyebrow. "Yes, who would have thought?" She was back on the couch, even closer to him than before, sitting on the edge of the cushion, one leg drawn up and tucked behind the other.
Perry sat back and munched on the bark, contemplating his secretary silently as she sipped her Irish coffee and watched with a big smile while his nephews opened the one gift they were allowed to open on Christmas Eve. Despite what he had done, despite her disappointment – and his – she looked happy. It was all he had wanted for her after cutting her trip short and unexpectedly showing up at the Bar Association gala, why he had insisted that she spend Christmas with his family, who pretty much lived a Norman Rockwell existence. She didn't want to talk about what happened, but he sensed even though she claimed she had expected it to go badly, it still must have hurt.
And then he'd hurt her even more.
But look at her - which he gladly did. You would never know she was in a house of strangers, people she had only known for a few days. They were his family and she fit in better than he did. Everyone loved her. Except for Bart – which was to be expected because Bart took his time letting people into the inner sanctum of his good graces. It wasn't clear to him how much Della had told Val about what he'd done, since Val avoided being alone with him and occasionally sent daggered looks his way. Maybe that told him exactly how much Val knew about the situation. The realization surprised him, because even though Della was a much more outgoing person than he, she was still very private about certain things – and her feelings for him had been one of those things she guarded fiercely.
Della's laugh, pure and joyful, snapped him out of his morose reverie. The boys had ripped the paper off their gifts to reveal what they opened every Christmas Eve: matching sets of pajamas, and in another strictly adhered to tradition, in unison looked heavenward and said "Thank you, Mee-na." Della turned her head swiftly and Perry took her hand in his.
"My mother always gave the boys pajamas for Christmas," he explained. Unnecessarily, he surmised by the quick rise and fall of her chest as she tried to regain her composure. "Bart and I always got a new pair on Christmas Eve as well when we were kids."
Della was still struggling with her tears and Perry was still holding her hand when the doorbell rang. Bart, who was directing the boys where to stand so their mother could take a photograph of them holding up their pajamas, frowned ferociously.
"Who the hell comes calling at almost nine o'clock on Christmas Eve?" he asked no one in particular, heading with perturbed long-legged strides from the living room to the front door.
Della finally turned back to face Perry, and he caught his breath. There was no woman lovelier than this woman, no woman who could ever hold his heart so irrevocably. She had lost the battle with her tears, but her face was alight with the most joy-filled smile he had ever beheld. There was nothing that could have stopped him. He drew her to him and kissed her.
"Look who's here, everybody," Bart announced from the archway that separated the living room and foyer. "Mrs. Payne."
