Part 3.2 – Last Interview

He sat at his desk, dejectedly doodling in the margin of the yellow legal pad. Two more interviews already this morning and neither one was even close to being a suitable candidate to replace Carol. Maybe if he gave Carol a substantial raise and promised not to keep her at the office until all hours of the night preparing writs and organizing his thoughts George would be agreeable to letting her work after the wedding…at least until they started a family. Was that too much to ask? She owed him that much, didn't she? No other attorney would have hired her, and he paid her more than any of those attorneys who wouldn't have hired her would have paid. He had given her the chance of a lifetime, and now she was abandoning him.

He knew his thoughts were out of line and quite possibly bordering on the ridiculous. Carol deserved happiness, and happiness was George, even though the man seemed to be stodgy and behind the times to his mind. Plenty of married women worked until babies started to arrive, and plenty more worked even when they had several babies. Why couldn't Carol? He needed a secretary, a good secretary, one who wasn't just accomplished at secretarial tasks, but one who could keep him in line, could organize him, and could stand up to him the way Carol did.

He glanced at his watch and sighed. In five minutes, Carol would escort yet another unsuitable applicant through the door, and over the course of a short interview they would attempt to explain what the job entailed without scaring the poor dear. This one was as woefully inexperienced as Carol had been, and younger. She would probably sit before him in terrified silence, thin lips pressed together, pale eyes shifting around the room looking for an escape route when introduced to his overbearing personage. He knew he could be intimidating, but when Carol told him to tone it down a bit, he refused. The woman he hired had to be comfortable with or at the very least tolerate his many moods, and his most prevalent mood lately was an annoyed brusqueness.

He read the name on the application: Della Street. Short and sweet, Della Street. He could almost see her: on the plump side, south of five feet tall, mousy hair pulled back in a serious bun, thick-soled shoes worn to augment her height. He didn't know why he had such a picture of her, of this Della Street. Maybe it was her quaint, old-fashioned name. He had interviewed a stream of women named Peggy, Nancy, Patsy, Janet and even one Debbie, so he was curious about meeting a Della.

There was a knock on the door that connected his office to his secretary's, and Carol Simmons poked her head in. She was smiling broadly. "Ready for the next interview?"

"You derive far too much enjoyment from these torturous exercises in futility," he complained.

Carol pushed open the door and crossed to his desk. She continued to grin broadly as she stood in front of him, her hands clasped behind her back. "I think you might like this one," she told him. "I know I do."

He indicated the one-page application in front of him. "She has no experience as a legal secretary. I might like her well enough, but I don't have time to break in another novice. Getting you up to speed was more work than preparing for three trials simultaneously. I'm not sure I want to go through an ordeal like that again." He regarded his secretary with pained but twinkling eyes.

"You know," she observed critically, "if you could maintain this mood during interviews, I could have had a girl hired and thoroughly trained by now. We've been interviewing for almost four months, Perry. You have to make a decision. I'm getting married in three weeks, and I will not come back to work after the honeymoon. I'm gone whether you hire my replacement or not."

"There is no replacing you, Carol. You're the best secretary I've ever had."

"Flattery will get you exactly nowhere. I'm the only secretary you've ever had. This girl can type like a house afire and her shorthand is neat and accurate. I've already tested her. And she's attractive. Very attractive."

"That doesn't matter to me," he said testily. "I need someone to take the bull by the horns and hit the ground running. I need someone I can trust, someone who won't burst into tears the first time I raise my voice, someone who can anticipate my next move, someone who knows their way around."

"You've interviewed a lot of qualified legal secretaries who know their way around and on paper sounded perfect, but you haven't liked any of them. On paper this girl is lacking in experience, but I think you'll like her. I certainly like her. She comes very highly recommended by someone's who's opinion I value."

He heaved a big sigh. "All right, bring her in. If nothing else, I'll be prompt with this interview."

Carol turned and disappeared through the door to her office. He took a moment to adjust his tie and smooth his hands through his hair. If indeed this Della Street was as attractive as Carol claimed, the least he could do was make sure he was presentable, and maybe he could lighten up a bit. The nine o'clock interviewee had left in great haste, visibly shaken by his demeanor. She hadn't been suitable, not by a long shot, but he did feel a bit of remorse at frightening the girl.

The connecting door opened, and Carol ushered in his ten o'clock interview.

And he nearly passed out.

"Miss Street," Carol announced, "Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason, this is Miss Della Street."

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen took several assured steps toward him, extended her hand, and gave him the dazzling smile that had overtaken his dreams for the past year. He saw that her eyes weren't a true green, but an incredible sparkling hazel somewhere between green and gold, accented by perfectly arched brows. He broke into a wide grin that faded as he realized her eyes held no recognition at all.

"Mr. Mason," her low, melodic voice greeted him. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

He took her hand, and for the first time in a year he was aware of his heart beating. "Miss Street." His voice sounded unfamiliar in his ears. "Please sit down." It was her, he was sure of it. How could she not remember? He smelled the same perfume, heard the same voice, felt the same charge in the air surrounding her presence.

She seated herself with an easy grace in the straight-backed chair Carol had insisted be used for interviews, elegant ankles crossed and held slightly to the side. He noted slender calves and small feet in alluringly feminine heels – or were they only alluring because they contained her dainty feet? He shook his head. The shock of seeing her again and the bigger shock of her apparent ignorance as to his identity couldn't be allowed to take over the task at hand. Their entire conversation on the terrace replayed itself at high speed in his mind, and he plunged into the interview without preamble.

"On your application you claim to type one hundred and sixteen words per minute. Not one hundred and seventeen? Or one hundred and fourteen?" Good Lord where had that come from? Carol always began the interview process, handling the stenographic aspects of the job while he gauged the applicant's answers, sizing each candidate up as to how they comported themselves.

Carol shot him a befuddled look, which he expected when he'd broken with their routine.

Miss Street, however, did the unexpected. She laughed, that low hearty laugh he would never forget. "In repeated timings, Mr. Mason, my score has consistently been one hundred and sixteen accurate words per minute. Not one hundred and seventeen and certainly not one hundred and fourteen."

Her eyes continued to sparkle. He was impressed. She hadn't batted an eyelash, hadn't hesitated for a moment. The laugh had been genuine. All in all it had been a darn near perfect reply to his question in his estimation.

"What about your shorthand? This job requires a great deal of dictation, and I verbalize my thoughts quickly."

Carol let out a derisive snort.

"My speed is one hundred and thirty words per minute. The method I use is Gregg, which I find is quicker and more aesthetically pleasing than Pittman. Would you like to know what particular brand of steno pad I prefer to use?"

Carol groaned.

Della Street swung her eyes to where Carol sat next to him. "Do you think I'm making light of this interview, Miss Simmons? I got the distinct impression Mr. Mason was trying to rattle me, and from your expression I'm also getting the impression that this interview is being conducted very differently from previous interviews. Am I correct?"

He regarded Miss Street with keen interest for several seconds, the words 'distinct impression' catching his ear. She certainly was perceptive. "I seem to have tapped into Miss Street's inner annoyance, Miss Simmons," he drawled. "Perhaps we should carry on with this interview according to our set procedure."

Della Street narrowed her eyes at him, her lovely, full lips slightly pursed. Ah, her memory had been stirred. He could see suspicious scrutiny in those eyes.

Carol Simmons threw him a perturbed look. "I somehow lost control of this interview the instant we walked into the office. You are more than welcome to continue, Mr. Mason. I wouldn't know how to recover any dignity on behalf of the practice at this point."

Della Street smiled at the secretary. "You have been most gracious, Miss Simmons. Any dignity lost in the past few minutes has not been due to anything you have said or done."

He nearly laughed out loud. She was every bit as delightful as he remembered. And feisty! She read him well and stood up to him. Hadn't he told Carol those attributes were high on his list? "That is an obviously backhanded insult on my person, Miss Street. I apologize if this interview isn't everything you were expecting, but I don't particularly care for conventionality."

"Then let's be unconventional. Ask any question you think relevant to my qualifications for this position, and I'll gladly answer. But I can't guarantee that my answers will be conventional or in the least bit polite."

Now he did laugh. "All right Miss Street, I accept the gauntlet as thrown. What interests you about working in a profession that ranks just below musician in public opinion?" She had to remember. She just had to remember. He couldn't stand it if she didn't remember.

Her eyes widened in immediate, startled recognition. "You – you're the…" she cleared her throat, and continued to stare at him. Then she blinked, and smiled. "I've not given it much thought," she admitted, her smile expanding. "I'm here as a favor to someone I think quite highly of. She described the job as challenging, which piqued my interest. I have no experience being a legal secretary, but I'm a quick study, and I work hard. I don't need this job, Mr. Mason. I have a job. A good job. But it doesn't challenge me, and doesn't take advantage of other skills I have."

They smiled at each other for a count of thirty. Carol looked back and forth between the two of them, curiosity written plainly on her face.

"If I were to hire you, Miss Street, what else would you bring to the table?" His heart thudded loudly in his chest. She remembered! And she was smiling. His smile was almost silly, and he could sense Carol was confused by his behavior.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes dancing. "With all due respect to Miss Simmons, I would turn your practice upside down, Mr. Mason. I would tear it apart and put it back together again. Within two weeks I would know everything there is to know about running this office, and within a month I would be proficient enough with legalese and procedures that you wouldn't know that Miss Simmons was gone. I'm loyal to a fault, I work tirelessly, and I'm never sick."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carol's surprised face break into a grin.

"And your faults? Aside from misguided loyalty." He regarded her with extreme amusement.

"I'm my own worst critic," she replied quickly. "I have in the past overthought and overdone things. I meet all my deadlines, but only just." Her eyes sparkled even more, if that was possible. "I'm working on it."

He exchanged glances with a delighted Carol and almost imperceptibly nodded his head. Carol relaxed against the seat back with a soft expelled breath. He made a big show of gathering papers into a pile and pretending to let Miss Street's words register with him. He got to his feet, abruptly signaling the end of the interview.

Miss Della Street blinked her big beautiful eyes in surprise and arose as gracefully as she had seated herself. She offered her hand and he took it almost eagerly.

"Miss Street, I think I've heard all I need to," he said a bit more stiffly than he intended and he held her hand a bit longer than he should have. "We'll be in touch."

The sparkle in her eyes dimmed with disappointment. "Oh. All right, Mr. Mason. Thank you for your time and consideration." She glanced at Carol briefly and turned to go.

"Miss Street, one more thing."

She turned back, and the expression on her face tore at his heart. "Yes, Mr. Mason." Her voice was stiff now.

"Miss Street, what are your feelings about jazz?"

Her smile was blindingly bright. "I generally like jazz," she said with cheeky amusement. "Except for free form jazz. I find it to be too jazzy for my tastes."

Carol scrambled to her feet, as if suddenly remembering her role as secretary. "I'll show you out, Miss Street."

He sat down in his chair and watched the two women walk out of his office, the grin on his face threatening to swallow his entire head. He had found her again. Or she had found him. It didn't matter. He knew her name, where she lived, where she worked. And where she was going to be working.

Carol tapped on the door and literally bounced into the room. "If you don't hire her, I will kill you, Perry Mason."

He merely grinned at her.

"She's everything you've been looking for. I'm going to cancel all scheduled interviews and type out an offer for her. Do you want to call her or would you rather I call her?"

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. Carol didn't know how right her words were. Della Street was indeed everything he had been looking for. "I'll call her," he said wishing that Carol could type one hundred and sixteen words per minute so the call could be made that much quicker.

"Mr. Mason, wake up."

The East coast accent of Dr. Kathy Spencer gently prodded him from his reverie. He lifted his head from the pillow of his arms, which were hugging Della's right ankle.

"Mr. Mason," she said again, softer. "We need to ask you to leave. Dottie and Ruth are going to give Della a bath and attend to the ice blanket. Come on, upsy-daisy."

Perry had to smile at the usage of 'upsy-daisy' by the doctor. He would sneak that one into a conversation with Della and see what her response would be. Dr. Spencer took his arm and helped him to his feet.

"I can't leave," he protested. Della had been on the third floor in the C.C.U. for nearly forty hours, and he hadn't slept, aside from snatches of slumber that ended in his head snapping back to clear the unwanted urge. He didn't want to be asleep when she woke up. Because she was going to wake up. Very soon. She had to. "I promised I wouldn't leave."

Della's childhood friend regarded him critically. Unshaven, his complexion grey with fatigue and worry, brilliant eyes clouded by unspoken fear, he was still one of the most strikingly handsome men she had ever met. Della had excellent taste, if his true character was what he had presented since arriving with her in his arms. He asked searching questions about her condition, about the course of her treatment, about what would be required for her convalescence when she was released from the hospital. He touched her with loving tenderness, and spoke to her with a gentleness that had all the nurses swooning.

"I know all about your promise, Mr. Mason. But I think Della would appreciate a little privacy for what Dottie and Ruth are going to do. Come with me. We won't be far away."

He didn't move as Dr. Spencer pulled on his arm, knowing that his promise to not leave Della was now at odds with what was necessary for her comfort and treatment. "If you insist on making me leave, I have to tell her where I'll be," he insisted. "I don't want her to wake up and wonder where I am."

Kathy Spencer gave him a tolerant look. "All right, tell her quickly so the nurses can get on with their job."

Perry swiftly turned and bent close to the oxygen tent that barred him from touching more of Della than her legs. "Della, baby," he began softly, "Kathy is forcing me to go away for a few minutes so the nurses can make you more beautiful, as if that's even possible. I won't be gone long sweetheart, and if you wake up, I'll come running." He glanced pointedly at Dottie and Ruth, who had entered the room behind Dr. Spencer. They both nodded in silent agreement, mesmerized by his gentleness with the sick woman lying unconscious on the bed. He unzipped the tent just enough for his hand to fit through and stroked the back of Della's hand with one finger. "I love you, Della," he whispered. "Please wake up soon."

Ruth skirted the foot of the bed and came to stand behind Perry. As he withdrew his hand from the oxygen tent she placed her hand on his arm. "We'll take very good care of her, Mr. Mason. Please go relax for a few minutes. I promise to come get you immediately if she wakes up."

He looked down at the young nurse's aid. "You'd better," he said tiredly.