TCOT Absurd Assumption – Chapter 2
The concept of a house had always represented permanence for Perry Mason, a place where one lived when one was married, where one left reluctantly in the morning and returned eagerly to in the evening, where one could truly feel…well, at home.
When Della announced she wanted to give up her apartment and buy a house, Perry expressed surprise at that throw from left field and jokingly questioned her sanity, but preoccupied with extricating himself from the lease on his apartment, assisting Della in shutting down his practice, acclimating himself to being a judge – a judge! – and searching for a suitable place to live in San Francisco, he hadn't really given it much thought until the Saturday she and her real estate agent friend Loren Glasgow dragged him around suburban Los Angeles in the hunt for a 'perfect little doll house' for Della. Emerging from his self-centered fog as the three of them toured house after house, Perry realized Della was serious about becoming a home-owner, and would, in fact, relinquish her apartment in less than sixty days. He worried that her decision might be rash, an over-reaction to all of the recent changes in her life – in their life – but she insisted that she had been thinking about it for over a year, deciding that it was time she began living like an adult. He moped about not having her to himself after two long, lonely weeks in San Francisco, and coming to terms with the fact that she really, truly would not be moving to San Francisco with him. So therefore he kept up a constant stream of complaints and objections to each house the hapless Loren showed them.
The house Della ultimately bought was the fourth house on the tour, the one Perry knew she would choose the instant they walked in, and the one he couldn't find much to complain about except the closed-off kitchen and outdated, colorful bathrooms. She had sought his hand, and stood in the middle of the spacious living room, stars in her eyes, mentally placing furniture and artwork, atremble with excitement. On the main level there was the living room; a formal dining room with a mantled brick fireplace; a big, bright kitchen with a center island and separate dining area; a den lined with built-in book shelves; a laundry room; and a powder room. Upstairs the master bedroom was large and boasted a walk-in closet as well as a large en suite bathroom; the two guest rooms were adequate – a fourth bedroom having been sacrificed to create the en suite master at some point; and the main bathroom, while severely pink, was roomy and in good shape.
Perry could see Della living in this house; could see her puttering in the yard; could see her cooking in the pretty kitchen. What's more, he could see himself living in this house as well, pictures of making love to Della in every room vivid before his eyes. House hunting suddenly became not so much of a chore.
A thorough shopper, Della insisted that they continue with the house hunting, but after viewing the eighth house, a tiny run-down ranch that Perry instantly and loudly proclaimed unsuitable, had suddenly turned to Loren and requested to be taken back to the big Cape Cod with the pink bathroom. Loren had argued, pointing out it was too large for her, that there was no garage as she had specifically requested, that he had only shown it to her because it was two doors down from the smaller house that suited her needs better but that Perry had objected to strenuously…and then Perry had cleared his throat and the agent's eyes had widened behind his horn-rimmed glasses as it dawned on him why the size of the Cape Cop was actually quite perfect.
Perry parked the convertible on the street in front of Della's neat, well-maintained house and drew a deep, satisfying breath. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed the house, missed how it welcomed him, how it suited him. It had become the place he called home after ultimately subletting his own apartment in downtown Los Angeles, the place where he stayed one weekend every month and spent most holidays. His apartment in San Francisco seemed more like a hotel, no matter how nicely Della decorated it to make him comfortable, largely because she wasn't part of the decor.
Della handed Perry the key to the front door, and preceded him into the house. "I need a cup of tea," she announced, tossing the comment over her shoulder as she headed straight for the kitchen. The telephone was ringing, and Perry veered into the den where an office had been set up with a partner's desk and the old couch from his law office. "Would you like a cup?"
Perry unplugged the telephone in the office, and glanced out the window, noting two automobiles parked across the street, drivers hunched down, trying to appear nonchalant. Police detectives or reporters, he figured, closing the wooden shutters, betting himself they were the former rather than the latter. He hadn't been concerned with checking if any cars followed them from downtown because he knew Assistant DA Barbara Scott would probably want to keep an eye on an accused murderer released on a ridiculously low bond by her boss.
"That sounds good," raising his voice so she could hear him. "Unplug the phone in the kitchen. I'll get the phone in the bedroom." He took the stairs two at a time and headed down the hallway to the master bedroom, tacitly ignoring the sights and smells of Della's house. Once the phone on the bedside table, on 'his' side of the bed, had been unplugged, he hastily retreated from what had always been his favorite room.
Perry descended the stairs at a leisurely pace and moved into the living room, settling himself in 'his' chair, one of two identical side chairs he insisted were completely different in comfort level. Della had once switched the chairs and was stunned when he detected her little ruse within seconds of sitting in the other chair. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.
"Sit down and loosen your tie," Della called from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a minute."
Perry smiled. He let his eyes wander around the room, reacquainting himself with the layout and furnishings, noting everything was still where he remembered, and that not much new had been added…except one very surprising thing.
A grey and black striped tabby cat stood directly in front of Perry Mason, regarding him with curiosity, green eyes wide, ears pricked forward, whiskers flicking. Perry tentatively reached out his hand and the cat sniffed once, twice, then ducked its head and rubbed against the bent fingers repeatedly. Before Perry knew what was happening, the cat jumped onto the arm of the chair and nudged his shoulder. Unaccustomed to the characteristics of cats, Perry was fascinated by the loud purr emanating from the animal as it nearly turned itself upside down rubbing against him.
"When did you get a cat?" he called to Della.
"Is he here? He usually doesn't stick around when I have visitors. He must like you." She wouldn't tell Perry the cat probably didn't really like him – he was just perturbed someone was sitting in his favorite chair. What was it about that one chair every male in her life found so much more appealing than the other, identical chair?
"We're best buddies already. Is he always this loud?"
Della chuckled, and Perry was pleased at the ease of her laughter after the torrential storm of tears earlier and the uncomfortable drive from downtown. "If he's bothering you, just push him away. Of course, he's a cat, so he'll be bothering you again in exactly ten seconds."
Perry tentatively petted the silky black stripe that ran down the cat's spine. He was rewarded with even louder purring. "He isn't bothering me, but aren't there noise ordinances in this neighborhood?"
Della poked her head around the corner from the kitchen and laughed again. They hadn't managed to take down the wall that would merge the kitchen with the living and dining rooms and he felt closed off from her. "He showed up on my doorstep about a year ago, skinny and starving, but purring just like that. I brought him in to get warm and nursed him back to health. I gave him to the little girl next door, but he wanders over here every once in a while to trip me up. Heather's father put cat doors in both of our houses so he can come and go."
About a year ago? Why didn't you tell me about the cat, Della? "What is his name?" He asked instead, tamping down the surge of hurt that while they had spoken to each other often in the past three years, she hadn't truly let him into her life without him, per the articles of that silly contract. But a cat – a cat she should have told him about. He remembered her wistful reminiscences of the battle-scarred marmalade tomcat she'd called Pretty, her one and only childhood pet, and how she had always made a beeline for any cat within a hundred feet of her. And cats gravitated toward her as well, including several they had come across in murder cases over the years. He knew she would have loved to have a cat of her own, but had always been adamant about not allowing him to get her one because their life, she had firmly reminded him, was lived primarily at the office, with excursions to the courtroom, various crime scenes in and around L.A., the lake house, and nearly every restaurant within a twenty-mile radius of the city. It would have been unfair to the cat to lock it up in her apartment, abandoned for days on end. He smiled, remembering the rare office delight she had treated him to in his desk chair when he suggested they get an office cat, proposing to name it Immaterial. He was happy she finally had gotten her cat – even if only on a part-time basis.
He just wished she had told him about the cat a year ago.
Della advanced toward the chair where Perry was seated with a very contented cat laying on its back in his lap. Her smile was wistful. "Chief," she said tenderly, the sight of the imposing Perry Mason gently petting a purring cat filling her with an emotion she hadn't felt in a very long time and didn't quite recognize.
Perry looked up at her with an equally wistful smile. "You haven't called me that in a long time."
She shook her head, her eyes glistening. "The cat's name is Chief," she clarified softly.
Perry stared at her, pole-axed. Della Street was still the only person on earth who could rob him of words.
"He's loud, overbearing, and devious," Della continued airily, deftly covering his flummoxed silence as well as her own sentimentality. "And he reappears just when I think I've gotten him out of my system."
Lord, that sassiness! He regarded her with narrowed eyes. "In other words, he speaks with authority, knows what he wants, and gets what he wants by cleverly identifying every means to an advantageous end."
She nodded her head briefly. "Exactly. He's loud, overbearing, and devious."
Perry sighed dramatically.
Della smiled triumphantly.
"Didn't you offer me a drink?" His hand stilled its soothing movements and the cat scowled at him, reaching out a paw and hooking its claws on Perry's finger.
"Tea," she reminded him. "I offered you tea." Slightly hurt by his sudden withdrawal, her smile would have faded had his face not reddened in an effort to keep from bellowing in pain. "A pot is steeping."
"I suppose tea is more proper at one in the afternoon than bourbon." He gently pried the cat's claws from his finger and glared at the animal, who yawned, shook its head, and snorted.
"I don't have any bourbon." For some reason she wanted him to know that.
He stood and faced her, dumping the cat on the ground, angry with himself for not containing the almost confrontational abruptness that was now his conversational habit. "I would lower my standards and drink scotch." Please give me that dazzling smile again, baby.
"I remember the first time you said that," she told him, her voice holding the smile he wanted to see.
"Here's another oldie but goodie. We have to talk, Della." How many times over the years had he said those very same words to her?
She hesitated before nodding. "Yes."
"I'm going to ask you a lot of hard questions and you have to answer them, every single one of them, with complete honesty."
She nodded again. "Yes."
"The news reports are already sensationalizing the case, and once word gets out about my resignation…well, I'm fairly certain reporters will be relentless in dredging up our past and putting it front and center, facts of the case be damned. I'll protect you as much as I can, but it's bound to be rough." He grasped her upper arms almost roughly, to underscore his statement.
"I'm not ashamed of our past." Steadfast and loyal, that was Della Street.
His hands moved from her arms to frame her face, her beautiful, beautiful face. "Our past is my greatest achievement." His thumbs moved across her cheekbones gently, fully aware that by doing so he came perilously close to breaching at least one clause of their tenuous treaty. Her skin was smooth and soft, unlined save for delightful laugh crinkles around her expressive eyes. The last three years had made him feel old and empty and here she was before him as vibrant and lovely as when she'd first entered his office, barely past her teens, poised and capable beyond her years. "You look like a kid."
Della smiled and placed her hands over his, both thrilled and frightened by his words. "Those reading glasses you wear must have rose-colored lenses."
"Della, just accept the compliment. Say 'thank you, Perry."
Her smile trembled slightly. "Thank you, Perry."
"I only speak the truth."
"To me," she whispered, finishing their age-old verbal game.
"And don't you forget it." His thumbs continued their adoration of her cheekbones. "Things are different now."
"Yes," she agreed, unerring as always in picking up the intent of his words. "People are more accepting of…alternate choices. Hardly anyone in Hollywood gets married these days. Turns out we were ahead of our time."
"But that doesn't mean the prosecution and the tabloids won't exploit our past relationship or hypothesize about our present relationship."
"Such as it is."
"Such as it is," he echoed hollowly.
She tilted her head to the left and lifted one eyebrow. "Did I ever tell you that Marvin Mitchelson approached me several times that first year after you moved to San Francisco?"
Perry felt a lightning bolt of raging disbelief tear through him. That sleaze Mitchelson – the king of malpractice, inventor of 'palimony', an opportunistic, shit-eating toad addicted to the no-holds barred Hollywood lifestyle of excess, indiscriminately pursuing notoriety of any kind at the expense of the actual practice of law – how dare he presume a lady such as Della would entertain… "No," he said calmly. "You didn't. Why bring it up now?"
"I'm being obedient."
Perry had to smile at the notion of Della Street ever being obedient. "I never said 'obedient', Miss Street."
"It was inferred."
"Far from it." His thumbs now caressed dainty ears, fingers splayed around the back of her head reacquainting him to its shape, to the long, slender line of her neck, to the soft tickle of those delightful curls she disdained. He had yearned to be this near to her again, to hold her in his arms and be them once more, despite all the obstacles real and/or imagined they'd piled up between them. He was painfully and shamefully aware that with the slightest encouragement he could set aside the past three years and kiss her, but that might be too large a step across the lines she had drawn – and a couple he had drawn himself out of self-preservation. Without inflating his importance above current circumstances he realized that her well-being, possibly her very life, rested in his hands. She needed him, otherwise she wouldn't have called, and she had to know he understood and held that responsibility above all else. "That tea is probably stronger than Superman by now."
Her eyes, which had been soft and shining, clouded over and Perry kicked himself for not leaping those damned obstacles in a single bound and kissing her.
Della ducked away from his embrace with a smooth, lithe movement akin to a curtsy and moved toward the kitchen. "Cup or mug?" she tossed back over her shoulder.
"Mug. And don't muck it up with anything. Tea should be straightforward."
She was back relatively quickly, carrying a tray holding a tea pot, two mugs, and a plate of cookies, approaching him from behind as he stood before the chair he had recently abandoned, contemplating what in hell to do about the cat, locked in a defiant stare-down with brilliant green eyes. Della set the tray on the coffee table.
"Straightforward tea," she announced, smiling despite herself. "He thinks it's his chair. You'll either have to share it, or sit elsewhere."
Perry squinted at the cat, which slowly closed its eyes and began to purr again. "There was a time you had my back," he groused.
Della seated herself on the couch, kicked off her omnipresent pumps, and wriggled her toes. "There was a time I had much more than your back."
Her blasé tone disguised what she had actually said long enough for him to surrender his favored chair and settle into the matching side chair before it registered. You still have much more than my back, he thought, not breaking contact with the cat's inscrutable gaze. "Perhaps too much of me?"
Della picked up a mug and held it out toward him. He took it from her, consciously avoiding the handle and her fingertips. How many times had they wound up in bed, in a chair, on his desk, in the back seat of a car, or even on the floor, simply because her fingers brushed his? His palm stung from the heat of the mug and he hastily transferred it to his other hand, holding it properly by the handle. She took a sip from her own mug, hoping he couldn't see how her mouth twitched with yet another smile at his stubbornness. "Maybe." Well, she could be stubborn, too.
He made a grunting noise and the twitch became a full-blown smile. No one made her smile as much as Perry Mason.
"Brat," he said, taking far too large a swallow of tea and forcing the scalding liquid down his throat. Tears of pain pricked at his eyes and he blinked. Thankfully, Della was preoccupied with breaking off a chunk of what looked like a home-made white chocolate macadamia nut cookie and scrutinizing it before deciding not to eat it. Her favorite nut, and his favorite sweet treat, combined into perhaps the world's most perfect cookie.
"I can't believe you resigned." She hadn't dared to hope he would come to LA while placing the phone call to him from jail – she'd simply become desperate to hear his voice and be comforted by whatever lingering affection he might still have for her. Fully expecting his friend and fellow criminal attorney Frank Heartwell to come for her, she had been shocked speechless when it was Perry Mason himself who awaited her; Perry Mason who admitted he was weary of writing opinions as he held her in his protective embrace; Perry Mason who had gone directly to the District Attorney to have her released on bond based on his former reputation; Perry Mason who had badgered police officers to expedite her release as he had that night thirty years ago when she had seen him in action for the first time fighting on behalf of his client. The enormity of what he'd done was bewildering and far beyond her comprehension of what their relationship could possibly be right now.
"Believe it. I'm officially unemployed."
"I am too." She drew in a shaky breath remembering Arthur Gordon and why Perry Mason was in her house at this moment. "Have I got a job for you."
Perry leaned forward and placed the mug of tea back on the tray. "I accept the job. And I've got a job for you." His eyes sought hers. "I'm a bit rusty. I'll need all the help I can get from the best legal secretary I've ever had."
"I'm so glad you had the good sense not to suggest I sit mildly by and play the uninteresting role of defendant while you attempt to break in a new secretary."
"I believe secretaries prefer to be called administrative assistants these days, do they not?" How many times had his current associates reminded him of that? He was proud of himself for finally remembering.
"I'm impressed, Mr. Mason. Maybe you have managed to remain relevant despite your self-imposed exile in San Francisco."
"Della Katherine." His eyebrows merged above scolding blue eyes.
Della drew her eyebrows together as well, chagrinned for having assaulted not one, but two articles of their agreement. But hadn't he been playing fast and loose with several articles himself? The difference was, she was allowing him to get away with it. "It's at times like this I wish you had a middle name."
"You'll have to curb the sass and sarcasm, my dear, or this definitely won't work."
Then stop touching me and being so…so…so you, she wanted to shout at him, confused and hurt, the caress of his deep voice ringing in her ears. My dear. "Yes, Mr. Mason," she replied stiffly.
Perry stared at her, his famous stone-face unreadable to her for the first time ever, most likely because he had no idea what he was feeling himself. He was a fool. He might as well have told Della not to breathe. Sassing him was her natural inclination, and for many years he had relied on her wit and intelligence to corral and clarify his own thoughts – had in fact at times craved her verbal challenges above all other vices. Her earlier sassiness had brought warmth to his blood that had been long absent and sorely missed. That very same wit and intelligence had often been his undoing, virtual foreplay he gladly surrendered to, usually in helpless laughter. Nearly everything he had done in the past several hours had broken all their self-imposed rules, and yet he couldn't back down, not when the strength of what they had been could damage the fragility of what they were now and the potential of what they could be again, Lord, and Miss Della Street, willing.
As he continued to stare at her, Della returned his gaze, openly searching for a clue to his thoughts. A slow smile spread across her face. "I would be remiss in my newly acquired duties if I did not remind you that the best secretary you ever had practically invented sass and sarcasm. If you have any hope of recapturing your celebrated form, you may have to deal with a bit of both on occasion or this most definitely will not work."
Perry didn't realize he had been holding his breath until it rushed out in a mighty laugh. The cat sprang off the chair at the sound, the likes of which it had never heard before, landing crouched on all fours, claws bared, ears back, eyes wide, whiskers twitching, tail flicking. As usual, the lovely Miss Street had managed to put Perry Mason in his place.