Chapter 31
She rolled her eyes when Perry stood at the bottom of the stairs like Carter had her entire life and hollered her name as she hurried into a pair of black and white checked capri pants, a short-sleeved white blouse accented with black ribbon, and black espadrilles, all the fruits of her shopping extravaganza at Skogmo's. Such impatience from the dignified attorney! She hollered back that she would be right down and maybe he should go outside and start the car instead of wasting time shouting at her. Her father and brother had already left for the mill, having both offered her stilted, awkward farewells and uncomfortable pecks to her cheeks after she and Perry returned from their picnic and subsequent drive along the river the night before – braving one more whiff of the mill in order to cross the bridge – and felt a slight twinge of regret that they were parting as virtual strangers yet again. She was through wishing they could accept her for who she was instead of who they thought she should be, because she'd discovered that she could barely tolerate them for who they were. Having finally sorted that out had possibly been worth the trip.
She tossed a few items into her train case, closed and latched the lid, tucked her robe into the carryall, picked up both cases as well as her large straw purse, and took a moment to circle the bedroom in which she had spent the first nineteen-and-a-half years of her life. There wasn't much she was attached to in this house, but despite the atrocious color of the room, she realized she would miss the dainty slipper chairs and the quilted bedspread she had chosen herself at sixteen, as well as the gentle landscape painting that hung over her bed. Her great-grandmother Della's trunk at the foot of the bed was attractive, and she briefly pictured it beneath her bedroom window in L.A. Shaking off the vision, she crossed the room and jerked open the door.
Della was two steps from the staircase when she abruptly turned and marched down the hallway to her grandmother's room. She took a deep breath and with a steady hand turned the knob and entered the room that had been forbidden territory to her as a child.
It was pink. The same pink as her own room.
Della didn't know whether to laugh or cry as her grandmother's stern voice echoed across the years. "A girl's room should be pink, Della Katherine. Your room has always been pink and it shall remain pink for as long as I'm alive."
The room was small, much smaller than her own, the smallest bedroom in the enormous house, with only enough space for a single bed, one side table, and an oversized mahogany dresser. The bedspread was white chenille scattered with pink organza rosettes. A single tear slipped down Della's cheek as she placed her train case, purse, and carryall on the pristine counterpane and skirted the bed to more closely examine the odds and ends on the side table.
The lamp was Tiffany, the 'Nasturtium' design Della determined. She turned it on to get a better look at photographs in ornately carved mahogany frames arranged around the lamp and let out a gasp. There were five and all were of her: one as a laughing infant with her hands held above her head; one in a bathing suit at five sitting on the beach atop a mound of stones; one at ten seated at the monstrous piano in a frilly organza dress and patent leather Mary Jane's; and the fourth was her high school graduation picture, a terrifically sophisticated head-and-shoulders pose taken on a day her unruly hair had actually cooperated. It was the fifth photo that shocked her to her toes: a newspaper article about famed criminal attorney Perry Mason and his 'deep-dish secretary' who was rumored to 'shadow him at work and at play' accompanied by possibly the most flattering picture ever taken of her exiting the courtroom, smiling up at Perry as he gazed down at her with an expression no employer should favor an employee with. Where Katherine Street had gotten the clipping was beyond her.
"Oh Grandmother," she sobbed. "Why didn't you ever say anything to me?" She wiped her wet face with shaking hands and let her teary eyes scan the room. There were more photographs on the dresser, two each of Carter and Danny as infants, and one of a baby with a mop of blonde hair that could only be her father. Hung by a velvet cord above the dresser was a photo of a bride in a sensible wool two-piece wedding ensemble standing next to a tall, thin man with a mass of blonde curls. So it was her grandfather who had passed on his curls to her. Her grandmother was recognizable as a young woman, her abundant blonde hair pulled back in the same bun she wore until her dying day, her strong features unaffected by age and gravity, the ubiquitous string of pearls draped around her long neck. Della's fingers touched her own long neck as she gulped back fresh sobs.
Her eyes travelled from the dresser to the wall nearest the bed where more framed photographs were arranged: her grandmother and the grandfather she had never met in front of the house, unsmiling; a young boy holding a baby in a white christening gown; the same boy older and holding a different baby in the same christening gown; and finally the boy by himself, older yet. Della wiped her eyes again as she realized the babies were her father's siblings, a brother and a sister who hadn't survived beyond infancy. She was facing a childless future, which was heartbreaking enough – she couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her grandmother to give birth to a child and lose it, not once, but twice. Had her grandmother ever spoken of these lost babies or shown her the photographs, her life might have been very different.
Behind the bed was a partial wall of built-in shelves like those in all of the seven bedrooms. Her grandmother had not been much of a book reader, but had religiously read the daily newspaper and several editions were neatly folded and stacked on the first shelf. The second shelf held more framed photographs which were fuzzy and yellow with age and of people she couldn't possibly identify. The third shelf contained an unexpected collection of pink Depression glass vases. The fourth shelf was home to one item and one item only, positioned directly in the center: a glass canning jar of stones with a faded pink ribbon tied around the lid.
With a strangled cry, Della kicked off her shoes and swung her legs onto the bed. She pulled herself to her feet, and used the built-in shelving to steady herself as she strained to reach the jar. Her fingertips barely brushed the raised letters PERFECT MASON beneath the scripted logo of the Ball Mason Jar Company and she climbed on top of the spindle headboard for more height. That did the trick as she was able to pluck the pretty stones from their perch and collapse on the bed with the jar clutched tightly against her chest, her heart pounding madly.
She almost didn't hear Perry calling her name again from the bottom of the stairs, until he threatened to climb the stairs, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her like a sack of potatoes to the car if she didn't come down in exactly one minute. Her heart still pounding, Della shoved her feet back into the espadrilles, pulled her robe from the carry-all and wrapped the jar of pretty stones in it, while answering Perry that she would be right down for crying out loud. She grabbed four of the photos from the side table and hastily stuffed them and the robe in to the carry-all, picked up her train case and purse and hurried from her grandmother's bedroom. Back in her room she yanked open the top left drawer of the vanity, rummaged around the contents for a few seconds before letting out a triumphant 'yes!' and emerging with exactly what she'd hope was still there. The item was placed in the carry-all as well and without another backward glance, she flew down the stairs and out the door of her childhood home to where Perry awaited by the open trunk of the Galaxie. She handed him the train case, but insisted upon placing the carry-all in the trunk herself.
Perry slammed the trunk shut and turned to Della. Her cheeks were flushed and he suspected she had been crying again. He drew her close and discovered she was trembling. "Baby, are you all right? I'm sorry I shouted at you. Do you need more time in the house?"
She wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. She kissed him deeply, molding her body intimately to his as only she could, as she knew only she ever would. "Let's get the hell out of here," she said breathlessly.
"Pushing won't get us there any faster, Della," Perry told her with a chuckle.
Della looked down at her feet, which were indeed firmly pressed against the floorboards. She grinned. "I'm a little anxious to put as many miles between us and this town as possible," she admitted a trifle sheepishly. "I don't think I even want to stop for breakfast. Let's just have an early lunch."
Perry brought the car to a stop where Morrell Street emptied onto M-89 (called Allegan Street where it actually passed through the 'business district' of the small town), the road that would take them to the highway and a clear path to the airport. He squeezed her hand affectionately before merging onto the town's major road. They drove by Creekside Park, the location of their picnic the night before, and Perry couldn't help but point out that the sign clearly read 'creek' and not 'crik', and Della was too giddy with happiness to mount an argument about the proper pronunciation of the word. She loved this man and he was taking her home. Any witticisms that might bubble up would simply have to remain unspoken. She waved good-bye to the lovely little park and slid over close to Perry, her hand still in his.
"I forgot, there is one stop we need to make," Della spoke into Perry's ear as her teeth latched onto his lobe and tugged.
"I must warn you, if you don't cut that out immediately, we'll miss our plane."
"No we won't," she said enigmatically, and tugged his earlobe again.
"I suppose not, since Byron stuck around this whole week in order to fly us back. He kept busy with flights to Chicago and Detroit, and said he made a pile of money, but he's ready to go home to his girlfriend and spend all that money on her."
"Byron has been home for an entire day now," Della informed him. "All that money has no doubt been spent already."
Perry took his eyes off the road to stare at her. "What do you mean by that?"
"I don't think I can say it any clearer than I did, but I'll try. Bryon is already in California."
"Then how the heck are we supposed to…"
"Turn here!" Della interrupted, pointing to the entrance of a sprawling automobile dealership.
Perry braked suddenly and the car behind him leaned on the horn in protest as he steered the Galaxie into the car lot. "I have a lot of questions to ask you, young lady. The first of which being why are we at a car lot?"
"Because Byron flew home already," she explained patiently.
"Because Byron flew home already," he repeated under his breath. "And how do you know that?"
"I told him to fly home Wednesday night. As you said, he missed Doris and had all that money burning a hole in his pocket. Someone wanted to charter a flight to Las Vegas, so it all worked out."
"And how exactly are we to get to the lake if you sent our pilot home, Miss Street?"
"Stop! Park right here," she directed, pointing to an empty parking space near the dealership entrance. She had the car door open almost before he brought the Galaxie to a complete halt, and was walking swiftly toward a man with sandy hair and horn-rimmed glasses who was smiling broadly at her. They embraced quickly in greeting and were half-way back to the Galaxie by the time Perry had exited the car and made his way around to the passenger side. "Chief, I'd like you to meet Jeffrey Kuiper, an old friend from high school. Jeff, this is my employer, Perry Mason." She took his left hand in hers, and smiled up at him with joyous pride.
The younger man extended his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Mason. I've heard quite a bit about you this past week. I was floored when Del called the other night and said she wanted to buy a car today."
Perry accepted Jeff Kuiper's hand and shook it. "I was a bit floored myself," Perry admitted affably. "Well, Miss Street, I guess this answers my question about how we're getting to the lake."
She nodded with barely contained excitement. "We're driving my new car," she replied.
"All she has to do is pick out the color," Jeff Kuiper piped in with the same level of excitement. "I've had three Impalas brought up for you to look at. They're right over here."
Della's fingers tangled with Perry's as they followed the car salesman across the lot to where three shiny Chevrolet Impalas sat, one white, one black, one blue, the early morning sun glinting off spotless windshields.
"I've never bought a car before," Della whispered. "Am I supposed to drive them and see how each one handles or should I get all girly and buy the blue one because it's the prettiest?"
Perry cupped her cheek with his hand, bringing her face around so he could see her shining eyes. "You should buy the blue one because everyone in Los Angeles wants a Crown Sapphire blue Impala and here one sits on a car lot in the middle of nowhere. But you should at least drive it around the lot for good measure. I have no doubt you'll like it. You made an excellent choice in the Impala."
"I can't take any credit – Jeff suggested it. I told him I was going to buy a car and I trusted him to pick out the best one for me. He lived next door to us for years, until his parents built a big house out by the Allensworth farm. They have an indoor pool."
"Maybe I should chuck the whole criminal law gig and open a Chevy dealership," Perry said meditatively.
"I hear the hours are awful," Della offered.
Perry laughed, which caused Jeff Kuiper to turn around just as the big attorney bent and kissed his employee on her smiling lips. His old pal Michael Domenico had been right – there was definitely something between Della and her boss.
It took forty-five minutes for Della to drive the beautiful Crown Sapphire blue Impala around the lot twice, for the price to be settled on and the bill of sale to be prepared and signed. The title transfer would not be officially filed until Monday, and she would have a bit of paperwork to deal with when she went to get permanent California license plates, but after counting out the agreed upon price from her grandmother's stashed cash and accepting the keys from Jeff, Della was the owner of her very first car.
Perry had remained mostly silent for the entire transaction, satisfied with her capable price negotiations and concise questions regarding the title and license requirements, and so very, very impressed that she had found a way to leave almost all of her grandmother's money in the town where she had lived her entire life. He was always proud of her, but never so much so as he had been in the past twenty-four hours. He had never known such a remarkable person, and if he didn't already love her beyond definition, he would have fallen in love with her beyond definition this past week. They still had several staggering revelations to confront as their future unfolded, secrets and untruths that had cracked her confidence in their commitment to one another and he would spend the rest of his time on Earth making sure she had no doubt that life without her was no life at all.
Jeff Kuiper insisted that it would be no problem for him to return the rented Galaxie to the airport, so Perry quickly transferred their luggage from the trunk of the clunky Ford to the trunk of the sleek Impala while Della sat at the wheel chatting animatedly with her old friend. Once finished, he closed the trunk of the spanking new Impala and was surprised to find Jeff standing next to him.
"Michael Domenico is my best friend," the car salesman said, his voice low, his face serious.
"I've met Mr. Domenico. Helluva nice guy. We had plans to go fishing but unfortunately they fell through."
Jeff Kuiper's face split into a grin. "Mike said you were all right, but I had to make sure myself. Take care of Del, okay Mr. Mason? She was always too special for this town, and Mike would be the first to admit she was too special for him as well. I'm glad to see how happy she looks."
"She's too special for L.A.," Perry replied with heartfelt honesty, letting his eyes slide to the topic of their conversation. "And I fear far too special for me as well. It's my pleasure to see that she's taken care of."
The men shook hands with sober respect before Perry stepped toward Della's new car, opened the door and eased his long frame into the passenger seat. "Ready to hit the road, Miss Street?"
Della nodded with such vehemence it sent her curls bouncing. "California or bust."