Chapter 3

" Is something wrong, Perry? " She wore his spare robe when she stepped through the sliding doors onto the terrace to join him. At this time of night the view from his penthouse on San Francisco was breathtaking, he loved it. She just looked at him.

" What could be wrong? " His gentle blue eyes smiled at her.

" Well, you seem so distracted. Do you miss your old life? Chasing the bad guys, defending clients in court yourself? "

" Yes, I do sometimes, but I think I'm too old to get back to that kind of life. Besides, being a judge has some nice benefits, like having fellow judges. " He looked at her boyishly, but she didn't get the joke.

" Too old? " she took his glass from him, and tasted the whiskey. " Do you also think you are too old to get married? " She watched him from over the rim of his glass, before handing it back to him.

" Are you proposing to me again? " he raised his eyebrows.

" Yes, I am, Perry Mason…. I still think we should get married, I still think we'd make a great couple…., " her hands carressed his hair and his face. He closed his eyes.

" My God, Mary-Ann…marriage….it's quite something." He drew her to him and kissed her forehead. " Give me some more time to think about it. "

" Sure, " she kissed his cheek, " but don't take too long….and don't take too long now….come to bed…." her indexfinger drew a line from his earlobe down his neck through his grey chesthair to where his robe started to cover his naked skin.

Della would definetely have lingered her hands down now to untie the sash to….Della. He had to stop thinking about Della. He had given her his phonenumbers last Friday, but she hadn't phoned him yet. Maybe she didn't want to see him or speak to him again, she had seemed very upset. On the other hand, it was only Tuesday now. Still, the possibility that she would actually never use the phonenumbers hurt him more than he would ever admit to anyone.

Mary-Ann watched his face. There it was again, the sad gaze. There was always something sad about him. She blamed the cases he had handled, both as an attorney and as a judge, cases concerning all kinds of sadness and madness people went through in their lives. He had seen and still saw people at their worst, abused, abusing, killed, killers, lying, cheating, incriminating themselves. It took a pair of massive shoulders like his, to be able to cope with human evil for such a long time. Maybe things were getting to him now. Maybe he needed to retire? Or he needed a vacation, for just the two of them. She'd love to take him on a honeymoon.

She was convinced they would make a great couple, both being judges, both smart with the same fascination for law and teaching. Everyone around them was convinced they would make a great couple. But he wasn't. Yet. She would give him another week to think about it.

" I'll be right there…" he said while he watched his fellow judge walk into his bedroom, and tried unsuccesfully to ignore how much she resembled Della Street. Same height, same smooth curves, same coiffure, both always dressed impeccable. Eyebrows arched into perfection. They could have been sisters, Mary-Ann being just three years younger than Della.

He held onto the rail of his terrace, overviewing the lights of the city of San Francisco. Back in L.A. he had watched the lights of the city like this a thousand times, holding Della from behind with his arms around her waist, whispering something to her ear to make her laugh or to make her smolder with fierce desire for him. Then she would turn around in his embrace and just bluntly open his belt and tell him, order him, to make love to her. Or mumble a joke to his ear that she knew would make him shake with laughter.

She would laugh at him now, making sultry jokes about his longing for her. Because that's what he did, wasn't it? He was longing to be with Della Street, strongly, having a lady in his bed resembling her. She would make ludicrous fun of him, confront him with all he was so obviously ignoring.

She'd tell him the truth: he was living a life that wasn't his, and didn't fit him.

He felt sad. He had never been able to completely forget her, nor did he want to. Her ways around him were carved deeply in his own. To forget her meant losing a part of himself.

But maybe he should just try harder. Maybe it was time to move on, cherishing Della's image in his life as a precious memory, a monument. Getting married to Mary-Ann gave him at least the oppurtunity to have and to hold someone while he was getting older. After all, he was turning sixty-six pretty soon. She loved him, he knew that. But did he love her? And if he did, did he love her for who she was? Or did he love her because she looked like the woman he had ever really wanted and had lost?

Lost to his fear of loss, ironically. The sharp pain of losing his best friend Paul Drake to a dreadful disease had shaken him, and scared him to his own death. What if he would die, without having done all that he wanted to do? And worse, what if time took away Della from him? What if she had a heart attack like Hamilton or a stroke like Arthur, and he wouldn't even have the chance to say goodbye to her? He probably wouldn't survive himself. The fear had suffocated him throughout the days, had haunted him in his dreams at night, had made him terrible to live with, resentful towards joy, pleasure, and in the end even towards her, her care, and her deep love for him. And then tragically, towards his love for her.

Desperately, there was indeed no other word for it, desperately ignoring his need for her.

Ignoring that it quite possibly was their love he needed to be able to cope.

He knew he had thrown away every right to ask her to come back in his life. He had taken the judgeship right away when it was offered to him in 1977. He had just like that accepted the fact that she didn't want to come with him. He had left behind more and more of Los Angeles and Della every time he went back to San Francisco after his short visits. He hadn't fought with her for their relationship, assuming the hole in his heart would be healed by the grace of time, because that was what they said, wasn't it: 'time heals all wounds'.

Well, they were wrong. Instead, time had just smoothened and polished the sharp and rough edges, making the hole even bigger, and more round of shape. He could look right through it now, every damned time he looked in the mirror. He had even grown a beard, so he didn't have to shave and look in the mirror for long every morning.

Swallowing hard, he turned his back on the city of San Francisco, and went inside. He rubbed his eyes, he hated it when his emotions got in the way of his thoughts. Investigating was nice, but investigating his own mind definetely was not. He needed someone with him to help him understand, and yes, the only one he could think of…..

He finished his drink and left the glass on the diningtable. He didn't want to make love to Mary-Ann, who he knew was waiting to be his. He didn't dislike the sex, he just didn't want her in his arms afterwards, knowing he would be staring at the ceiling in some sort of regret that had haunted him for a long time, but was severely stronger since he saw Della last Friday.

He sighed and went into his study to reread some briefs for tomorrows sessions. To do what he always did to forget. Work.

When he switched on the light in the study, he made a decision. He was going to phone Arthur Gordon's office first thing tomorrow morning. He wanted to talk to Della before getting married to someone else. He had to see her.

&-\+

Arthur Gordon would normally have lost his temper twice by now, if it had been anyone else he had to call out for six times, before he received an answer. But, since it was Della Street he was adressing to, he was more patient. Somewhere in his tired mind and heart, he liked her. And something had been bothering her, very much.

" I'm sorry, mr. Gordon. Can I get you anything? "

" You can answer me immediately next time I ask you something…. "

" I'm sorry, mr. Gordon. What can I do for you? "

" I want to see the results of our projects in Berlin and Paris, and I want you to arrange lunch at one o'clock tomorrow with my wife at this club of hers. "

" Consider it done. "

" Della…."

" Yes, mr. Gordon? "

" What's bothering you? "

" Nothing, I'm fine. Really. Just fine. "

" Della, you're always just fine. " She avoided his investigating stare at her. " But I can tell you're not now. "

She shook her head and pulled at her skirt to remove a little plush that wasn't there.

" It's this guy, Mason, isn't it? " He considered the silent moist that was filling her eyes as an affirmative answer.

Sometimes all he could do was just watch his executive assistant in absolute awe. How often had he tried to get through to her? Asked her to have dinner with him, to break though her facade to see what it was she was hiding behind these hazel eyes? To take in whatever it was that was in the depths behind her demure smiles and her gracious moves? Of course he had immediately considered her a very attractive woman, but she had always kept her distance to him. He didn't want her, he just wanted to get to know her. He wanted to know who she was.

Mason himself had told him that she was a miracle, and that he really wouldn't be sorry for hiring her. He had indeed never been sorry at all. She had brought out the best in him, like Mason had told him she would, when he had phoned him for a reference years ago. She was the best assistant he ever had, not just because of her secretarial skills, but also because she coped with his moods and bad temper in a smooth way.

" Phone him, Della… You know he phoned to the office this morning to talk to you when we were in conference. "

" I know. "

" Phone him. "

" I'd rather not. I wouldn't know what to say. "

" My God, Della. Of course you'd know what to say, make one of your jokes first to break the ice. And then just see what happens. But talk to him for God's sake. I don't want to see you feeling bad in here. It shows, you know. Makes me feel miserable. " He held her at her upperarms, and gave her a gruff smile. " You can use the phone in my office….now whipe your tears away. I don't like tears. "

She felt nervous like a teenager in love, before a first date. She smiled. This was ridiculous. Speaking to someone she had spent almost all her days and nights with for over thirty years shouldn't be this nerve-wracking. After all, he had not only been her lover, he had also been her best friend and her boss. And she was also missing him like hell.

After Arthur Gordon left her in his office and closed the door, she picked up the phone and dialed the first number on the note he had given her.