Part 2.3 – Eight Sneezes
Furnishings were sparse because Perry said Martin was searching for just the right pieces, and Perry told Della that he would not be offended if she didn't like any of his choices. He had only recently added the dining room table and serving buffet, as well as the canopy bed. In the blue and yellow kitchen he had placed a sturdy oblong table and six ladder-backed chairs painted white to match the cabinets. He had even thought to stock the cabinets with dark blue Fiesta dinnerware and plenty of simple, sturdy silverware. She had no complaints with Martin's taste in furnishings, especially the overstuffed blue sofa and chairs in the living room and the scattered roped area rugs he'd tossed over the gleaming parquet floors. The colors he'd used – blue and yellow and creamy white – were the exact colors of the Martin's house in New Jersey. The master bedroom was green because it was Perry's favorite color and he didn't think she would mind (and she didn't – it was a soothing, calm room).
Perry carried their suitcases upstairs and left her to put away what she could in the closet on wooden hangers courtesy of Martin. She was really looking forward to meeting the designer who had taken her childhood memories to heart and translated them so perfectly. But not until their next trip. Perry was right. She wanted to see no one but him until they had to return to Los Angeles and the demands people in trouble made on them.
Finished with hanging clothes and laying out toiletries in the blue and white bathroom across the hall – outfitted by Martin with fluffy white towels – Della stood in the middle of the bedroom and hugged herself. What she had ever done to deserve this was beyond her, but she would accept it gladly, with all the love she had for him. As happy as she had been at discovering the house was hers – theirs – she knew he was even happier to be able to give it to her. And knowing that he had kept this secret from her for months amazed her. But then her handsome attorney had a renowned reputation for keeping things to himself, and even though she had made progress in drawing him out, she knew he still kept secrets from her. Sometimes it bothered her, but then she weighed it against her own little secrets and felt that they were probably running neck and neck in reticence about certain aspects of their lives, so she wouldn't make an issue of it. They had a lifetime of sharing ahead of them, and no doubt they would eventually uncover even the most deeply buried facts about one another.
She started down the staircase, humming her favorite song when she was overtaken by sneezing without a warning tickle. She sneezed violently, in doubles, four times, very loudly. Eight consecutive sneezes within a few seconds. With no air in her bursting lungs, she sank to the steps, clinging to the hand-wrought oak balusters for dear life, gasping for breath.
Perry came dashing from the back of the house, a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder, a partially peeled potato in one hand, the peeler in the other. He dropped both as he saw her struggling to catch her breath, fingers wrapped in white-knuckled desperation around the balusters. He took the stairs three at time until he was at her side, rubbing her back, urging her to calm down, to take small breaths. Her nose was running and in her panic to catch her breath she began to cough, which only stole what little breath she managed to take in. Her eyes were wide with fright and her hand clawed at him in a plea to help her.
All he could do was continue helplessly rubbing her back. He thought she was hyperventilating and needed to breathe in a paper bag, but she had a death-grip on the baluster – as well as on his shirt – and was so stiff with fear he doubted he could pick her up and carry her to the kitchen. And he couldn't leave her, not when she was so panicked.
She stopped coughing and attempted to take big gulping breaths. He told her to slow down, take smaller breaths, but not too small. The look she shot him was still panicked, but annoyed as well. He nearly laughed in relief. She let go of his shirt to clutch her chest, and he became frightened all over again. But it gave him the opportunity to run downstairs to the kitchen, snatch a paper bag from the counter, and leap back up the stairs. He scrunched the bag with one hand, pushed her head down toward it and instructed her to breathe. She fought him at first, but then when she realized her breathing was actually improving, she gripped his arm and gratefully followed his instructions. In a few moments her breathing was almost normal and she struggled to lift her head. He made her take another half-dozen breaths in the bag and then reluctantly allowed her to sit up. She leaned against the balusters and closed her eyes.
"What happened there, baby?" He asked in a strangled whisper, again reaching out to rub her back.
She rolled her head from side to side. "I don't know," her voice was raspy, and she cleared her throat with a grimace. "I sneezed and couldn't breathe."
He yanked the towel from his shoulder and gently wiped her running nose. "Blow," he commanded.
She tried to pull away. "I'm not going to blow my nose on a brand-new towel," she protested.
"Blow," he commanded again. "I don't have a handkerchief on me and I'm not leaving you to get a tissue from your purse."
So she blew her nose impressively into the lovely blue and white flowered towel Martin had chosen for her kitchen. Well, for Perry's kitchen…
He balled up the towel, set it on the stair behind him and gathered her into his arms. She sank into him and let him rock her. "You scared me, Della" he told her in that same choked whisper.
Della gave a snort of a laugh. "I scared myself," she admitted ruefully. "But you were marvelous, darling. You were so calm and authoritative. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't here. You really are my hero."
He rocked her in silence for several seconds, trying not to think what would have happened if he hadn't been here, as he listened intently to the sound and pattern of her breathing. It was a bit wheezy and he kicked himself for not insisting she see their doctor Chris Sadler before they left. "Feel well enough to stand up?"
She nodded and leaned on him heavily as he helped her to her feet. She wobbled a bit, but after taking a few steps she seemed fine. He guided her up the stairs and into the bedroom, and despite much protesting, managed to get her onto the bed, to take off her shoes, and to make her lie down. He covered her with the crocheted throw Martin had placed at the foot of the bed and tucked it around her, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was warm. He rested the back of his hand against her check, and then slid it around to the nape of her neck.
"You wouldn't have packed a thermometer by any chance would you?" he asked. "I think you're warm."
"Perry, of course I'm warm. I just sneezed eight times in eight seconds and breathed into a paper bag for five minutes." She fought back a cough and cleared her throat. Her voice was almost back to normal. "I didn't pack a thermometer. Why would I? Martin has been so thorough about everything else maybe he put one in the medicine cabinet."
Perry brushed damp curls from her forehead and regarded her with worried eyes. "Maybe he did," he said doubtfully, and headed across the hall to check. But as thorough as Martin had been in preparing the house at a moment's notice for this unexpected visit, he hadn't stocked the medicine cabinet with anything. When he returned to the bedroom she was sitting up, the crocheted throw wrapped around her shoulders. "Lay down, Miss Street."
She shook her head. "I'm fine, darling, really. I just got panicked when I couldn't breathe and that made everything worse than it should have been. Let's go downstairs and I'll watch you cook dinner. I like to watch you cook for me." She grinned.
His grin was slow to materialize until she reached out and took his hand so she could jump from the great height of the bed.
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Perry watched her through preparations for dinner and dinner itself for any sign of sickness, but was relieved that despite her claim that a lump in her throat would get in the way of eating, she actually ate quite heartily, and matched him glass for glass in drinking the mellow red wine he had selected to accompany the meal.
She insisted upon cleaning the kitchen and he reluctantly wandered into the living room, immediately bereft of her company. Martin might not have thought about stocking the medicine cabinet with a thermometer, but he had thought to fill a large brass coal hod with firewood. Perry built a nice little fire and settled himself on the deep sofa, rearranging the colorful accent pillows so Della would be comfortable when she finally joined him.
It wasn't long before he heard her steps on the hardwood as she walked unhurriedly down the hallway toward the living room. She carried two cups of coffee, which he took from her as she climbed onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath and to the side of her, the crocheted throw once again wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned against his shoulder and stared into the fire.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome," he replied immediately.
"Do you even know what I'm thanking you for?"
"Doesn't matter. The pleasure was all mine, my love."
She laughed. And coughed. The laugh sounded wheezy, the cough dry and unproductive. She clutched her chest again and it worried him afresh. "All that sneezing and coughing hurt my chest," she explained.
Despite his worry, Perry turned and gently pulled her legs out from under her, pushed her back against the pile of pillows he had arranged earlier. She giggled at his obvious intent. "I could give you a chest massage," he said suggestively, settling himself in the cradle of her hips.
She wound her arms around his neck, enfolding him in the throw as well. "What would Martin think if he knew what you want to do on his beautiful couch?"
"Note that the fabric is durable and highly cleanable. I think Martin sized me up and bought a couch suited to my needs."
She laughed again. "You are incorrigible, my darling. And you have a one-track mind."
"We haven't…been together…since the Pierce case began," he reminded her, lowering his head to taste the side of her neck.
"Have you forgotten about this morning and this afternoon?"
"Absolutely not, baby. Every time with you is unforgettable. I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Della, you have to know that."
She happily allowed his lips to ravish her neck, let his hands cup her breasts through the fabric of her blouse, his thumbs flicking against tender, responsive peaks. "I love you, too, Perry. I have never loved anyone so much in my life, either."
He lifted his head suddenly. "Then we should…"
She pressed two fingers to his lips. "No, we shouldn't. I wondered when you would get around to this conversation."
He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "We love each other and we have this house now. Let's get married."
She stroked his chest with one hand. "Did you buy this house to coerce me into marrying you?"
"Of course not. Do you think so little of me?"
She lowered her eyes. "I think everything of you, darling. But the same reasons for why I can't marry you still exist, my poor, frustrated Perry, especially now that we have this house. I know how much you love me and I'm very, very happy."
"I don't think I'll ever understand you, Della. I love you, every molecule of you, and I know you better than I know myself, but there is a part of you that will forever remain a mystery to me."
Her smile was slow and satisfied. "And that is how it should be, darling."
"Marry me, Della."
She shook her head. "No, Perry," she declined softly.
He sighed hugely and attempted to sit up. She grasped him by the shirtfront. "Don't you dare start something like this and then walk away, Perry Mason."
"I'm not a wind-up toy, Della. The mood has passed."
"Are you really going to pout? It's not like I've never refused your proposals before."
"That's true, but my recovery time is getting longer. You might try checking in with me later."
She burst out laughing. "You really don't do pouty well, Mr. Mason. Come here."
He relented and let his hands resume their exploration of her breasts through the barrier of her blouse, an agonizingly pleasurable experience for both of them. When he finally dispatched with the buttons and his mouth found each pebbly peak, she groaned. Her hands worked on his belt buckle while she lifted her hips against his rhythmically, a foreshadowing of what was inevitable.
"Okay," he gasped, "that winds me up again."