Ta-da!

Della Street looked down at the four books she had lain in a row on her bed. She took her time and studied each one in turn. Three of them had the potential to be greatly useful. But the fourth kept vying for her attention...

The ticking of the alarm clock on her bedside table nudged its way into her consciousness. She had a good feeling about this job interview, which was only hours away, and she needed to be prepared for it. Time, the ticking so pointedly reminded her, was of the essence.

She placed the three books that belonged together in a neat pile next to the bossy clock. Then she scooped up the ridiculous romance, settled into bed, and flipped the pages to Chapter One.

-0-

Madeline Paige was right-handed, but that didn't prevent her from using her left hand for everything this morning. When she stopped at the newsstand for the morning paper, she held the coins in the palm of her right hand and counted them out with flourishy motions of her left. When her hair needed swept behind her ear, right or left, she reached up with her left hand. When she poured a cup of coffee, waved at her neighbors, unlatched the door to the law office - she put her left hand in charge. She took any chance to favor the hand that showcased her new diamond, whose carefully and cleverly cut facets made the small stone glitter regally in sunlight and office light alike, as though it had been culled from some queen's collection of crown jewels.

She couldn't wait to marry Jimmy Boring. She couldn't wait to tell all her friends. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

But first she had to tell her boss.

-0-

Perry Mason let himself into his office using the private entrance from the hall. He had been in a bit of a fog all morning, as if life were bustling around him, but he could only notice one thing at a time. Usually the irrelevant thing. For example, now that he stood just inside the door, his eyes skipped over the jumble of law books he'd left open and waiting on the table a day or so before this most recent court date had snagged his attention. He was definitely oblivious to the stacks of mail on his desk.

Miss Paige was already in; he could hear her typing at an impressive and furious speed in her own office adjacent to his.

He took a deep breath, inhaling books and ink and cigarettes and the worn leather of the furniture.

He made eye contact over his desk with the bust of Blackstone. Had the old fellow always looked so serious? They regarded each other critically - Blackstone from his place atop a sturdy bookshelf; Mason from his buoyant position on the cloud that was floating under his feet.

He decided Blackstone needed to lighten up. He removed his hat and took aim at the stodgy old boy.

A split second before he felt the brim leave his fingertips, the door to the front office opened up. The noise startled him and he frowned as the hat spun through the air and fell short of its target. If Blackstone could have smirked, he would have.

He turned around, intending to give a mock admonishment to his secretary. But then he realized the typing hadn't stopped.

"How are you in here, if you're in there?" he asked, jerking his head toward the sound of clacking keys.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mason."

"Right. Good morning. Now, about your ability to be in two places at once…?"

Madeline Paige shook her head. "That would be very helpful, especially working for you. However, the only place I am is here."

"Then who -?"

"Her name is Della Street." Madeline cleared her throat. "My replacement."

"Am I going to need to sit down for this?"

Madeline fought a grin and lost. "I'm getting married."

"You are! Well, congratulations! Who's the lucky guy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Jimmy, of course."

"Of course." He kept his tone light, trying to focus on her happiness rather than on the fact that she was signing on for a lifetime of drudgery.

Madeline continued. "It happened yesterday. Completely out of the blue! I certainly didn't expect it. Jimmy came here during his lunch break and asked me to marry him right out there in the reception area!"

"Jimmy wants to marry you in the reception area?"

"He -... What? No, no, no. He proposed to me out in the reception area. Isn't that romantic?"

Perry Mason had never proposed marriage to a woman before, but he was fairly certain there were more romantic ways to go about it than dropping by the office of his intended on his lunch break. Madeline, however, was too excited and too enamored of the bland young man to care about such matters. He decided to let it go.

"Isn't it though?" was the only rejoinder he could come up with. It sounded a little flat to his own ears, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to tell you right away, but you were in court all day and you didn't come back; and Jimmy and I had so much to discuss. He's been offered a job out of state, and he has to start three weeks from now. Three weeks!"

"And you'll probably want to go with him," Mason mused, rather perplexed.

"Absolutely. But it means there's a lot to take care of in a short amount of time. Right before we leave, we're going to have a simple ceremony in front of the justice of the peace."

"So this Stella Lane…?"

"Street. Della Street. I figured you would want me to start training a replacement as soon as possible, and heaven only knows when you'll hold still long enough to thumb through resumes; so I took the liberty of getting in touch with a friend of mine who had recently been searching for a job. She actually just started a new one last week, but she knew a girl who was looking for a change."

"And that's why Della...Street is typing up a storm in your office."

"Isn't she a wonder? You'll have the final say, of course, but her credentials are impeccable, and you can hear how fast she types. She's been as efficient with every other sample task I've given her as she is with this one."

A girl who types fast. Something clicked, and the fog lifted. "What you're saying is, I have an interview this morning?"

"You do, and as I said, I understand you have the final say. I can line up some more candidates for you, but quite frankly you're crazy if you pass on a girl like this."

Crazy not to hire a girl who types fast. It couldn't be.

It just couldn't.

Mason turned around to retrieve a book of matches from his desk. He looked questioningly at Blackstone, but the stoic jurist wasn't giving anything away.

"I guess I'd better meet this friend of your friend."

-0-

Madeline Paige was a wonderful secretary. Organized, efficient, dedicated. But she lacked imagination. It was the one complaint Mason had ever harbored, unvoiced, in his mind. So focused on her tasks and to-do lists, she rarely took time to observe anything extraneous to accomplishing those things. When he asked her about the clients who paced the outer office or who lit up the switchboard in a panic, she couldn't tell him whether their demeanors stemmed from nervousness or impatience or guilt. Neither did she care to. It wasn't in her job description. She had a hundred things to do. Pegging the emotional states of clients wasn't one of them.

She introduced Della Street to Perry Mason, and Perry Mason to Della Street.

If Miss Street looked a little stiff as she formally acknowledged the introduction, it was probably because she was nervous. Who wasn't nervous at a job interview?

And if Mr. Mason seemed very interested in studying his potential employee, it could be chalked up to his insatiably curious nature. He was always unabashedly studying people to a degree Madeline felt was completely inappropriate.

"Here is Miss Street's resume. I've been keeping her busy, and she's aced every task. You've seen for yourself how she types." Madeline began ticking qualifications off on her fingers. On her left hand. "Switchboard, shorthand, dictation - she does it all."

Without the sound of the typewriter, and with Madeline's singing of Miss Street's praises tapering off, there was a silence in the office that Madeline almost noticed was awkward.

Almost.

"Thank you, Miss Paige," the lawyer finally said, his eyes flickering toward her for the briefest of moments. "I'll take it from here."

Madeline beamed. She'd been right about this one, she just knew it! She was getting married, and everything was falling into place. She spun toward the door leading to the waiting room, pulled the door shut behind her, and settled at the switchboard with a contented sigh.

Oh, happy day, she thought to herself. And the pretty little diamond on her left hand winked at her in agreement.

-0-

For a while, they remained frozen in place, the silence growing heavier with each held breath that wasn't released.

Mason moved first. He indicated that she should retake the seat behind the desk. He sat across from her, taking his time as he lit a cigarette. He offered it to her; she shook her head - a nearly imperceptible movement. He returned it to his lips and inhaled deeply.

Della Street had tentatively regained her composure. She held still so as not to lose her hold on it.

"I apologize for being late," Mason said coolly. "I didn't realize my secretary had scheduled this interview."

"So I gathered," Della replied, her aloof tone matching his.

He brought one foot up to rest it on the knee of his other leg, and a invisible scuff on the toe of his shoe caught his attention. She watched him draw a handkerchief from his pocket to buff it out.

As he worked on the scuff that wasn't really there, he said entirely too casually, "We might have to make this short. You see, I was late getting here, and I have a lunch date soon."

"Do you?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes. To celebrate a new job."

"Are you changing careers?"

"Not my new job. Someone else's."

"I see."

He stopped then - put both feet on the floor, shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, ground out the cigarette, and leaned forward earnestly. "I'm certain she'll be offered it."

"How do you know?" Della whispered.

"Only an idiot wouldn't hire her. I may be many things, but an idiot isn't one of them. Usually."

She laughed, but the sound conveyed sadness as much as amusement. "But you said it was a lunch date."

His brow furrowed. "I did say that."

"I need this job, Mr. Mason."

"It's yours. But only if you don't call me Mr. Mason."

"I can't address you by your first name."

"Why not?" he demanded. "Didn't you catch it?"

"I caught it, alright," she responded wryly. "From my friend who recommended me for this position, from the lettering on the front door, from your current secretary. From the newspapers and the radio."

He sat back with a careless wave of his hand. "Alright, so my reputation precedes me."

"My point is…"

He waited, but she didn't continue. "Your point is…?" he prodded.

She put her fingers into position over the keys of the typewriter. He watched as she feigned the motions of typing, giving her time to put her thoughts in order.

But she took too long and he grew impatient. "In this office, we have a policy of being uncomfortably honest with each other."

She looked up. "Always?"

He nodded, then frowned. "Well, almost always. About professional matters, anyhow. I've held my tongue when it comes to Miss Paige's lackluster taste in fiancés."

"Lackluster?"

"The lad's as boring as hell. In fact, his name is Boring. I don't know if it was a sign or a self-fulfilled prophecy."

"Is that his biggest fault?"

"Being uninteresting is the biggest fault a person can have," Mason declared.

Della Street crossed her arms. "When it comes to a marriage partner, there are worse grievances."

"I'd be hard-pressed to name any."

"You're right not to bring it up with Miss Paige."

"I told you: I'm not an idiot."

"But you are honest."

"I try to be. People deserve honesty."

"I have a dilemma."

"Then you've come to the right place. It just so happens that people's dilemmas are the stuff of my career."

"I met someone."

"Oh? What sort of someone?"

"The sort of someone who I am certain is utterly incapable of being boring."

"He has my approval." Mason looked a little startled by the decisiveness of his own pronouncement. He cleared his throat sheepishly. "At least, I think he does. If he is who I think he is."

"He is," Della assured him, a little of the sparkle resurfacing in her eyes.

"Alright, go on then," he demanded gruffly. As if his bluster could fool her.

"It's just that I'm not sure who I met."

"Why does this conversation keep getting so damned philosophical?"

As if he didn't know why.

"I like him. But I don't know if he's my lunch date or my employer."

"Why can't he be both?"

"Because I'm not that kind of secretary," she said quietly.

Of course, she wasn't.

She wanted to work for someone who saw her as capable, dedicated, serious. Professional. Not as an ornament. Not as an office dalliance.

He nodded. "I know. And despite what sounded like a proposition from me just now, I've never been that kind of boss."

"So what do we do?"

"Honestly?"

"I hear that's the policy around here."

Mason took a deep breath. "I need you."

The only change in her expression was the slight widening of her eyes. He hurried on to clarify.

"Look. I'm not an idiot. And I realize I only feel that I know you. I don't really know you. Not yet. But last night…" He dragged his hands through his hair, wishing he still had his cigarette to focus on as he fumbled for the right words. The words that would keep her here and not send her running away from him as fast as possible.

She stood up and moved around to where he was, took the chair next to his. She crossed her knees and angled herself toward him.

"Tell me."

He let himself relax, melting into her liquid gaze, and pushed all his metaphorical chips into the pile. "You're good for me," he confessed. "I don't know how I know that. I just know, after spending a single evening with you, I… I need you. You can hear me. You understand me. I need that. I need...you."

There. Honesty in its rawest form. If she didn't run now…

"You should know some things about me."

"Alright," he said, still not taking her presence for granted.

"I get grumpy when I'm not fed regularly."

"And meatloaf doesn't do it."

"No. Definitely not meatloaf."

"So noted. Anything else?"

"I run a tight ship. I've read about your escapades, and I know you like to be a hands-on sort of lawyer. But I am a firm believer in a well-ordered work space. Office chores are a fact of life."

"Got it."

"As for the...non-professional nature of our initial meeting. We should address it."

"Alright. How about this? You need a job. I need a secretary. We both need lunch."

She pursed her lips. "So we go to lunch?"

"Sure. But I'm not just any old sort of lawyer."

"So I'm not likely to be any old sort of secretary."

"Maybe neither of us quite fits any established molds. Maybe we can write our own rules."

"What if it turns out we can't stand each other?"

Mason laughed. "I'm sure there will be plenty of times you can't stand me."

"I don't scare easily."

"That is obvious, since you're still here."

"So we start with lunch?"

"Yes. A time for everything. Right now, we celebrate." He stood and walked over to the door that separated their offices, held it open for her.

She lingered a few moments, giving it all a little more thought. "Alright. Why not?"

Della joined him - and stopped short at the sight of his office. "Oh."

Mason looked at the scene before him and considered how it must look to her. "Um, yes. Well, it's not usually this bad."

"Mm."

He stepped inside, scooped up his keys, and looked around for his hat. He flinched when he saw her by his desk, examining the piles of mail that had merged together and were now slipping and sliding precariously toward the edges. She looked up suddenly, but rather than let her catch his eye, he resumed his search for the missing hat like the coward he'd never known he was.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice muffled. He turned and saw she had stooped down to reach something under his desk. When she straightened up, he beheld the rogue hat in her hands.

He snapped his fingers. "That's right! I forgot I'd tossed it across...the, um…"

She watched him feign the throwing motion with his arm, turned to see what target he was aiming at behind her. She regarded the bust of Blackstone with amusement. "Is this his hat then?"

"Apparently, he misplaced his other one."

"I see." She placed it on top of Blackstone's head, the brim properly straight.

Mason walked over and tipped it back a little.

"He is rolling over in his grave right now," Della admonished him.

"Yes, but I feel better."

"You know what would make me feel better?" she asked, eyeing the cluttered desk.

"Meatloaf," was Mason's deliberately obtuse response.

"No."

"Sure it will." He tugged at her elbow. "We have a book discussion to attend."

"I'm not sure about your priorities," Della replied skeptically. "This might not work after all."

"Trust me. It'll be fine."

"Trust you."

"Yeah."

"Against my better judgment, I do."

He smiled. "I'll take it. Thank you. And congratulations."

She smiled back. "Thank you. Oh! I almost forgot." She hurried back to the other office and reemerged with her own hat, gloves, a purse - and the romance novel. "Just in case."

"You know, I still haven't read that one."

"I did."

"Did you? Really?"

"Mm-hm."

"What did you think?"

"I'll save the specifics for the discussion. But I'll tell you this: it was dreadful."

"So you don't recommend it?" he asked, holding the door to the hallway open for her.

"Oh, absolutely. It was dreadful, but in a highly entertaining way."

"Like a train wreck."

"Exactly. I couldn't put it down."

"I can't wait to get started," Mason said.

"I wonder what's next," Della mused.

He took the book.

She took his arm.

-0-

The diner's Wednesday special made Della a believer in meatloaf. But she still preferred the apple pie.

Mason made sure the dance floor was open. This time, he threw in a couple slow songs.

The book discussion group was oh-for-two with their agenda. They left the waitress's tip inside the romance novel on the table.

The End