TITLE: Undeniable, Part One

RATING: PG-13 (content)

SPOILERS: "Undeclared" (fan fiction)

SUMMARY: Moira Elisabeth Street reflects on the interweavings of her

daughter's life as Della arrives for a visit... with a guest.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

NOTES: Many thanks to Debra for her proofreading expertise. She does a

fantastic job, and any mistakes now are my own. Thanks also to everyone for

their support.

************************

Leaning back in a sturdy black wrought iron chair, Moira Elisabeth Street

lowered her glass of iced tea to the patio table. The ice settled with the

effort and Moira sighed. Small tendrils of silver hair stirred in the

breeze, dancing lightly across high cheekbones. They pirouetted across her

watchful eyes as the wind rustled in the leaves, signaling a change of

direction.

The laughter of small children lilted to her ears and she smiled. Turning,

she watched her grandchildren romping barefoot across the grass. Emma, the

baby, squealed in delight as she tottered away from the teasing of her

brother and into the waiting arms of her mother, Rebecca. Unwilling to give

up his share of the attention, however, her brother Jason charged, full

speed ahead. Together, mother, daughter, and son collapsed onto the carpet

of green. Peals of laughter echoed, their mother’s the loudest of them.

Barely audible over the rustle of leaves and the children’s laughter came

the slightest squeak. Translucent blue-grey eyes dusted over the lawn. They

landed a steady gaze upon the lawn swing. Shaded by trellises overgrown

with fragrant clematis, it was the last thing her late husband, Patrick,

built before his death.

Moira lowered her eyelids, and listened to the steady rhythm of the chains

squeaking their protest as her eldest son, Michael, and his brother-in-law,

George, swung to and fro. She noted their distant male gazes as they

watched the children playing with their mother, and knew they didn’t quite

comprehend the bond between mother and child. Slowly but surely enmeshed in

memories, she left the present behind her.

The mother of three, Moira had come to understand the mysteries of

motherhood with the birth of Michael over thirty years earlier. It had been

a rough start. She had trembled every time she changed his diapers and

fretted about the safety of the so-called safety pins. When he had cried,

she had cried, unsure of what to do. //He can’t be hungry…he just ate. No,

I already changed his diaper…Why won’t he stop? What am I doing wrong?//

Later, as Michael, just learning to walk, had been teetering around

corners, Rebecca had been born. Moira found that having survived her

baptism by fire, tending to Rebecca had seemed infinitely easier. //Oh,

she’s crying...maybe an upset tummy? Now where’s that ginger ale...?// It

was with Rebecca that she had learned the bonds of mother and daughter --

the empathy, the premonitions, and the joy of watching her grow into a

beautiful little girl.

It had been her youngest child, Della, who benefited the most from Moira’s

lessons learned. Moira loved all three of her children, but it had been

Della on which she and Patrick doted. Della always had cute dresses and

hats to wear for Sundays and new toys for every occasionor for no occasion

at all. At night, Patrick had snuffed out his pipe, stretched out on the

tiny twin bed with his daughter, and read her the stories from his own

childhood.

As Della had grown older, Moira began to teach her of her heritage.

Saturdays had been spent in the kitchen, tasting and recreating recipes of

the Old World. They had talked and laughed, all the while sharing their

thoughts and troubles. And when they had emerged from the kitchen, each

covered in sifted flour and baking powder, it had been with smiles and

laughter. Between them had grown a silent language -- a silent understanding.

When Della had been born, Patrick had been doing well. Working diligently,

he had earned his way from the position of lowly teller to a position in

bank management. Feeling secure, he had moved his family to town and set

about providing them with all the trappings of a middle class lifestyle.

For Michael and Rebecca, they had subscribed to diaper services; in the

living room, they’d had a radio and in the kitchen a telephone. And on

Fridays, Moira’d had a washing machine in which to do the week’s laundry.

But the American economy runs in cycles and even the Street family had not

ridden the crest of the wave forever. As Della finished school, the bank

for which Patrick worked had taken a downward turn. Assets had plummeted,

bad investments had sucked away profits, and confidence had waned. Patrick

had found himself unemployed for the first time in his life.

With Michael away in the Army and Rebecca already married, the burden had

fallen upon Della to help support her family. Through a family friend,

Moira had arranged a position for her as a legal secretary. Located in Los

Angeles, the firm, although small, had good prospects, the friend said. So,

with the last of her own money, Moira had shuttled her baby girl off to

California.

Taking her place at the law firm, Della had been assigned to the

secretarial pool. It hadn’t been long before, the younger partner had noted

her diligence and dedication and had taken an interest in her work. Within

a few months, she had been promoted to the position of legal secretary to

the younger partner, Mr. Perry Mason.

By the time Moira had made her first trip to Los Angeles in the late

1950’s, that law partnership had been long dissolved. Mason, more

interested in criminal law than his partners, had begun his own practice;

Della had left the firm with him and taken on the responsible position of

managing the details of his new practice.

Della had written frequently of her boss in the weekly letters home. These

letters, however, had focused not on the man, but on the intricate cases

which were quickly becoming his specialty. With growing curiosity about her

daughter’s boss, Moira had fashioned a mental image of a young, bookish

man, thin and wiry, with pale skin. When she had met Mason for the first

time, she had been pleasantly surprised by both his manner and his appearance.

It had been after seven o’clock the night she and Della had arrived at

Clade’s, a steakhouse with a rising reputation at the time. The scent of

steak mingled with the aroma of freshly baked potatoes, swirled lightly

with the gentle murmur of conversation around them.

Della paused just inside, looking about the dimly lit room. Smiling, she

spotted her quarry and crossed to the bar.

"Mister Mason, I’d like you to meet my mother, Moira Street," Della said.

Then turning to her mother, she said, "and Mother, this is my boss, Mr.

Perry Mason."

A man with deeply set, expressive eyes, Mason stood with his feet

shoulder-width apart, his arms folded across his chest, as though awaiting

a fight. Looking up from the floor, he offered a rare smile to Della and

Moira. A light in his eyes showed the warm regard in which he held Della as

he looked first to her, then to Moira.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Street," he said, extending his hand.

Observing him carefully, as she shook his hand, Moira was amazed that such

a towering man had such a gentle touch. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet

you, Mister Mason, although I feel as if I know you already; Della mentions

you often in her letters."

"She certainly has a lot of faith in me," Mason replied. "Sometimes more

than I have in myself." Della shot him a glance. He grimaced, then gestured

to an empty booth nearby. "Shall we?"

Moira hesitated only a moment. "Indeed," she said.

From the corner of her eye, she watched with a spark of motherly interest,

as Mason, gently cradling Della’s elbow in his arm, and placing his hand on

the small of her back, guided her to the booth. The interest kindled into a

small flame as she recognized the flicker of admiration in his eyes. Moira

bristled slightly as she watched Della slide into the booth next to him.

As they slid into the booth, their waiter appeared on que. Tucked under his

arm were three menus, a pad and pencil in his hand. "Mister Mason, Miss

Street." He gave a nod of greeting.

"Evening, Robby," Mason replied. He clasped his hands on the table before

him. "Robby, I'd like you to meet Miss Street's mother, Moira Street. Mrs.

Street, Robby Tanner."

Moira gave the boy a kindly smile as he looked to her. His features were

young, brimming with enthusiasm that Moira wished she could share. "Nice to

meet you, ma'am," he said, smiling in return.

"And you, Robby."

Robby looked back to Mason. "The usual, or off the menu tonight, Mister Mason?"

"I believe Mrs. Street will need a menu tonight," the lawyer replied.

"Sure thing." Robby eagerly offered a menu, printed on thick cardstock.

"The swordfish is fresh in tonight and the specials are on the back."

Moira took the menu. As she glanced over it, the conversation continued

around her.

"Robby," Della began, "how's your mother?"

"Oh, she's swell, Miss Street. She's awfully thankful for the help you two

gave us on that property thing. Tickled her to death to meet the 'famous'

Mister Mason." He paused. "She's still hurt you won't take her money."

"You two need to hold onto all you have to get you through school, Robby.

Keep working hard and playing football the way you do, and some school will

snatch you right up."

Robby looked to Della Street. "You really think so?"

"I certainly do."

"Here's hoping." Robby gave a laugh. "You folks hungry?"

"Starving."

Mason turned to Della. "You, Miss Street, are always starved." A grin

flickered across his serious countenance.

"I can't help myself. My boss is an absolute slave driver. Works up a

girl's appetite." Moira watched over the edge of her menu as Della looked

to Mason with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She then turned to Robby.

"I'll have my usual, Robby. Medium-well and lots of butter."

The young man made notes on his pad. "Mrs. Street?"

Moira blinked. "Hm?" Clearing the cobwebs from her mind, she shook her

head. "I'll have the filet, medium-well and a potato, please."

Robby's pencil poised over the pad. "Mister Mason?"

"Ribeye, medium-well. And fried potatoes."

"Ribeye and fried potatoes," Robby echoed, jotting down the order. He took

the menu from Moira. "I'll have these out soon."

Della smiled. "Thanks, Robby." They all watched as the youth disappeared

into the kitchen.

"He seems like a good kid," Moira observed.

"He is," Mason said, "just not all that lucky. His father was killed in the

service, leaving Robby and his mother with a large number of debts. Robby

and his mother have been working two jobs to pay them off. Then, a few

months ago, the bank tried to sell their mortgage to a developer."

"That's when Perry decided to get involved. He went in, talked to Robby's

mother, the bankers, and managed to come up with a settlement. They sold

off part of the property instead of the whole lot. That gave Robby and his

mother the money to pay off most of his father's debts." Della gave a smile

radiating with pride.

"Robby seems to know you two pretty well," Moira commented. Idly, she

unfolded her napkin into her lap. She cast a sidelong glance to her daughter.

"We're here pretty frequently, but usually much later." Della cleared her

throat. She blushed slightly. As she opened her mouth to speak, it was

Mason who spoke first.

"How was your trip down?" he asked.

"It was wonderful. My first trip on an airplane," Moira admitted. She

smiled, meeting the interested gleam in Mason's eye. "I'm not sure Patrick

-- Mister Street -- would enjoy it, but I certainly did. Seeing all those

houses and cities from so far up -- it was beautiful."

"Did you talk to Mike or Rebecca before you left?"

Moira took a sip of her water, then nodded. "Mike ships out again next

week. He thinks they're sending him to the Orient somewhere. Rebecca found

out only Monday that she's expecting. She and George are terribly nervous.

Still, they send their love and say they're sorry you didn't make it down

for your grandmother's birthday."

Della gave a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, too. We got caught up in a case --"

Mason reached over, dropping his hand over Della's. "*I* got caught up in a

case." He smiled to Moira. "I promise to make sure she takes a trip home

soon."

"Oh?" Della arched her brows, folding her arms across her chest. Moira

smiled in amusement. "And what will you do, Mister Mason, while *I* go on

vacation?"

"Why, stay home and knit, of course." Mason's eyes glinted with mischief

over the rim of his glass. Moira and Della both allowed ripples of laughter

to bubble to the surface.

Once their dinner arrived, the evening passed with easy conversation and

excellent food. Mason, she found, was intelligent and well spoken -- as a

lawyer should be, she reasoned. His sense of humor was as dry as an aged

sherry and she discovered she appreciated his sharp wit. But he also knew

when to listen; he spent most of the evening in silence, listening as she

and Della swapped stories of home. His dark eyes never lost their keen

interest. Even as he ate, he chewed thoughtfully and never missed a word.

When he was able, he interjected a comment or question.

Eventually, Moira pushed away her plate. "I can't eat another bite."

"That makes two of us," Della commented. She repeated the action, then

leant back in the booth and gave off a long sigh. "I won't eat again for a

week."

"Or at least until tomorrow morning."

Della tossed Mason a glare as their waiter, Robby, approached. "Check,

Mister Mason?"

"Yes, Robby, thank you." Reaching up, Mason took the check.

"Chief, I thought we agreed *I* was going to get dinner tonight."

Mason withdrew two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. "No, *you* agreed

you were going to get dinner tonight. If you will recall our conversation

earlier this evening, *I* said nothing of the sort." He smiled, handing the

bills to Robby. "You take what's left of this and stick it back somewhere."

"Gee, thanks, Mister Mason!" Robby beamed.

Moira watched as Della's ire melted. The steel in her hazel eyes softened

as she watched Mason slip from the booth. "You -- did that on purpose,"

Della said. Her voice had dropped slightly and her eyes danced.

"I admit nothing." Mason offered his hand, helping Della to her feet.

"Della, if a handsome man like Mister Mason offers to pay for dinner, you

should let him. Heaven knows *I* would." Moira smiled up at Mason as he

assisted her out of the booth. "Thank you."

"Thank *you*." Mason chuckled. He held open the door for her and Della then

followed them out onto the sidewalk. There, Della linked her arm in his and

the trio sauntered toward the parking lot.

"That was a wonderful thing you did for Robby," Della said quietly. "He'll

be talking about that tip for a week."

The lawyer reached over and patted Della's hand. "He deserves it."

Moira slipped her purse over her wrist and held it to her body. She walked

beside the two, falling only a half-step behind and feeling somewhat out of

place. They paused beside Della's car. She cleared her throat. "It’s been a

wonderful evening. Thank you very much for dinner, Mister Mason."

Mason smiled. "You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Street," he said. "It was a

pleasure to meet you." He looked at Della. "Will the two of you all right

getting home?"

"We’ll be just fine, Chief. We’ll slip right into the car and just zip

home." Her eyes took on an impish gleam. "And don’t even *think* of

following me home this time."

"I wouldn’t dream of it." A grin twitched across Mason’s lips and he

concealed it, rubbing his index finger just above his lip. "I’ll leave you

two ladies to your evening."

Della smiled warmly up at him. Impulsively, she took two steps toward him

and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek. "Good night, Perry," she said. She

drew back, pausing to look him in the eye. "Thank you."

Looking from Della to Mason and back again, it was impossible for Moira to

miss the spark of electricity that permeated the air. Her motherly interest

blazed again as she watched Mason smile down at Della and squeeze her hand

slightly. "Good night, Della."

Della didn’t move as Mason pulled away and headed down the sidewalk. Bathed

in the pale yellow light of the street lamp, she stood watching until

Mason’s well-defined form disappeared from view.

Moira felt suddenly awkward; as though she were intruding into a world

created strictly for Mason and Della. After a long moment, Della whirled,

looking back at her. She forced a smile then quickly turned her head as a

blush crept across her cheeks. "Let’s head home, Mom."

"Of course," Moira said.

Moira remembered vividly the faint fresh smell left by the afternoon rain

as the breeze drifted over them, and the yellow light cast down from the

street lamps that dotted their route as they had driven the short distance

to Della’s apartment. In retrospect, Moira knew she could have lectured

Della about how no good could come of mixing business with pleasure. But

she had raised her children to think for themselves; to deny Della that

opportunity would have done nothing, save turn her daughter against her.

And to have denied Della the feelings stirring within her heart, well, that

would have been the equivalent of starving her for air. As her mother,

Moira hadn’t been able to bring herself to do either. She could only sigh

and hope all would work out for the best.

The crunching of gravel in the driveway snapped Moira from her memories.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she leaned forward in her chair. She saw

the silhouette of a car with long, simple lines, probably a Cadillac

convertible slow to a stop in the drive. In the driver’s seat she made out

one profile, capped with brownish-auburn hair.

Pulling the car to a halt and engaging the parking brake, the driver

climbed out of the automobile. The petite female form rounded the back of

the car, and reached into the passenger’s seat. She moved lithely, with

excitement, and a spring in her step. Lifting a bundle into her arms, the

figure rounded the back of the car once again and bounded up the sidewalk.

Standing before her, lit from behind by the afternoon sun, Della Street

fairly beamed at her mother. "Hello, Mom," she said.

Moira rose slowly from her chair. She drew her daughter into a hug, holding

her for a moment longer than necessary. Releasing her, she drew back. "I’m

so glad you could make it home, Della," Moira replied.

She focused on the bundle Della held in her arms and her eyes showed a

trace of anxiety as she returned her gaze to her daughter’s glowing face.

The bundle Della held in her arms squirmed as Moira peeled back the corner

of a soft knit blanket, revealing the squinting features of a baby.

"And who did you bring with you today?" she asked, her heart already

knowing the answer.

Pursing her lips, Della met her mother’s eyes with her own. A silent moment

passed between them. "This," she said, unwrapping the child, "is Brennan,

Momma. My daughter, Brennan Elisabeth… Mason."

Moira looked hungrily at the bundle, her wise eyes glassing with tears. She

swallowed. "May I?"

"Of course." Della gingerly passed the child to her grandmother. As Moira

lowered herself back into the wrought iron chair, she placed the baby into

the crook of her arm. Della knelt beside her, gently laying a hand over

Brennan’s forehead. She looked up to her mother, eyes burdened with tears.

"H-Happy Mother’s Day, Mom."

Moira Street raised her eyes from the baby to those of her youngest

daughter. A long moment passed as she searched for the right words. Finding

none, she said simply, "Happy Mother’s Day, Della."

The End, Part One'