Local Hero (12 page)

“I will.” Radley gathered up his coat and backpack. Then he walked to Mitch and hugged him. The words that had been on the tip of Hester's tongue dried up. “Thanks for the drawing board and everything. It's really neat.”

“You're welcome. See you Monday.” He waited until Hester was at the door. “Seven thirty.”

She nodded and closed the door quietly behind her.

Chapter 7

She could have made excuses, but the fact was, Hester didn't want to. She knew Mitch had hustled her into this dinner date, but as she crossed the wide leather belt at her waist and secured it, she discovered she didn't mind. In fact, she was relieved that he'd made the decision for her—almost.

The nerves were there. She stood in front of the bureau mirror and took a few long, deep breaths. Yes, there were nerves, but they weren't the stomach-roiling sort she experienced when she went on job interviews. Though she wasn't quite sure where her feelings lay when it came to Mitch Dempsey, she was glad to be certain she wasn't afraid.

Picking up her brush, she studied her reflection as she smoothed her hair. She didn't look nervous, Hester decided. That was another point in her favor. The black wool dress was flattering with its deep cowl neck and nipped-in waist. The red slash of belt accented the line before the skirt flared out. For some reason, red gave her confidence. She considered the bold color another kind of defense for a far-from-bold person.

She fixed oversized scarlet swirls at her ears. Like most of her wardrobe, the dress was practical. It could go to the office, to a PTA meeting or a business lunch. Tonight, she thought with a half smile, it was going on a date.

Hester tried not to dwell on how long it had been since she'd been on a date, but comforted herself with the fact that she knew Mitch well enough to keep up an easy conversation through an evening. An adult evening. As much as she adored Radley, she couldn't help but look forward to it.

When she heard the knock, she gave herself a last quick check, then went to answer. The moment she opened the door, her confidence vanished.

He didn't look like Mitch. Gone were the scruffy jeans and baggy sweatshirts. This man wore a dark suit with a pale blue shirt. And a tie. The top button of the shirt was open, and the tie of dark blue silk was knotted loose and low, but it was still a tie. He was clean-shaven, and though some might have thought he still needed a trim, his hair waved dark and glossy over his ears and the collar of his shirt.

Hester was suddenly and painfully shy.

She looked terrific. Mitch felt a moment's awkwardness himself as he looked at her. Her evening shoes put her to within an inch of his height so that they were eye to eye. It was the wariness in hers that had him relaxing with a smile.

“Looks like I picked the right color.” He offered her an armful of red roses.

She knew it was foolish for a woman of her age to be flustered by something as simple as flowers. But her heart rushed up to her throat as she gathered them to her.

“Did you forget your line again?” he murmured.

“My line?”

“Thank you.”

The scent of the roses flowed around her, soft and sweet. “Thank you.”

He touched one of the petals. He already knew her skin felt much the same. “Now you're supposed to put them in water.”

Feeling a great deal more than foolish, Hester stepped back. “Of course. Come in.”

“The apartment feels different without Rad,” he commented when Hester went to get a vase.

“I know. Whenever he goes to a sleepover, it takes me hours to get used to the quiet.” He'd followed her into the kitchen. Hester busied herself with arranging the roses. I am a grown woman, she reminded herself, and just because I haven't been on a date since high school doesn't mean I don't remember how.

“What do you usually do when you have a free evening?”

“Oh, I read, watch a late movie.” She turned with the vase and nearly collided with him. Water sloshed dangerously close to the top of the vase.

“The eye's barely noticeable now.” He lifted a fingertip to where the bruise had faded to a shadow.

“It wasn't such a calamity.” Her throat had tightened. Grown woman or not, she found herself enormously glad that the vase of roses was between them. “I'll get my coat.”

After carrying the roses to the table beside the sofa, Hester went to the closet. She slipped one arm into the sleeve before Mitch came up behind her to help her finish. He made such an ordinary task sensual, she thought as she stared straight ahead. He brushed his hands over her shoulders, lingered, then trailed them down her arms before bringing them up again to gently release her hair from the coat collar.

Hester's hands were balled into fists as she turned her head. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” With his hands on her shoulders, Mitch turned her to face him. “Maybe you'll feel better if we get this out of the way now.” He kept his hands where they were and touched his lips, firm and warm, to hers. Hester's rigid hands went lax. There was nothing demanding or passionate in the kiss. It moved her unbearably with its understanding.

“Feel better?” Mitch murmured.

“I'm not sure.”

With a laugh, he touched his lips to hers again. “Well, I do.” Linking his hand with hers, he walked to the door.

***

The restaurant was French, subdued and very exclusive. The pale flowered walls glowed in the quiet light and the flicker of candles. Diners murmured their private conversations over linen cloths and crystal stemware. The hustle and bustle of the streets were shut out by beveled glass doors.

“Ah, Monsieur Dempsey, we haven't seen you in some time.” The maître d' stepped forward to greet him.

“You know I always come back for your snails.”

With a laugh, the maître d' waved a waiter aside.

“Good evening,
mademoiselle
. I'll take you to your table.”

The little booth was candlelit and secluded, a place for hand-holding and intimate secrets. Hester's leg brushed Mitch's as they settled.

“The sommelier will be right with you. Enjoy your evening.”

“No need to ask if you've been here before.”

“From time to time I get tired of frozen pizza. Would you like champagne?”

“I'd love it.”

He ordered a bottle, pleasing the wine steward with the vintage. Hester opened her menu and sighed over the elegant foods. “I'm going to remember this the next time I'm biting into half a tuna sandwich between appointments.”

“You like your job?”

“Very much.” She wondered if
soufflé de crabe
was what it sounded like. “Rosen can be a pain, but he does push you to be efficient.”

“And you like being efficient.”

“It's important to me.”

“What else is, other than Rad?”

“Security.” She looked over at him with a half smile. “I suppose that has to do with Rad. The truth is, anything that's been important to me over the last few years has to do with Rad.”

She glanced up as the steward brought the wine and began his routine for Mitch's approval. Hester watched the wine rise in her fluted glass, pale gold and frothy. “To Rad, then,” Mitch said as he lifted his glass to touch hers. “And his fascinating mother.”

Hester sipped, a bit stunned that anything could taste so good. She'd had champagne before, but like everything that had to do with Mitch, it hadn't been quite like this. “I've never considered myself fascinating.”

“A beautiful woman raising a boy on her own in one of the toughest cities in the world fascinates me.” He sipped and grinned. “Added to that, you do have terrific legs, Hester.”

She laughed, and even when he slipped his hand over hers, felt no embarrassment. “So you said before. They're long, anyway. I was taller than my brother until he was out of high school. It infuriated him, and I had to live down the name Stretch.”

“Mine was String.”

“String?”

“You know those pictures of the eighty-pound weakling? That was me.”

Over the rim of her glass, Hester studied the way he filled out the suit jacket. “I don't believe it.”

“One day, if I'm drunk enough, I'll show you pictures.”

Mitch ordered in flawless French that had Hester staring. This was the comic book writer, she thought, who built snow forts and talked to his dog. Catching the look, Mitch lifted a brow. “I spent a couple of summers in Paris during high school.”

“Oh.” It reminded her forcefully where he'd come from. “You said you didn't have any brothers or sisters. Do your parents live in New York?”

“No.” He broke off a hunk of crusty French bread. “My mother zips in from time to time to shop or go to the theater, and my father might come in occasionally on business, but New York isn't their style. They still live most of the year in Newport, where I grew up.”

“Oh, Newport. We drove through once when I was a kid. We'd always take these rambling car vacations in the summer.” She tucked her hair behind her ear in an unconscious gesture that gave him a tantalizing view of her throat. “I remember the houses, the enormous mansions with the pillars and flowers and ornamental trees. We even took pictures. It was hard to believe anyone really lived there.” Then she caught herself up abruptly and glanced over at Mitch's amused face. “You did.”

“It's funny. I spent some time with binoculars watching the tourists in the summer. I might have homed in on your family.”

“We were the ones in the station wagon with the suitcases strapped to the roof.”

“Sure, I remember you.” He offered her a piece of bread. “I envied you a great deal.”

“Really?” She paused with her butter knife in midair. “Why?”

“Because you were going on vacation and eating hot dogs. You were staying in motels with soda machines outside the door and playing car bingo between cities.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I suppose that sums it up.”

“I'm not pulling poor-little-rich boy,” he added when he saw the change in her eyes. “I'm just saying that having a big house isn't necessarily better than having a station wagon.” He added more wine to her glass. “In any case, I finished my rebellious money-is-beneath-me stage a long time ago.”

“I don't know if I can believe that from someone who lets dust collect on his Louis Quinze.”

“That's not rebellion, that's laziness.”

“Not to mention sinful,” she put in. “It makes me itch for a polishing cloth and lemon oil.”

“Any time you want to rub my mahogany, feel free.”

She lifted a brow when he smiled at her. “So what did you do during your rebellious stage?”

Her fingertips grazed his. It was one of the few times she'd touched him without coaxing. Mitch lifted his gaze from their hands to her face. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then we'll make a deal. One slightly abridged life story for another.”

It wasn't the wine that was making her reckless, Hester knew, but him. “All right. Yours first.”

“We'll start off by saying my parents wanted me to be an architect. It was the only practical and acceptable profession they could see me using my drawing abilities for. The stories I made up didn't really appall them; they merely baffled them—so they were easily ignored. Straight out of high school, I decided to sacrifice my life to art.”

Their appetizers were served. Mitch sighed approvingly over his escargots.

“So you came to New York?”

“No, New Orleans. At that time my money was still in trusts, though I doubt I would have used it, in any case. Since I refused to use my parents' financial backing, New Orleans was as close to Paris as I could afford to get. God, I loved it. I starved, but I loved the city. Those dripping, steamy afternoons, the smell of the river. It was my first great adventure. Want one of these? They're incredible.”

“No, I—”

“Come on, you'll thank me.” He lifted his fork to her lips. Reluctantly, Hester parted them and accepted.

“Oh.” The flavor streamed, warm and exotic, over her tongue. “It's not what I expected.”

“The best things usually aren't.”

She lifted her glass and wondered what Radley's reaction would be when she told him she'd eaten a snail. “So what did you do in New Orleans?”

“I set up an easel in Jackson Square and made my living sketching tourists and selling watercolors. For three years I lived in one room where I baked in the summer and froze in the winter and considered myself one lucky guy.”

“What happened?”

“There was a woman. I thought I was crazy about her and vice versa. She modeled for me when I was going through my Matisse period. You should have seen me then. My hair was about your length, and I wore it pulled back and fastened with a leather thong. I even had a gold earring in my left ear.”

“You wore an earring?”

“Don't smirk, they're very fashionable now. I was ahead of my time.” Appetizers were cleared away to make room for green salads. “Anyway, we were going to play house in my miserable little room. One night, when I'd had a little too much wine, I told her about my parents and how they'd never understood my artistic drive. She got absolutely furious.”

“She was angry with your parents?”

“You are sweet,” he said unexpectedly, and kissed her hand. “No, she was angry with me. I was rich and hadn't told her. I had piles of money and expected her to be satisfied with one filthy little room in the Quarter where she had to cook red beans and rice on a hot plate. The funny thing was she really cared for me when she'd thought I was poor, but when she found out I wasn't and that I didn't intend to use what was available to me—and, by association, to her—she was infuriated. We had one hell of a fight, where she let me know what she really thought of me and my work.”

Hester could picture him, young, idealistic and struggling. “People say things they don't mean when they're angry.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “Yes, very sweet.” His hand remained on hers as he continued. “Anyway, she left and gave me the opportunity to take stock of myself. For three years I'd been living day to day, telling myself I was a great artist whose time was coming. The truth was I wasn't a great artist. I was a clever one, but I'd never be a great one. So I left New Orleans for New York and commercial art. I was good. I worked fast tucked in my little cubicle and generally made the client happy—and I was miserable. But my credentials there got me a spot at Universal, originally as an inker, then as an artist. And then”—he lifted his glass in salute—“there was Zark. The rest is history.”