Local Hero

in and joining them for dinner and charming Radley, all in a matter of minutes. She wasn’t used to people popping into her life. And she didn’t like it.
    Radley loved it. Hester picked up a sharpened pencil with the bank’s logo on the side. He’d practically glowed with excitement and hadn’t been able to speak of anything else even after Mitch Dempsey had left.
    She could be grateful for one thing. The visit had taken Radley’s mind off the new school. Radley had always made friends easily, and if this Mitch was willing to give her son some pleasure, she shouldn’t criticize. In any case, the man seemed harmless enough. Hester refused to admit to the uncomfortable thrill she’d experienced when his hand had closed over hers. What possible trouble could come from a man who wrote comic books for a living? She caught herself chewing at her lipstick at the question.
    The knock on the door was brief and cheerful. Before she could call out, it was pushed open.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Wallace. I’m Kay Lorimar, your assistant. Remember, we met for a few minutes a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Yes, good morning, Kay.” Her assistant was everything Hester had always wanted to be herself: petite, well-rounded, blond, with small delicate features. She folded her hands on the fresh blotter and tried to look authoritative.
    “Sorry I’m late.” Kay smiled and didn’t look the least bit sorry. “Everything takes longer than you think it does on Monday. Even if I pretend it’s Tuesday, it doesn’t seem to help. I don’t know why. Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, thank you, I’ve an appointment in a few minutes.”
    “Just ring if you change your mind.” Kay paused at the door. “This place could sure use some cheering up, it’s dark as a dungeon. Mr. Blowfield, that’s who you’re replacing, he liked things dull—matched him, you know.” Her smile was ingenuous, but Hester hesitated to answer it. It would hardly do for her to get a reputation as a gossip the first day on the job. “Anyway, if you decide to do any redecorating, let me know. My roommate’s into interior design. He’s a real artist.”
    “Thank you.” How was she supposed to run an office with a pert little cheerleader in tow? Hester wondered. One day at a time. “Just send Mr. and Mrs. Browning in when they arrive, Kay.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” She sure was more pleasant to look at than old Blowfield, Kay thought. But it looked as if she had the same soul. “Loan application forms are in the bottom left drawer of the desk, arranged according to type. Legal pads in the right. Bank stationery, top right. The list of current interest rates are in the middle drawer. The Brownings are looking for a loan to remodel their loft as they’re expecting a child. He’s in electronics; she works part-time at Bloomingdale’s. They’ve been advised what papers to bring with them. I can make copies while they’re here.”
    Hester lifted her brow. “Thank you, Kay,” she said, not certain whether to be amused or impressed.
    When the door closed again, Hester sat back and smiled. The office might be dull, but if the morning was any indication, nothing else at National Trust was going to be.
    * * *
    Mitch liked having a window that faced the front of the building. That way, whenever he took a break, he could watch the comings and goings. After five years, he figured he knew every tenant by sight and half of them by name. When things were slow or, better, when he was ahead of the game, he whiled away time by sketching the more interesting of them. If his time stretched further, he made a story line to go with the faces.
    He considered it the best of practice because it amused him. Occasionally there was a face interesting enough to warrant special attention. Sometimes it was a cabdriver or a delivery boy. Mitch had learned to look close and quick, then sketch from lingering impressions. Years before, he had sketched faces for a living, if a pitiful one. Now he sketched them for entertainment and was a great deal more satisfied.
    He spotted Hester and her son when they were still half a block away. The red coat she wore stood out like a beacon. It certainly made a statement, Mitch mused as he picked up his pencil. He wondered if the coolly distant Mrs. Wallace realized what signals she was sending out. He doubted it.
    He didn’t need to see her face to draw it. Already there were a half-a-dozen rough sketches of her tossed on the table in