We’d gone the bake sale route. Now we needed some serious cash.
“Having fun, Daisy?” Mr. February, who also happened to be my very handsome husband, Joe Daly, came over and wrapped his arm around me.
I grinned and leaned into his embrace.
Not only did we want to save the character of our beloved Millbury, but the rambling farmhouse would be turned into a community center, providing badly needed recreation space for the local children.
Somehow my best friend, Martha, secretary of the Society and a fiery redhead, had convinced these twelve brave souls to take it off for the sake of historical preservation. Perhaps the fact that it would benefit the children had been the motivating factor for these guys, and not so much Martha’s salesmanship or, should I say, relentless arm-twisting.
“It’s crazy out there tonight,” Joe said to me. “Think you might need a couple of bouncers for the next guy.”
There was high excitement in the air. Tonight we would see the crème de la crème.
Dark and dangerous Detective Serrano, in the flesh.
Literally.
Although these guys weren’t completely baring it all. Depending on the way they made a living, the photographer had used a discreetly placed object to cover the family jewels, like a fire helmet, a barbershop chair, or a farming implement.
We were working in the garage of the carriage house, which was still a beautiful space with its heavy wooden timbers overhead and whitewashed walls. It was even heated, which was a definite plus on an early winter’s night. The building looked like an L-shaped barn, with the long part being the garage with its three wide mahogany doors. In the summer, swathes of orange daylilies grew along the sides of the house, which was half fieldstone on the bottom and light green siding above.
It would certainly have been easier to produce this calendar in the summer when we could have used outdoor locations, but seeing as it was early November, the clock was ticking to get it printed and into the stores in time for Christmas.
By the way, I’m Daisy Buchanan, the fifty-something-year-old proprietress of Millbury’s antiques and sewing notions store Sometimes a Great Notion. Actually I’m fifty-eight, but fifty-something sounds better. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married. Joe was secure enough in his masculinity that he didn’t have a problem with that, or about sitting bare-bottomed on his lovingly restored vintage bicycle.
The shooting had been going on since last Wednesday, with one or two guys each day. Joe had had his turn on Monday, and yesterday the local butcher brought a string of fat Italian sausages with him as his prop, which caused more than a little hilarity.
All in all, this project had been a lot of fun. Our models had been pretty good-natured about the whole thing. Privately, I think they’d quite enjoyed the fuss.
Some of them, like the firefighters, had been filmed in situ, but for the rest we’d created a set inside the garage.
Tonight Joe had helped us by hauling in bales of hay and stacks of gourds because first up under the lights was Mr. October, a former mailman whose hobby was growing giant pumpkins. He was in his early sixties now, but still in good shape thanks to years of extreme gardening.
The plan was for him to hold a pumpkin in front of the essential bits, and there was lots of cheerful ribbing going on.
“Hey, that’s a mini pumpkin!” Sam yelled, still fully clothed, as Martha gave him his prop. “I’m gonna need a bigger one than that!”
Eleanor Reid, president of the Society, and my other best friend in the world next to Martha, sidled up to us, her gray eyes sparkling with anticipation. She wore her usual all-black attire—a long-sleeved baseball shirt and yoga pants—which actually seemed to fit with her role as photographer’s assistant. Her white hair was cropped mannishly short.