His hair was cut in a Mohawk style, about an inch long, like the bristles on a silver-backed antique brush, and so blond it was almost white. The way some fair-skinned children get after a summer spent playing outside. And like a soft brush, it seemed to invite the touch of your fingers.
Roos had caused quite a stir himself around these parts during the week he’d been shooting. It was rumored he’d had almost as many liaisons as there were months in the calendar, including a dalliance with one of the married women. There was more than one jealous significant other who would be glad to see the back of him when he left town.
He winked at the local librarian who was doing a last minute polish of the carved pumpkins near us. In spite of his affectations, I had to acknowledge that he did have some charm. But give me Joe’s wholesome good looks or Serrano’s brooding, debonair appearance any day.
“Today’s cock, tomorrow’s feather duster,” Cyril muttered. He looked as if he would have spit on the ground if he was back in his junkyard and not in this garage that was nicer than a lot of people’s living rooms. “And I don’t know about being alone with that fancy pants bloke, neither.” He nodded toward Roos, who was busy setting up his camera. “Think I dassent turn my back to ’im.”
Joe cleared his throat. “So, Daisy, where’s Serrano?”
“Mr. July should be here any minute,” I said confidently, not even bothering to check my watch. Serrano always showed up on time for his rendezvous.
The librarian inhaled as if she could already catch a hint of his intoxicating aftershave in the air. “Ah. The hot detective. Every woman’s fantasy.”
Martha shook her head. “No. Trust me, dear. At our age, it’s a fantasy to have someone cook for you every night. Like Joe does for Daisy.”
My husband had blossomed into quite the gourmet cook, seeing as the tiny village of Millbury didn’t have a restaurant, only a diner that closed at 3 p.m. He’d convinced me to take early retirement two years ago from teaching high school and we’d moved into our former vacation home, a Greek Revival on Main Street. Joe had settled comfortably into country life, but it had been harder for me, and when I bid on a steamer trunk full of sewing notions at the local auction, it had been the inspiration to open my store. And my salvation.
So not only was I a resident, but as a store owner in Millbury, I was doubly interested in what happened to our little village.
Mr. October headed for the changing area that we’d set up with a wooden screen in the back of the garage. No one else would be allowed to stay for the actual shooting, except for the designated photographer’s assistants—Martha, Eleanor, and me.
“There have to be some perks of sitting through the insufferably dull Historical Society meetings,” Martha had declared when she’d made the arrangements.
Everyone else left, our model came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, and shooting began.
To protect his modesty as much as possible, we kept our backs turned until he was posed with his strategically placed pumpkin, and only came forward when requested to reposition an item on the set, or to hand Roos a roll of film.
After the photographer was satisfied with the shots, and the mailman was dressed once more, we opened the garage doors. Joe loaded the bales of hay back into Cyril’s truck. I swept the garage and the others removed the pumpkins.
“I’m going to catch a ride back to Millbury with Cyril, so I can let the puppy out,” Joe said, as he kissed me good-bye and handed me the keys to our old Subaru station wagon. “See you later.”
As I watched Joe and Cyril pull away in the truck, I blew out a breath against the guilty flutter in my chest for the imminent arrival of our next model.