Lie of the Needle(2)
She was wearing a gold wrap shirt, harem-style pants in a black-and-gold Japanese design, and high heels. The shirt gapped dangerously over her impressive curves, and I hoped the little snap fastener at her cleavage was up to the challenge, ready to give its all for God and country. Her bright red hair was twisted up into a thick knot, showing long shimmering earrings.
If need be, the photographer could always use her as another light reflector.
Eleanor Reid, president of the society and my other best friend in the world next to Martha, also 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 tonight with her role as photographer’s assistant. Her white hair was cropped mannishly short.
“There’s a huge crowd outside those garage doors,” she said in her husky voice. “All kinds of women from the village, not just from the Historical Society. Like a rock concert or something. Far out, man. I feel like I’m back at Woodstock.”
“How did you ever talk these guys into this, anyway?” Joe asked Martha. “I mean, I know I was a pushover, but it can’t have been that easy with everyone.”
“Well, some were easier than others,” she said with an arch look at Cyril, the cantankerous owner of the local salvage business.
He glared at her. “I still don’t know how I feel about taking my kit off in front of a bunch o’ gawping women.”
Cyril was originally from Yorkshire, England, and until recently, a bit of an outcast whose wardrobe left a lot to be desired. The village was still intrigued as to how he and Martha, a wealthy widow, had embarked on their strange and precarious new romance.
I grinned at them. As a former cheerleader, prom queen, and trophy wife, Martha had spent a lifetime perfecting her stage presence. Even in her early sixties, she was still a knockout. Cyril, despite his tough demeanor, had swiftly gone down for the count.
“Come on, man, be a sport,” Joe said. “We’ve all sacrificed our pride for a good cause.”
Cyril took his tweed cap off and ran a hand through his thick gray hair before jamming the cap back on his head. “I know, and that old bugger what owns the place has already scarpered to the bloody Outer Banks. So I hope a lot of people buy this damn calendar, and right quick.”
He was correct that the current owner of the historic property had no real emotional attachment to Millbury anymore. The only thing he cared about was getting a nice fat check to fund his retirement. He’d simply sell to the highest bidder.
I gave Martha a hug. “You did such an amazing job putting this together. And Cyril, don’t worry. We’ll keep our eyes closed, I promise.”
No women were allowed to stay for the actual shooting, well, 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.
Far from my words providing comfort, Cyril’s expression turned even more dour, if that was possible. But I knew there was no question he would come through. Cyril was nothing if not dependable.
At the rear of the garage, there was a wooden screen behind which the model could change. To protect his modesty as much as possible, we kept our backs turned until he was posed with his strategically placed item, and only came forward when requested to reposition something on the set or to hand Roos a new roll of film. The photographer was going old-school instead of using digital because he said he preferred the result.
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Cyril, after tonight, you’ll be the last one, and then the ladies can get this calendar into production.” He cleared his throat. “So, Daisy, where’s Serrano?”