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Chapter Four
It was a perfect spring day, just right for aimless strolling, which was what Bridget was doing. She needed to clear her head before the crew from Good Living arrived and turned her shop upside down.
She turned the corner and saw that they were already there. There was a supersize van parked at the curb, engine running for no good reason she could think of, and people she didn’t know coming and going with photographer’s lights, reflectors, and a bunch of other unfamiliar equipment. She looked into the window from the street before she went inside her shop. The airy space was crowded with more lights on stands, a couple of assistants switching them on and off, and adjusting reflectors set here and there. Mrs. Dutton was blinking in the middle of it all.
Dotty Pomfret came out, giving Bridget a weary nod. “The invaders have arrived.”
“Oh, my.”
“They are manhandling my wools, Bridget. I find it upsetting.”
Bridget patted Dotty’s arm. “They have to put everything back the way it was.”
The older woman gave a gloomy sigh. “They make me nervous. And they’re supposed to come and photograph the farm tomorrow, which means the sheep will be nervous. I am not looking forward to this.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, Dotty. Don’t you worry.”
Dotty humphed. “My dear, you have never tried to reassure sheep. Once they are worried, they stay worried.”
Bridget peered through the window. She recognized some of the invaders from the Our Contributors page in Good Living magazine—the ponytailed young guy had to be Gil Blanding, the art director. Tall, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, Gil was moving the stock around the shelves, plumping up the skeins of yam and creating artful disarray with what had been carefully folded, color-coordinated fabrics. He stepped back to take in the result, frowning, and picked up a skein, looking at it thoughtfully.
Bridget said good-bye to Dotty and went in, tapping Gil on the shoulder.
His gaze moved from the yarn to her. “Oh, hello. You must be Bridget. Mrs. Dutton showed me all the pictures on the bulletin board. Lovely store.” He pulled out a few inches of yarn from the skein and let it dangle when he put the skein back on the shelf. “There. The perfect imperfection, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” She wasn’t going to argue. Free publicity was worth letting someone fool around with her shelving system.
Gil clapped his hands and addressed his crew. “Okay, people, let’s get a move on. We don’t have all day. Where’s our model? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Going to the counter where she and the shop employees had lunch, Bridget rolled her eyes for Mrs. Dutton’s benefit, and set down the bag of homemade cinnamon-sugar doughnuts she’d picked up on her stroll. The crew and assistants would probably devour them, but the model wouldn’t. Oh well. Whoever it was had probably packed enough carrot sticks and celery stalks for the weekend.
She’d set aside several items handknit by local artisans for Gil’s approval, hoping he would choose one or two to feature in the photographs for the article—and hey, he had. A skinny, leggy blonde in an unusual tunic made from Dotty’s best wool came out of the back room, followed by a makeup artist waving a fluffy sable brush tipped with face powder.
“Mara, I’m not done. Hold still.”
Mara shot the makeup artist an annoyed look. “Okay, okay. But I’m so itchy. When I can take this thing off?” She rolled up the sleeves and struck a pose, one lean hip jutting out and her arms akimbo.
“Fabulous, Mara,” the art director crooned. “But then you were born fabulous.”
Mara smirked. Bridget wanted to throw a doughnut at her.
“You can’t take the sweater off, though,” Gil was saying. “Mr. Photographer is not happy with the light.”
An older man with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, changing settings on a state-of-the-art digital camera, looked up but not at Mara. Instead, he caught Bridget’s eye and winked at her. She smiled back, surprised at the friendliness in his expression. He didn’t seem quite as New York-y as Gil, and his worn chambray shirt and shabby sneakers sent the message that he didn’t care all that much about fashion or fabulousness.
“Do you have to call me Mr. Photographer?” he asked Gil, an amused undertone in his voice.
“What would you like me to call you?” the art director inquired.
“Harry.”
“Sorry, Harry.” Gil nodded absent-mindedly, moving to stand in back of Mara and tightening the tunic around her waist. “Clothespins, please!” he called. An assistant and a stylist rushed over with a bag of supplies and clipped the sweater all along the model’s spine, fitting it to her slender body. Gil came around in front to inspect the effect, obviously pleased with it. “There. Better, don’t you think, Mara?” He took the model by the shoulders and positioned her in front of a long mirror.
Mara pouted. “It still itches.”
Bridget didn’t care. The sweater looked great. These people did know what they were doing, and Gil was a hoot. The art director tapped the tip of the model’s nose. “Shiny, shiny.” He beckoned to the makeup artist. “Felicia, please finish her face so we can get started.”
Felicia hurried over and powdered away, making the model sneeze. Bridget stood next to Mrs. Dutton as the crew got the gear in position, ready for the first round of photos. An assistant was posted at the door to ask customers to come back later, but no one stopped by.
