Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [95]
More like for her lights.
“To the left,” she yelled through my cheerleading megaphone. “Not that left, your other left. For cryin’ out loud, John, pay attention!” Big John, one of the members of the historical society, rolled his milky eyes at her and patiently moved the tall camera light to where she pointed. Behind her, Isaac sat on a director’s chair, fooling around with a large square camera, grinning to himself.
Daddy walked by, carrying a small lamb whose unremitting bleats sounded like a broken car alarm.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
A resigned look on his face told me he’d been roped into this early and perhaps before he’d had his third cup of coffee. He stroked the head of the lamb, whose rhythmic cries didn’t skip a beat. “Better ask your gramma, pumpkin. I’m just the hired help.”
Behind him, in the middle of the barn, two women I knew from the San Celina Cattlewomen’s Association were combing and brushing a white-faced calf who squirmed and called for its mama. Next to the calf, another two women, Edna McClun and Maria Ramirez, members of the Historical Society, were brushing and fiddling with the hair of another hunk of beef. A much bigger one.
And they were giggling like two schoolgirls.
A half naked Miguel, wearing only a pair of faded jeans and his gun belt, stood patiently still, his face slightly flushed, while the much shorter older women, standing on wooden milk stools, touched up his hair and dabbed bits of makeup on his smooth, brown, muscle-defined chest.
“Five minutes,” Dove called through the microphone.
“We’ve got February and March waiting in the wings. We ain’t got all day.”
I walked over to Isaac. “Okay,” I said, laughing. “What’s going on here?”
He looked up at the sound of my voice, his cracked-adobe face happy to see me. “It was your gramma’s idea. I think she’s calling it ‘Hunks and Babes.’ ”
“What?”
He pointed at the bawling calf. “She said there’s two things women go crazy over—handsome men and baby animals. She got the idea that a calendar showing both would sell like hotcakes. I think she’s onto something.”
“Not to mention the fact that the famous Isaac Lyons taking the photographs just might help sell a few.”
He winked at me. “You know I’d do anything for Dove.”
I put my arm around his massive shoulders and hugged him. “And that’s one of the reasons you’ve captured my heart, you old grizzly.”
The calf let out another plaintive cry.
“We’re going to have to get this show on the road!” Dove yelled. “That baby’s getting tired.”
I went over to Miguel, who was still getting primped and powder-pouffed by the two ladies. “Miguel, baby,” I said, giving him the thumbs-up sign. “Love your new career move. Let’s do lunch. Have my people call your people.”
He shot me an irritated frown. “My mother’s making me do this.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. So that was what the mysterious communication between him and Dove was about on Sunday. She had indeed gone over his head to his real boss. Unable to resist, I reached over and ran a hand over his ripply chest muscles.
“Nice and firm, aren’t they?” Edna McClun said. She rapped on his left pectoral. “Like a good melon.”
“The muscle definition is muy bueno,” Maria Ramirez. “All natural, too. No steroids.”
“He’s certainly prime cut,” I agreed, nodding solemnly. We all studied his chest closely. “I can’t find a flaw anywhere.”
“Would you people hurry up,” Miguel complained, his face a deep scarlet. “I’ve got a shift to work.”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dove said, walking by, the megaphone clutched in one hand. “I have connections with your chief who, by the way, will be Mr. April with chickens.”
I turned to her, my mouth open. “Gabe’s going to be in the calendar? He never told me!”
“Good,” she said, her face pleased. “Then I know I can trust him to keep a secret.”
“Mr. April? With chickens?”
“He won’t take off his clothes,” she said. “Says it ain’t dignified. So we decided to go for a sophisticated look. He’ll be in his tuxedo surrounded by baby chicks.” She elbowed