Down And Out In Flamingo Beach. Marcia King-Gamble

“Be nice!”

      “I am always nice. Nice and honest.”

      “It’s way after nine, how come the two Ms. Things aren’t here? Or are they eating? They eat all the time.” Chet poked his head into the guild room and shook his head. “Late again. What a waste of time those two are.”

      Joya had almost forgotten about the two women Granny J employed. She made a mental note to look for LaTisha and Deborah’s phone numbers in the Rolodex Granny J still used. She’d give them a call.

      A loud banging came from the other side of the partition. Joya frowned but Chet wiggled his head knowingly. “Hallelujah. Construction has begun.”

      “Construction?” Joya repeated. “Is one of the stores being renovated?”

      “We are being renovated,” he announced, arms wide to encompass the block. “The two buildings on either side of you and those across the street have started. I can’t wait to have my grand reopening.”

      If the entire block was getting a facelift, why wasn’t Joya’s Quilts? This was something she’d take up with her grandmother.

      Joya addressed Harley, who’d been very quiet. “Where’s this money coming from?”

      “The bank,” Chet answered. “There are special low-interest loans being offered to store owners, all because of the hundred-year anniversary of Flamingo Beach. This centennial will bring tourists here in droves. We’re in the Historical District. This is where Flamingo Beach got started and that’s why we’re being showcased.”

      Why hadn’t Joya heard about this gentrification before? Because she’d been trying to deal with the fact that her ex was moving on.

      “How did you find out about these loans?” Joya asked, “And why hasn’t Granny applied for one?” It was a rhetorical question. She already knew the answer.

      “Remember who Chet’s daddy is?” Harley added, smiling and winking at her.

      “Did you explain to my grandmother how they work?” Joya persisted, looking from one man to the other.

      “Yup. But she didn’t want to deal with the paperwork, though I offered to help.” Chet leaned in and placed his hands on his hips. “You know your grandmother and how stubborn she is. She told me her store looks fine just the way it is. She doesn’t need any showpiece.”

      It sounded like something Granny J would say. She was practical to the bone.

      “Excuse me.” Another man’s voice came from the road. “If that’s your SUV you’ll need to move it.”

      “Hang on, Derek. Be right back,” Chet’s partner called, racing off to move the truck he’d parked illegally while unloading it.

      Vehicles were technically not allowed on the narrow cobblestoned streets of Flamingo Row. It was supposed to be a pedestrian haven, allowing shoppers to roam freely and safely in and out of stores.

      Something about the man standing on the sidewalk was familiar. He fitted his blue jeans nicely, though they were faded, ripped and soiled in a few spots. He was well over six feet with a narrow waist and a tight high butt. His T-shirt, though relatively clean, adhered like a bandage across his broad chest and wide shoulders. The sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. Aviator-style sunglasses, the kind in vogue, hid his eyes.

      He must have noticed her staring because he inclined his head but did not smile.

      “Glad you made it home safely from church,” he said. “My great-grandmother, Belle Carter, sends your grandmother her regards.”

      It was Derek Morse, a completely different-looking man than the one who’d been to church yesterday in his professional gray suit. He’d been the one who’d helped Gran into her car.

      “What are you doing here?” Joya asked, aware her voice sounded a little too high. She’d almost forgotten about Chet, who stood checking them out but for once wasn’t running his mouth. That would come later.

      “Working,” Derek answered.

      “Working?” Joya repeated.

      “I told you we were under construction,” Chet broke in. “Derek is crew boss or something like that. If you convince your granny to fix Joya’s Quilts he’d be the man to see. Him or the contractor, Preston Shore.”

      Joya would never have guessed the guy she’d met yesterday, who was now staring at the departing SUV, worked with his hands.

      There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Chet. “Joya, Harley and I are thinking of going to Quills and getting coffee. Would you like a cup?”

      Quills was the old diner on the corner. It had recently been turned into a combination stationery and bookstore. There was a little café in the back.

      “Yes, please. Let me get you money.”

      “Our treat. How do you take it?”

      Joya told Chet that she liked it light and sweet. She hurried back into the store to find LaTisha and Deborah’s numbers. While she called LaTisha she rehearsed her sales pitch. Granny J needed to take full advantage of those loans. It would increase her property value if she made the place look good. But Granny J was from the old school, and believed that if you couldn’t pay for something with your own cash you didn’t need it.

      Neither woman picked up, so Joya left messages. She was on her own, not that there was a large crowd queuing up to be waited on.

      Her first customer, a freckle-faced tourist in a straw hat with flowers and two toddlers clinging to the sides of her skirt, finally sauntered in around quarter to ten. The little boy, his mop of red curly hair sticking straight up, was sucking his thumb. The little girl grabbing onto the other side of her mother’s skirt lapped at an orange Popsicle. Joya shuddered. She was an accident waiting to happen.

      “Can I help you?” Joya asked, trying to smile pleasantly at the woman.

      “Just browsing.” The woman made a slow circle of the outer room, stopping to poke at the occasional quilt or pillow.

      It would be easier on her anxiety level just to let them roam around. Curiosity, and the desire to take her mind off the potential accident, caused Joya to pick up the small notebook where Granny J recorded the daily sales. She flipped through several pages and found nothing. At least nothing recorded for almost a week. Could Granny J be getting senile or simply losing it? She’d always been meticulous about writing down even the smallest sale, whether it was quilting thread or the materials she sometimes sold for quilt-making.

      Harley returned with her coffee just then, and Joya put aside the notebook to look at later. Chet returned to the flower shop; having done his duty he wanted no part of her.

      They’d butted heads a time or two, once when Joya had parked in front of their store. She’d only meant to run in to Joya’s for a minute or so, but then she’d ended up helping Granny J with something or another. Chet had come out of his shop and loudly pointed out that this was a pedestrian-friendly street, yet it was ironic that he and his partner had done exactly the same thing this morning. It was always one thing or another. What was good for the goose was not good for the gander.

      The mother and her two kids left, promising to return after a trip to the ATM. A few locals came in, browsed and departed. More tourists trickled in, but it was already late morning and so far not one sale.

      Close to eleven o’clock, LaTisha skated in, sputtering apologies.

      “Where’s Granny J?” she asked, looking around the room as if she expected the old lady to materialize from a corner. Realizing that it was Joya she had to deal with, she smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I had a flat tire. Ed at the service station couldn’t get to it until now.”

      Joya glanced at her watch pointedly, “And you couldn’t call? I left a message on your answering machine when you didn’t show up when you were supposed to.”

      “Granny