Her ex-husband’s wedding was not something Joya Hamill wished to discuss with a stranger. But the question had come out of left field, catching her totally off guard.

The woman had come up to her and her grandmother unexpectedly as they’d emerged from Flamingo Beach Baptist Church. The congregation of mostly African-Americans dressed in their Sunday finery stood catching up on town gossip. Joya had been gazing at the women in their elegant wide-brimmed hats, stylish suits and hose, even though the temperature was well in the eighties, when the woman had swooped down.

Gathering out front was an after-service routine. Many came to church to see, be seen and catch up on Flamingo Beach’s gossip. Later that afternoon these same people would be eating their lavish Sunday dinner while discussing the outfits and speculating on who was doing who. Everyone was fair game, and if you weren’t up to snuff, guaranteed you would be trashed. As a result, the one Black-owned beauty shop in town did a thriving business on Saturday afternoons after paychecks were cashed.

When the church woman had first approached, Joya had thought she might be collecting for some charity, but she’d soon discovered that it was gossip she was after.

“And to Chere Adams at that,” the woman continued. “I would have thought he’d would have gone for someone slimmer.”

Mind you, the church lady was no lightweight herself. Now how to respond diplomatically without being rude? Not that she didn’t deserve to be put in her place, but Flamingo Beach was a small town and it didn’t pay to make enemies.

Joya let the warm Florida sunshine play over her cheeks. She tilted her head back, letting a balmy breeze ruffle her ponytail. She’d felt especially uplifted, even though it had been a lengthy Baptist service and the clapboard church had been warm and stuffy. She was a Catholic and used to a more somber mass. But she’d enjoyed the sermon because it was livelier than she was used to and the congregation took part. Joya had only gone because Granny J with her fractured ankle needed someone to drive her. And Joya just couldn’t say no to Granny.

Joya continued looking around her. Granny J was engrossed in conversation with a customer who’d bought one of her quilts and didn’t know how to launder it. But Joya knew she was still tuned into this conversation. The old lady’s hearing was sharper than that of most people half her age. At seventy-five she didn’t miss a thing.

“You must feel awful,” the woman persisted, her eyes darting over to the area where Quen Abrahams, Joya’s ex-husband, and his fiancée, Chere, were chatting with Jen St. George and her radio-personality husband, with whom she’d eloped. The two had scrapped an elaborate wedding and gone on a cruise. They’d gotten married at one of the ports of call.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take my grandmother home,” Joya said, attempting to walk away.

The woman made no attempt to move. She leaned in as if exchanging confidences, “Everyone knows that woman is Ian Pendergrass’s ho.”

Joya needed to put a stop to it now. She wasn’t happy that Quen was remarrying, but not for the reasons most people thought. Quen getting married again was a reminder of just how single and without viable prospects she was. Flamingo Beach did not have the types of men Joya wanted. It was much too laid-back and too provincial. The moment Granny J’s ankle healed and she was given a clean bill of health, Joya was out of here.

“I need to get off my feet, hon,” Granny J said, breaking into the conversation. Her grandmother linked an arm through hers. “You’ll have to excuse us, dear.”

Granny J’s fractured ankle in its soft cast was mending just fine. Yesterday she’d been out and about shopping for hours. Joya knew that the grandmother she’d been named after was just trying to get her out of an awkward and insensitive situation.

“We do have to leave,” Joya said diplomatically. “Will I see you at Quen and Chere’s wedding?”

Looking visibly deflated, the churchwoman sputtered, “You’re invited? You couldn’t possibly be thinking of attending?”

Granny J, sensing Joya was about to lose it, tugged on her arm. “Honey, we really must go, my ankle is beginning to throb.”

Joya wished the woman a nice day, and she and Granny J walked away. Out of earshot she said, “Thank you, Gran, for saving the day. I was one step away from cussing her out.”

“Not even worth it.” Granny continued smiling and nodding at the people she knew, which was everyone. They picked their way through the crowd, heading toward a Lincoln Continental parked in the handicapped spot. The car was way too big and Joya hated it, but Granny J preferred a lot of padding around her.

“Just in case my reflexes fail me, dear and I get into an accident.”

Both Joya and Granny J were petite—maybe five feet two inches on a good day. Joya always wore heels and Granny J had a good fifty pounds on Joya. The younger woman had a milk-chocolate complexion. Her grandmother’s was a smidgen darker. They both had gray eyes. Because of weight and the fractured ankle, Granny was a little slower in gait. She’d refused to use the cane the doctor had given her, stating, “Only old geezers use canes, and I am not an old geezer.”

Truthfully, nothing was wrong with Granny’s faculties. She could remember the history behind every quilt she’d ever made. Her memory went way back, and her unlined face made people who didn’t know her believe she was at least a decade younger.

Joya depressed the remote button on the car’s key chain. She was trying to hold the door open with one hip, and settle Granny J in the front when a deep male voice came from behind her.

“Hey, be happy to help you ladies.”

Joya turned to see a towering, dark-complexioned man standing behind her. Though he looked as though he might be hewn from a rock, he was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and red tie. He looked powerful. Joya surmised that he too had attended the church service. How come she hadn’t seen him inside?

Yes, the church was packed, and they’d been seated in the pew up front that the Hamills had paid dues on for years…still…

Joya smiled at the man. “Thanks, that would really be appreciated.” She relinquished the car door to his care.

His answering smile was a flash of white against ebony. His skin was smooth as velvet and his eyes were the color of toffee. His cheekbones were two slashes on the sides of his face, and his nostrils flared slightly. He was what her grandmother would call a hunk. She thought he was hot. Sizzling.

He held the door and waited until Granny J got settled, then in an easy movement he went around to the driver’s side and held the door for Joya.

“Thanks, Derek,” Granny J said twiddling her fingers at him. “Be sure to give my best to Belle.”

“Thank you,” Joya added after she’d slid into the driver’s seat. She caught his smile and realized how ridiculous she must look sitting on one of Granny’s quilted pillows so that her feet could reach the pedals.

Derek, whatever his last name was, stood back watching them. Joya made sure Granny J had her seat belt on—the old lady had a tendency not to wear it—before starting up the car.

She waved to the Derek person and thanked him again.

“Step on it,” Granny J ordered. “I have quilting to do.”

Joya carefully backed out of the handicapped spot.

“Am I suppose to know Derek?” she asked as they headed back to Granny J’s Craftsman-style home which also served as her shop.

“He’s Belle Carter’s great-grandson. His name is Derek Morse.”

Joya knew who Belle was. Everyone in Flamingo Beach knew the almost centenarian. She was going to be the same age as the town, and although she could no longer walk, her memory was right up there with Granny J’s.

“Hmmm,” Joya said, keeping her eye on the road, “I didn’t know your friend Belle had grandsons that were professionals.”

Granny J said nothing. Joya could tell her mind had returned to the quilt she was working on. Her grandmother lived to make quilts and she was always designing one quilt or another in her head. She’d taught Joya the skill when she was very young. While most kids were out playing, Joya sat in Granny J’s shop brainstorming one Afrocentric pattern after another while listening to the history of the roles African-American women played in quilt-making and design.

They were on Flamingo Row now, otherwise known as The Row. It was where Granny J had always lived. Now it was considered the historical district and more and more stores were opening up. The narrow tree-lined streets had mostly Craftsman-style homes. Several of the owners lived in the back rooms or in separate buildings behind their shops. Flamingo Row was the street the town had been created around.

Joya parked the car at the side entrance and came around to help Granny J out.

“You’ll be back for dinner,” the older woman said, making it more a statement than a question.

“Of course I will. You know I never pass up a roast.”

She escorted the old lady inside and helped her out of her church clothes and into a comfortable cotton shift. Granny stuck one foot into a sneaker, poured herself a beer—a Sunday indulgence—grabbed a brown-paper bag of pork rinds, and took a seat in front of her big-screen TV with the remote. She picked up the quilt she’d been working on and examined it closely.

“I just don’t get why someone as homely as Elda would want to put her mug on this.” She was referring to the fact that her customer had insisted on having her features on every other block of the quilt. Granny had tried to dissuade her but Elda was the customer, and paying big money at that, so Granny had dutifully had the image transferred to the material as she’d wanted.

“I’ll see you at four,” Joya said letting herself out.

She drove the Lincoln Continental across town, struggling to keep the huge automobile on the road and hating every minute of it. She much preferred her compact BMW convertible. In it she felt pretty and carefree. In the Lincoln she just felt old. She was thirty-three although she’d been told she barely looked twenty-one. Still she was getting up there, and if she was going to make any real money, she needed to do something about an alternative career, things being what they were with the airlines these days. Right before leaving L.A., she’d enrolled in an interior-design class. But she’d put that on hold.

Joya passed a number of buildings under construction. The land developers, realizing there was only so much available waterfront left in North Florida, were building purely on speculation. Every day more and more people were moving in, since housing on Flamingo Beach was still relatively inexpensive.

She pulled into the newly gated community of Flamingo Place, and navigated the spacious sedan into the covered parking space that came with her condo. Some people might think it strange that she lived in the same complex as her ex and his soon-to-be wife, even rented one of his apartments, but the truth of the matter was that they got along well now that they were divorced, and she and Chere had become quite good friends.

Joya would actually miss them when she went back to L.A. and returned to the flight-attendant job from which she’d taken an extended leave of absence. L.A. International was already applying the pressure, sending her letters hoping she would come back.

Well, she planned on doing just that as soon as Granny was able to stand firmly on both feet. Joya passed on the elevator, ignoring the blisters at the back of her heels. She skipped up the stairs to her third-floor apartment. Walking, even walking in heels that were beginning to pinch, helped keep her trim.

Joya had left the air conditioning running and it felt pleasantly cool in the two-bedroom apartment. Anxious to get comfortable, she began stripping off clothes at the door. That was one of the beautiful things about living alone. You didn’t have to stand on ceremony for anybody. She was down to thong panties and her bra when the phone rang.

At first she was not going to pick up, anyone who knew her well would have her cell-phone number. But the ringing persisted and something told her she’d better get it.

“Joya Hamill?” The voice sounded official. Serious.

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Officer Greg Santana.”

Officer. Police. Greg Santana. They’d gone to high school together. Joya squeezed her eyes shut. It wouldn’t be good news. She could feel it. And although she’d been very young, she remembered another call that had changed her life; both her parents and her two brothers had died in a car accident one fateful night, casualties of a drunk driver. Granny J was now all she had left.

“Joya, are you there?”

“I’m here, Greg.”

“I’m calling about Mrs. Hamill, Granny J.”

A vise settled around Joya’s chest. She had difficulty breathing. “What about Mrs. Hamill?”

“She’s been taken to the hospital by ambulance. She asked that I call you.”

“But how could that be? I just left her.”

“She called 911 a few minutes ago. An ambulance was dispatched.”

Joya got the particulars from Greg, grabbed the first pair of shorts she could find and slipped a sleeveless top over her head. She shoved her feet into flip-flops, grabbed the car keys and took the three flights of steps two at a time.

When Joya got to Flamingo Beach General she had to fight with one of those overly cheery nurses to see Granny J, but at least the elderly woman wasn’t in intensive care. The nurse told her Granny had experienced chest pains and knew enough to get the medics out. Doctor Benjamin, who was on duty, suspected indigestion. He’d ordered a series of tests and the decision had been made to keep Granny J overnight for observation. Now the old lady was resting comfortably.

It took a full three hours before Joya was allowed to see her grandmother. The round little woman was lost amongst plump white pillows. So many tubes were attached to her arms she looked like a marionette and it was hard to say where she started and they ended.

“Five minutes,” the nurse said. “And only because you insisted you wait.”

“Is Granny’s doctor on duty?” Joya asked. She wanted to speak to the doctor and make sure she felt comfortable with him. She wanted to tell him that this was not the first time her grandmother had experienced chest pains. They usually came on after her Sunday beer, which she drank while snacking on pork rinds.

“Dr. Benjamin has left for the day,” the nurse answered with some finality. “It’s been a long shift.”

“You should have gotten here earlier and you would have met him,” Granny J called from somewhere in the bed sheets. She sounded healthy as an ox. “That Dr. Ben is worth meeting. Know if he’s married?” she asked the nurse.

“He has a girlfriend.”

Granny J snorted. “Girlfriends are easily gotten rid of. If you want him, Joya I’ll set something up.”

Joya pretended to glare at her grandmother, though a doctor did sound good. But Granny J hardly sounded as though she was dying so she exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

“How long before she can come home?” Joya asked the nurse, who was trying to smother a smile.

“That depends on Dr. Benjamin. He’ll want to see the test results, and depending on what he finds it could be as early as tomorrow.”

“Do you need anything, Gran?” Joya asked, realizing the sun was beginning to set.

“Just my quilting. They wouldn’t let me take Elda Carson’s work with me in the ambulance.”

“And a good thing, too. If you’re not released by tomorrow. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Yes, please, and come around the time Dr. Ben is doing his rounds. I’ll need you to open the shop. We open at nine promptly.”

“Yes, I know,” Joya said, rolling her eyes, and then she and the nurse exchanged conspiratorial looks. She had the feeling Granny J would be just fine. She had to be. Granny dying or infirm wasn’t something she wanted to think about.

Chapter 2

A little before nine the next morning, Joya parked Granny J’s car in the alley reserved for the shopkeepers. She found the house keys in the usual place, under the pot of geraniums on the porch, and let herself in through the side door.

The keys to the shop were exactly where Granny had said she would find them, hanging on a nail in the back of the closet. Joya tucked them in her purse and opened the windows to let the balmy ocean breeze in. Granny J did not believe in air conditioning.

Joya walked into the store, using the door separating the house from the shop. It never ceased to amaze her that the place was the same as she remembered it as a child. Nothing had really changed except for the peeling paint on the wall.

With a practiced eye, Joya looked around the four rooms that made up the store. The back room, originally a combined kitchen and dining area, was where the quilt guild—beginners to more advanced—met twice a week to develop their skills and work on their comforters. Occasionally the ladies sponsored public quilt shows to raise money for charitable causes.

This same room held a large oak table surrounded by stiff wooden chairs. In the corner were two comfortable Queen Anne seats. Sewing machines were all grouped in one spot, and everywhere the tools of the trade were visible. Reed baskets held thimbles, scissors, scraps of material and itsy-bitsy quilting needles that were called betweens.

The small cubicle was where Granny J had her office. On the other side of that room was a huge storage closet where she kept her fabric and batting.

What the general public saw was the big showroom up front with the enclosed porch facing the street. It was large and sunny with a slanted wooden floor. The walls here were in sad need of a fresh coat of paint.

Outside noises intruded as more and more storekeepers opened for the day. Gran’s neighbors were, for the most part, a friendly bunch and everyone looked out for the others.

Joya made herself focus. What would she do if she were given leeway to perk the place up? Right now it reminded her of some crazy bazaar with jumbled bits of cloth everywhere. Most of the quilts were hard to see. And yes, some colorful tapestries hung from the walls, but the more expensive were folded in smudged display cabinets that could use a good polishing. Afrocentric patterns were hidden from the eye because of the way they were folded. Story quilts were displayed alongside more traditional quilts. The whole place was a mess.

Thrown on a huge brass bed that needed polishing were mosaic patchwork quilts, their hexagons sewn together to form intricate designs. Next to them were comforters depicting historical and biblical events, a style made famous by the nineteenth-century African-American quilt maker, Harriet Powers of Athens.

What Granny’s place needed was order. Order and a big sprucing-up.

The store had huge rectangular windows that looked right out on Flamingo Row. The seats below them held more quilts and rows of patchwork cushions. Newer patterns like Double Wedding Ring, Dresden Plate and Little Dutch Girl resided here. Granny J had once told Joya this was a deliberate strategy to catch the eye of passersby looking for attractive souvenirs but who didn’t want to spend lots of money.

If this were Joya’s shop she’d decorate it differently. Who said a quilt shop had to look like a little old lady owned it? It would have nice warm peach walls and the brass bed would be angled in a more inviting manner. She’d get rid of all that clutter. And she’d cover the bed with the most attractive and expensive quilt in the place, which of course would change on a weekly basis. There’d be flowers and scented candles everywhere. Who knew, she might even offer pedicures or foot massages. Relaxed women spent money.

A tapping on the front door got her attention.

“Anyone home?” a man’s voice called.

“Just me.”

Joya had completely forgotten about flipping the Closed sign in the window to Open.

She pushed open the front door and stuck her head out.

“Hi, Chet!”

Chet Rabinowitz, the mayor’s son, and part owner of All About Flowers took a step back, gaping at her. “Where’s Granny J?” He seemed surprised to see Joya.

“In the hospital. Kept overnight until test results come back.”

Chet clutched his heart, “Oh, my God. Tell me it’s nothing serious. Harley,” he shrieked to his partner and lover. “Granny J’s in the hospital. We need to send her the biggest arrangement we have.”

Harley Mancini, Chet’s partner, came running, clutching the sunflowers he’d been arranging in an oversized vase. “Did you say something happened to Granny J?”

Joya explained what had happened and reassured them her granny would be fine. At least she hoped so. She’d called the hospital right before leaving the condo and the nurse had told her Granny J was resting comfortably.

“Will you be running the shop for her then?” Chet quizzed, giving Joya a dubious look as if that couldn’t possibly be happening. Chet had made it clear from the very first time they’d met that he thought she was all fluff and a general waste of time. And truthfully, Joya had made no effort to charm him. She wasn’t that crazy about Chet. She’d pegged him a busybody and much preferred Harley. He was by far the more diplomatic of the two.

Without waiting to be invited in, Chet sashayed by her. He scrunched up his nose and sniffed loudly. “Joya’s Quilts needs help. It even smells old.”

“Chet,” Harley admonished, “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.”

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Down And Out In Flamingo Beach

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Down and Out in Flamingo BeachMarcia King-Gamble

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Down and Out in Flamingo Beach
Marcia King-Gamble