Down And Out In Flamingo Beach. Marcia King-Gamble
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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.
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