Down And Out In Flamingo Beach. Marcia King-Gamble
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