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
