bank,â Chet answered. âThere 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. Weâre in the Historical District. This is where Flamingo Beach got started and thatâs why weâre being showcased.â
Why hadnât Joya heard about this gentrification before? Because sheâd been trying to deal with the fact that her ex was moving on.
âHow did you find out about these loans?â Joya asked, âAnd why hasnât Granny applied for one?â It was a rhetorical question. She already knew the answer.
âRemember who Chetâs daddy is?â Harley added, smiling and winking at her.
âDid you explain to my grandmother how they work?â Joya persisted, looking from one man to the other.
âYup. But she didnât want to deal with the paperwork, though I offered to help.â Chet leaned in and placed his hands on his hips. âYou know your grandmother and how stubborn she is. She told me her store looks fine just the way it is. She doesnât need any showpiece.â
It sounded like something Granny J would say. She was practical to the bone.
âExcuse me.â Another manâs voice came from the road. âIf thatâs your SUV youâll need to move it.â
âHang on, Derek. Be right back,â Chetâs partner called, racing off to move the truck heâd 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.
âGlad you made it home safely from church,â he said. âMy great-grandmother, Belle Carter, sends your grandmother her regards.â
It was Derek Morse, a completely different-looking man than the one whoâd been to church yesterday in his professional gray suit. Heâd been the one whoâd helped Gran into her car.
âWhat are you doing here?â Joya asked, aware her voice sounded a little too high. Sheâd almost forgotten about Chet, who stood checking them out but for once wasnât running his mouth. That would come later.
âWorking,â Derek answered.
âWorking?â Joya repeated.
âI told you we were under construction,â Chet broke in. âDerek is crew boss or something like that. If you convince your granny to fix Joyaâs Quilts heâd be the man to see. Him or the contractor, Preston Shore.â
Joya would never have guessed the guy sheâd met yesterday, who was now staring at the departing SUV, worked with his hands.
There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Chet. âJoya, Harley and I are thinking of going to Quills and getting coffee. Would you like a cup?â
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.
âYes, please. Let me get you money.â
âOur treat. How do you take it?â
Joya told Chet that she liked it light and sweet. She hurried back into the store to find LaTisha and Deborahâs 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