Down and Out in Flamingo Beach
Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

With grateful thanks to my agent Amy Moore Benson.

Let’s hope the third one’s a charm.

Chapter 1

“So what do you think about Quen getting married?” the woman asked, her eyes never leaving Joya’s face.

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.”

“Granny J doesn’t have a problem with me being late,” LaTisha said rudely.

“But I do, especially when I don’t know what’s going on. By the way, Granny J’s not going to be in for a while. She’s in the hospital. When she’s released she’ll need time at home to recuperate.”

“But she was fine the last time I saw her.”

Not, How is she? What can I do to help? Nothing.

“I’ll need your help rearranging a few items,” Joya said, changing the topic. She picked up some quilts from the bed and draped them on a divan that, wonder of wonders, held nothing.

“I’ll help you as soon as I get back from getting coffee.”

“I need help now. Where’s Deborah? Has she been in touch with you?”

“I don’t keep track of her comings and goings,” LaTisha answered sulkily. She accepted the quilts Joya handed her and stomped off.

Joya was suddenly conscious of the man hovering at the front entrance. His energy was electric. It reached out and zapped her. Derek Morse stood at the doorway taking in the scene, aviator glasses still shading his eyes.

“Was there something you wanted?” Joya asked.

LaTisha did an amazing turn about when she spotted Derek. With a smile a mile wide, and rolling her hips she headed his way.

“Can I help you find something?”

Derek smiled vaguely at LaTisha as he entered the store. “Do you have a minute to talk?” He asked Joya, dipping his head at the saleswoman who looked as if she might hand him her panties any minute. “Privately.”

Joya led him into the back room where the quilt guild met. She closed the door so LaTisha would not overhear them.

“Have a seat,” she said, waving Derek toward one of the straight-back chairs that suddenly seemed ridiculously small. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

Derek removed his sunglasses and set them down on the table. He sat, legs apart, blue jeans molding themselves over a bulge that Joya had no business gaping at. She suddenly wished for air-conditioning, something a heck of a lot cooler than the ocean breeze that floated through the open windows.

“I’d like you to speak with your grandmother,” Derek said.

“About what?”

“Renovating the store. My crew’s working on the florist’s shop and the wine and cheese place to the right. This is the center store. If everyone surrounding her has a restored facade and updated interiors, Joya’s is really going to look dated and worn.”

While Joya didn’t care for how he put it, he made a good point.

“My grandmother’s a very stubborn woman,” she said. “Part of the problem is she doesn’t like owing anyone for anything.”

“My great-grandmother is much the same. These ladies come from a different time. They didn’t grow up with credit cards or equity lines they could dip into. I’m saying this because I don’t want to see her lose out, especially when the bank is practically giving money away. Improving the store will increase the property value, and a refurbished exterior and interior will bring in a spending crowd.”

Regardless of whether he was sincere, or simply out to feather his own nest, Derek made sense. And he didn’t sound like any construction worker she knew. Not that Joya knew many. He’d presented his case in a well-thought-out and articulate manner. What he said was worth considering.

“I’ll talk to Granny J after she gets out of the hospital,” Joya agreed. “And we’ll get back to you.”

Derek rose, towering above her. He smelled clean, like soap, surprising because ripping out drywall, hauling debris and pounding nails usually made you sweat.

The phone rang, and Joya was glad to escape to get it. Something about being this close to Derek made her feel flushed and scatterbrained. She felt as if she’d been running a mile and couldn’t catch her breath.

He waved at her and said over his shoulder, “Let me know what you and your granny decide.”

Joya picked up the receiver of the old-fashioned phone.

“Hello.”

“You left a message.”

“Who is this?”

“Deborah.”

The other saleswoman.

“Shouldn’t you be here?” Joya asked.

“I don’t feel well.”

“And you’re calling at this hour?”

There was a pause on the other end, then, “I’ll be in tomorrow, if I feel better. It’s payday and you owe me for the two weeks before.”

Joya hung up, wondering how long these two had been getting away with murder. She couldn’t imagine why Granny J would keep two losers like these on her payroll.

And then she remembered the woman’s words. Granny J owed her for the two weeks before.

Perhaps it was time to take a closer look at her grandmother’s books.

Chapter 3

“Too bad all of our jobs aren’t like the one on Flamingo Row,” Preston Shore, Derek’s boss, said, clinking his bottle of beer against Derek’s.

Derek took a slug of his own drink then said, “It’s nice to be doing something different, preserving rather than destroying.”

“I was talking about the fringe benefits. That Joya Hamill sure is eye candy. Just looking at her makes me horny.”

Derek grunted something unintelligible and stuck his fingers in the bowl of peanuts on the bar. He tossed a handful in his mouth and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. Joya was attractive all right but definitely full of herself. The way she’d looked down her nose at him when he’d spoken to her in the store earlier. And he hadn’t imagined it, either. He knew that look. He’d once had a woman just like her at home.

It was always, “gimme, gimme, gimme.” That kind of demanding, self-focused woman could drain the life out of you. And he’d given until he’d had nothing more to give and then she’d walked away. Women!

“Okay, she’s hot but obviously high-maintenance,” Derek responded when Preston nudged him with his elbow. “She’s also not at all what I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Preston asked.

“I’ll know her when I meet her.”

Friendship aside, Preston had agreed to take Derek on as a worker, warning him up front that he’d better hold his own. Preston’s big concern was that a trained engineer would not want to get down and dirty with the boys.

Derek had been forced to prove himself over and over. He now had the nicks, cuts, aches and pains that went with the construction business to show for it.

But he was happy. After years of corporate down-sizing and sophisticated backstabbing, he was free of meetings and kowtowing to anyone. Now he showed up when he was supposed to, put in a full day’s work and went home tired but content.

After the last restructuring at the aircraft-manufacturing company where he’d been a manager, he’d decided the stress just wasn’t worth it. He’d left, taking his bonus and stock options with him. Derek’s sights were now on owning his own construction business, and he’d decided he’d do what he needed to do to learn the job from the bottom up.

Preston was still waiting, regarding him carefully, an eyebrow hiked. “And Joya Hamill doesn’t fit the bill of what you’re looking for?”

Derek shook his head. He really didn’t want to talk about women. He was over talking about women. But Preston was expecting an answer.

“Look, I don’t want anything too hot or heavy right now. My energies need to be focused on learning all you can teach me about running a profitable construction firm.”

Preston’s index finger stabbed the air. “Gotcha! But you still gotta make time for fun. If I wasn’t already involved, I’d be hooking up with Joya Hamill, that’s for sure.”

Derek couldn’t help smiling. “Guess I’ve never been interested in trouble.”

“Something about trouble can be appealing. Any of those babes worth a second glance?”

Derek surveyed the packed Haul Out where an after-work crowd was winding down. The patrons were primarily a blue- and pink-collar group, the men still in uniforms, name tags on their chest. Some played pool or darts off to the side while women with pumped-up boobs and gold ankle bracelets sat on high banquettes yakking up a storm and checking out would-be prospects.

“No babes,” Derek said firmly. “Not until I get my own business up and running.”

“Whatever.”

They returned to their beers, and Derek indulged in a brief fantasy about a woman at the end of the bar with legs that wouldn’t stop. Unfortunately the Hamill woman kept popping into his head, screwing up his sexy little daydreams.

He stared out onto the dance floor where a brunette who hadn’t seen thirty in years and a coffee-skinned woman poured into tight capris jiggled everything they had in a desperate booty call. Except, no one was answering.

“It would be to everyone’s benefit if you could convince the granddaughter to spruce up that quilt shop,” Preston said, breaking into his thoughts. “I can’t think of anything worse than having Joya’s the only place on the Row not renovated. The place has such potential and the bank’s practically giving money away with those interest-free loans plus a delayed period to pay back. It would be more money in our pockets, and I’d have the prestige of saying my firm had the monopoly of fixing up all the buildings on the Row.”

Derek took a long pull on his beer. “True, and I’ve already put it out there. I mentioned that the centennial celebrations are bound to draw strangers to Flamingo Beach. Joya’s not stupid; she has to know it’s going to attract customers with spending power.”

“And she said?”

“That she’d talk to her grandmother when she gets out of the hospital. You’ve got a bunch of jobs lined up so this one shouldn’t make that big a difference.”

Preston shrugged. “Call it pride or just the desire to have my stamp on the entire Row. If Granny J waits until the last minute to make up her mind we might be booked.”

“Good point.”

In some ways Derek hoped the old lady did just that. He didn’t relish spending one more minute than he had to around the Hamill woman. The way she’d looked at him with those huge gray eyes had made him feel like yesterday’s leftovers.

Preston shoved a handful of peanuts in his mouth and chased them down with beer. “Aren’t your great-grandmother and the old lady friends? Can’t you ask Belle for help?”

“I suppose so,” Derek answered halfheartedly. He set down the empty beer bottle and reached for his wallet. “I gotta go. Gotta start work on my second job.”

“This is on me,” Preston said, stopping Derek before he could slap down a twenty. “It’s your tab the next time around. Do you ever give yourself a break?”

“Not until Nana’s house is finished. It might not look like much now, but by the time I’m done with it…” Derek placed curled fingers to his lips and kissed them. “See you tomorrow, Preston.”

“I’ll be there the usual time. Six.”

Derek had his hands wrapped around the doorknob when Nana Belle’s throaty voice reached him.

“Derek?” she called. “Is that you, boy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It never ceased to amaze him that his wheelchair-bound great-grandmother, with her failing eyesight and poor hearing, knew almost to the second when he came home.

He opened the front door, left his muddy construction boots at the entrance and picked his way around drywall, heading toward the back of the house where Nana Belle lived.

The old lady spent most of her days seated in an overstuffed chair looking out at the water and smoking. Derek abhorred the habit, but figured that given Nana was almost one hundred years old and it hadn’t killed her, who was he to say anything?

Nana Belle occupied the only room with an unobstructed view of the water. All of the other rooms had the boardwalk in between. Given the kind of life Nana had had, she deserved that one perk. Now she spent most of her day people-watching.

“How was your day, Nana Belle?” Derek asked dutifully kissing the old lady’s weathered cheek. “Did you give Mari hell?”

Nana Belle wrinkled her nose and stuck out her lip. “I don’t give anyone hell. Life’s too damn short for that.” She sniffed loudly. “You smell of beer. Shame on you. My Gideon never touched the stuff.”

Gideon was Nana’s third husband. She’d outlived five so far. Now with failing eyesight and bad hearing, Nana’s olfactory senses had heightened. Derek thought she was amazing for a woman who’d seen almost an entire century go by.

Nana’s aide, a long-suffering widow called Mari, took care of her. The two women fought constantly, usually because Nana was not eating and preferred to smoke. Nana Belle often told Mari to take a hike, and not in such pleasant terms.

The constant bickering made the old lady feel alive and important. She actually liked her aide, it was being dependent she hated, and it killed her not to be mobile and that she needed help to be bathed and dressed.

“How are the party plans coming?” Derek called to Mari, who was in another room.

When he’d left at the crack of dawn, the two women had been arguing over who would be on Nana’s invitation list.

“I don’t want no party,” Nana said, spitting out her bridgework that she claimed was more painful than helpful. Her hollow jaws worked as if she was chewing on catfish.

“Done deal, Nana. You’re getting a party whether you want one or not.”

The old lady snorted. Deep down, his great-grandmother was very excited about her birthday party and was an active participant in selecting who was to be on the invitation list. It was her day and as far as Derek was concerned, she could invite the entire community. How many people could say they’d lived to see as many changes as she had? How many oldest living residents of Flamingo Beach were there?

It was going to be a huge event, and Derek thought about reserving the ballroom of the new Flamingo Beach Resort and Spa, since even Mayor Solomon Rabinowitz planned on attending. Tre Monroe, Warp’s premiere radio personality was pre-recording an interview with Nana which he planned on airing on her birthday. That was another reason Derek needed to get these renovations done.

Word had gotten out about how big this event was. Now everyone and his dog were trying to wangle an invitation. Since the party was the same week as the centennial celebrations, T-shirts with the original map of Flamingo Beach with an X where Nana’s house was located were already being sold. Nana Belle’s party would go down in history and the house needed to look good.

Derek was pulling out all the stops and funding the party with money from his stock options. He didn’t give a rat’s butt about the tax implications. Nana Belle had given birth to twelve children, the results of three of her five marriages. She had fifty grandchildren, thirty-eight of whom were still alive, and twelve great-grandchildren. But Derek was the only one who’d volunteered to pay for the party. Without Nana he would not be where he was today.

So, he was determined that everything would be perfect, from the reserved parking space at the brand-new resort, should he decide to hold the event there, to the flowers provided by All About Flowers. The way Derek had it figured, the guest list would top out at one thousand people. But Nana had earned that kind of tribute.

Had it not been for her he would not have seen a college door. Somehow his great-grandmother had found the money and sent it to his parents. Derek suspected she’d mortgaged the very house he was working on.

It was Belle he had to thank for helping him get that master’s degree in engineering. She’d ensured him a certain lifestyle and social status far different from his very humble upbringings. His parents had been forced to move in with relatives. He, on the other hand, had the means to live on his own. He lived with his great-grandmother because he wanted to.

“Mari, where are you?” Nana Belle called.

“Fixing you something. Be right in.”

“I don’t want nothing.”

Derek tuned out the bickering that predictably would follow and thought about where he was today. He’d willingly chucked all the material things to pursue this current goal. He’d rented his fancy apartment in Chicago and traded in the luxury car for a pickup truck. He’d turned his back on the corporate world and the superficial friends that came with it to do something he much preferred—work with his hands. Now he didn’t have to plow through a management minefield and kiss the asses of people he did not respect.

Enough of the meanderings, his second job called. Derek was not at all unrealistic. At some point Nana might have to move into an assisted-living facility and he would need a place of his own, especially if he decided to stay on in Flamingo Beach. A house this size, with all of its rambling additions, was expensive and exhausting to maintain, and definitely too big for one person.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked his grandmother.

Nana lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring in his direction. “You know Mari. She’s always forcing food down my throat.”

“And you keep saying you don’t want anything. You just prefer to pull on those cancer sticks,” Mari shouted from wherever she was.

No one, absolutely no one could force Nana Belle to do anything she didn’t want to do. Derek smothered a smile and tried to avoid the cloud of smoke hovering over Nana’s braided head. He made a U-turn and headed for the kitchen to find Mari and suggest she bring Belle a glass of the nutritional supplement she hated.

He continued into the dining area, removed his shirt and began to put up drywall. He thought that if he could make the house a showpiece in time for the centennial celebrations then Nana should be able to sell it and realize a good profit. He also thought about having her party at the house. Derek anticipated another huge fight with regard to selling her house, but the old lady could use the money for whatever she desired. She did not need to be leaving her house or hard-earned money to ungrateful relatives.

But try telling Belle that. It would take some doing, but Derek was determined to make his grandmother see things his way.

Over at Flamingo Beach General, Granny J was kicking up a considerable fuss.

“What do you mean you’re not going to discharge me, young man?” she screamed at the doctor.

A patient Dr. Benjamin reached out a comforting hand to stroke Granny J’s arm. “I’m not entirely satisfied with the results of your EKG. I’d like to run another test just to be sure.”

“I want out. Now! There’s nothing wrong with my heart.”

Dr. Benjamin, used to dealing with recalcitrant elderly people, consulted his chart. Joya stepped in, taking Granny J’s plump hand that was slapping the bed sheets in frustration as if it were Benjamin’s cheek. Joya squeezed her grandmother’s hand and spoke soothingly.

“It’s only one more day. One day with your feet up isn’t going to kill you.”

“But one more meal in this place will,” Granny J, who loved her food, mumbled. With age, her appetite hadn’t slowed down one bit.

“May I speak to you privately?” Dr. Benjamin asked Joya, inclining his head to indicate that he wanted to talk outside of the room and not in her grandmother’s hearing.

Granny J tugged her hand from Joya’s hold and folded both arms across her chest.

“Whatever you have to say can be said in front of me. I’m not dead yet.”

To Dr. Benjamin’s credit he didn’t lift so much as an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ll be dying anytime soon, Mrs. Hamill, at least not from the sounds of you.”

Joya stifled a grin. She liked the handsome doctor’s way of handling the difficult old lady. He wasn’t talking down to her. Dr. Benjamin was solidly built and had probably played football during college. He had a thick neck and broad shoulders.

It was his smile Joya liked. That smile could melt an icicle. The doctor wore his glasses on a chain around his neck, and he occasionally put them on to squint at the chart. Joya noticed there was no ring on his left hand or a tan line that said at one time there might have been.

She remembered the nurse yesterday saying there was a girlfriend, and she supposed that would be the case. All the good ones were already taken. She’d lost a good one because of her own stupidity. Now Chere Adams would benefit from Joya’s lack of patience and foresight.

Dr. Benjamin was waiting outside. She couldn’t keep him.

“I’ll be right back, Grandma,” Joya said.

Granny J’s plump hand covered her heart. “Lordie child, I must be dying. You never ever call me Grandma.”

It was Joya’s cue to leave before Granny J really got rolling. She made a hasty escape, her high heels tapping loudly on the white-tiled floor.

Outside she asked, “What did you want to talk to me about, Dr. Benjamin? Is Granny J’s condition something I should be worried about?”

In the room she’d put on a good face, but now that she was no longer under Granny J’s scrutiny, panic began to overtake her. Joya looked carefully at the doctor, hoping to get a hint of what he was really thinking.

“There may be some blocked arteries, all the evidence is there. I’ve ordered another EKG just to be sure.”

“What!” The walls in the hallway wavered around her.

Dr. Benjamin, incredibly in tune, squeezed Joya’s shoulder. “Take deep breaths. For a woman your grandmother’s age she’s in good shape. If the second EKG confirms what I believe, it should be a relatively simple procedure. She’ll be up, around and as good as new in no time.”

“Must be those damn pork rinds,” Joya muttered, resorting to humor because tears were clouding her vision. It was easy for the doctor to say “simple procedure,” it wasn’t his grandmother.

“We’ll wait until the results are back and we’ll talk again and come up with a plan.”

Translation: Granny J could easily be in the hospital for another few days. Gran would hate that.

Joya nodded and Dr. Benjamin squeezed her shoulder again. He was becoming a little too touchy, especially since he allegedly had a girlfriend. Joya wondered what was up with that.

“It might not have a thing to do with pork rinds,” he said gently, smiling at her.

Since visiting hours were almost over, she ducked back into the room to see if Granny J needed anything.

“I told you to bring my quilting,” the elderly woman grumbled. “I promised Elda I’d have that quilt done for her in a couple of weeks. Did that man ask you on a date?”

“What man?”

Joya knew exactly whom Granny J meant but decided to play with her.

“Dr. Ben. You’ve always wanted to marry a doctor.”

“No, he did not and I never said I wanted to marry a doctor.”

True, she’d hoped for security and had wanted to marry someone established. He didn’t necessarily have to be a pretty boy. Granny J had warned Joya there was a lot more to marriage than a physical attraction. She’d been right. Quen was bright and one helluva lover, but he’d been underemployed. She’d seen his potential but had grown sick and tired of waiting for him to see it. Who would have thought he’d have moved from his interest in personal training to become a nutritionist? Now she had no one but herself to blame for losing a good man.

“Dr Ben has a girlfriend,” Joya reminded her grandmother, not wanting to think about Quen. “When I come by tomorrow, you and I have something to talk about.”

“Girlfriends come and girlfriends go. This isn’t a wife we’re talking about.” Granny’s forehead wrinkled. “What do you and I need to talk about?”

As Joya debated how to answer the question, images of a body that looked as if it might be carved from granite flashed before her eyes. Those faded, tattered jeans were molded over some pretty intimate places. And who could forget those hard biceps and that chiseled face with eyes that burned into you?

Derek Morse was the type of guy you didn’t easily forget. Much as Joya wanted to dismiss the erotic vision of him that had surfaced, it kept coming back to her. A construction worker was not part of her plans.

An hour later, Joya sat at the bar of the Pink Flamingo waiting for her friend Emilie Woodward to show up. Mojito in hand, she stared up at the ceiling of the thatched tiki bar. Pink flamingos of various sizes fluttered from above. They were both cute and tacky and at the very least made for a good conversational topic.

Emilie was the Director of Leisure Sales for the Flamingo Beach Resort and Spa. She too lived in one of the condominiums at 411 Flamingo Place.

Where the heck was Emilie? Joya remembered she was habitually late and always blamed it on her job. Clients were running behind or simply didn’t show up. Deals seemed to get screwed up at the last minute.

Emilie was relatively new to town and had been glad to meet Joya, who was around the same age. Joya liked that Emilie had no preconceived notions about her. Her friends in Flamingo Beach were pitifully few. Most had sided with Quen when the marriage had ended because they felt he’d got the crappy end of the deal. He was still paying her alimony.

While Joya sipped on her mojito she thought about how she and Emilie had met. Both of them had been huffing and puffing on a treadmill when they’d struck up a conversation. They’d found out they were both single and living in the same building. Hooking up seemed the obvious thing to do.

Conversation came easily. Who better to commiserate with about the poor pickings on the beach than another single woman? Joya had given up on finding the kind of man she was looking for in Flamingo Beach. It was only a matter of time before she’d have to return to Los Angeles and her flight attendant’s job. Her leave of absence couldn’t go on forever.

“Sorry I’m late,” Emilie said, rushing in, wearing a dress with a plunging neckline and wide skirt. Green ferns were splashed across the beige material and matched her open-toed mules.

Several men swiveled on their stools to see who’d arrived. Emily’s long red hair was pulled off her face and held back by beige combs. Physically, she and Joya were complete opposites. Whereas Emilie was tall, Joya was petite. Emilie was also so light-skinned that she was often mistaken for white. She had enormous boobs, swimmer’s shoulders and the kind of face few people forgot.

She could have been a cover model for a men’s magazine; she knew exactly the effect she had on men and made it work for her. She’d been living with a lawyer in South Jersey, hoping to marry him. But he’d left for work one day then forgotten to come home. Emilie later learned he’d moved in with one of his paralegals.

Skirt rustling, Emilie swung herself onto the vacant stool Joya had been saving. Joya couldn’t help feeling underdressed and like Plain Jane next to her. Joya had barely made it back to the condo to take a quick shower and toss on a denim mini-skirt and spaghetti-strap shirt. Thank goodness she’d worn her signature high heels or she would have been a total frump.

“A cosmopolitan, please” Emilie said, smiling at the bartender before turning her attention back to Joya. “What’s new with you, hon? How’s your grandmother?”

Earlier, Joya had told Emilie about Granny J being hospitalized. Now she told her what Dr. Benjamin had said.

“Let’s hope it’s nothing serious. Doc is very good at what he does and I quite like him. He recommended me to friends. They’ve since bought time shares.”

“I heard he had a girlfriend,” Joya ventured.

Emilie looked at Joya through shuttered green eyes. “It’s a long-distance thing I hear. I don’t think the doctor wants a woman underfoot 24/7.”

“What’s with Derek Morse?” Joya asked before she could stop herself.

“Not sure I know him.”

“He’s a construction worker. Doesn’t everyone know everyone in this town?”

“Not me. I’m new, but if he’s hot I’d like to meet him.”

“He’s hot in an obvious way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Most women would probably think Derek rocked.

“Maybe I need to be introduced to this Derek Morse,” Emilie said loudly.

A deep male voice came from behind them, making both women turn.

“Anything you ladies want to know about Derek Morse you can always ask me.”

A hulk of a man wreathed in gold chains was almost on top of them. Not waiting for an invitation to enter the conversation—he just spoke up.

Joya was mortified at having been caught talking about Derek. She quickly recovered and smiled animatedly at the stranger.

“I’m thinking about having Derek Morse do some work for me. What do you know about him?” she asked.

“In that case you’ll be wanting to speak with Preston Shore. He’s the contractor Derek works for and my old partner. I sold my part of the firm to him. I’m Vince by the way.”

He stuck out a large paw and the women shook it.

“I think I’ll join you,” Vince said sliding onto the vacant seat next to Emilie. “You look thirsty, ladies, let me buy you a drink.”

“This one is about all I can handle,” Joya said after thanking him.

“I’ll have another.” Emilie pointed to her half-empty glass. Joya wondered why she was being so accommodating. She probably saw client potential in Vince.

Vince signaled to the bartender to bring a refresher. “Still interested in hearing about Derek?” he asked.

Just the sound of the construction worker’s name created a warming effect. It must be the drink.

“Of course I am,” Emilie said, leaning in close to Vince and batting her eyelashes.

“Well, he’s only been back in town a couple of months. We think he lost his job in Chicago. He moved in with his great-grandmother Belle Carter.”

“His great-grandmother?” Emilie scrunched up her nose. “What grown man lives with his great-grandmother?”

Vince sucked on his lower lip. “Derek’s somewhere around thirty-five. He and Belle have always been close. She owns an old run-down house set back a bit from the boardwalk. There’s plenty of room so that they don’t interfere with each other.”

Joya listened carefully as Vince spoke until two businessmen strolled into the bar wearing expensive suits and power ties. She found her attention wandering.

“Derek’s one of these guys who doesn’t stay with a job for any length of time,” Vince added.

Joya’s attention shifted to the businessmen who’d found a seat. She’d heard enough to confirm that Derek Morse was an irresponsible drifter.

Not that that came as a big surprise.

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