Second Chance at Love

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Dad always said, “There are warm and fuzzy people, and there are people.” Maybe she was just a “people.” All righty then. This was a business relationship, and if she did her job, that was what mattered, wasn't it?

  “I've sorted the mail into stacks,” she said, putting a blood red fingernail on the papers. “These are bills, accounts payable, correspondence, requests, and miscellaneous.”

  “I didn't buy the business,” I explained. “Just the building. The business died with Essie Feldman, or so I assume.”

  “That's right, but you might still want to look at what's here. If you want to, you can pick up where she left off, although you won't have the obligations she incurred. I brought with me the profit and loss statements from the past five years. That will give you an idea of how her business faired financially. You could start with customer requests since those would be low hanging fruit. No doubt many of those customers would have found what they were looking for, but you might be able to salvage a few salable items from the mess out there.”

  “That's perfect. I want to make whatever money we can as fast as possible because I'll have a lot of expenses right off the bat.”

  She picked up a pile of paper. “Why not let me handle calling old customers? I can identify what we have or what we can round up. Essie had a good network of suppliers. It can be difficult to find exactly those items that people want, but we can try.”

  “Back up a second, please. Let's start from ground zero. Did she do a good business? Give me a state of the union address about The Treasure Chest. If it were your business, would you run it as she did?” I dragged over an ancient metal folding chair that had been propped up against a wall. With some effort, I popped it open and sat down. It wasn’t comfortable, but it held me up while MJ stayed in the office chair behind the big oak desk.

  Her eyes widened in surprise at my question. She pursed her lips and went silent. I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want to interrupt her thought process. Dad always said that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason, although most people used these orifices in the wrong proportion.

  “I don't want to speak ill of the dead,” she began, “but for years I thought that Essie should change focus—and I told her as much. Yes, antiques are nice, but unless you want to be a dedicated antique store, sales can be sporadic. The company is dependent upon what can be scrounged up or what can be purchased at estate sales. To be successful, it's necessary to find someone to be your bird dog, chasing down leads, sifting through dreck to find desirables, and buying them at a reasonable price.”

  That made sense. If I followed that path, I'd have to hire a person to be my scout—and a person with that expertise wouldn't come cheap. The scout would also need a bankroll of ready cash, because there would be situations where forking over the dough on the spot would be necessary. That would mean that I'd have little or no control over a chunk of change.

  MJ continued, “The antique buying market in southern Florida basically disappeared after Bernie Madoff stripped so many people of their wealth. The tanking of the economy dealt a final blow to the many of the remaining collectors. Even when we bought up antiques for a pittance, which we were often able to do, it took a long time to turn them. That meant that Essie's capital was tied up. There's one other trend that she refused to consider. More and more baby boomers downsize and move to Florida for the tax advantages. They've already had expensive antiques and nice furniture. Now they are planning to be comfortable and to welcome their grandchildren into their homes. So they aren't buying antiques like they once did.”

  “I can tell you've given this a lot of thought. What changes would you recommend?”

  “I suggest we offer fewer antiques, ones in a reasonable price range. I like items that would appeal to a broader market and that would turn faster, with higher margins. Nothing exotic. If we found a rare piece, of course, we should buy it. But it would be more profitable to sell it quickly. That way the capital wouldn't be tied up as long.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I think I understand how the antiques figured into the business mix, but what kept the lights on and brought in a steady cash flow?”

  “That's my point. There wasn't a steady cash flow. In my opinion, you need to find a balance by selling rarities and offering a supply of goods that will appeal to snowbirds. Plus décor items for snowbirds who decide to move here permanently.”

  “Snowbirds” was a term for Northerners who “flew” south seasonally to avoid the snow.

  “What do you think our snowbirds would want to buy?”

  “They are wild about beach-themed goods at reasonable prices. I realize that's a pretty loose description, but if I were you, I'd aim at a sweet spot. Think of a cross between HGTV and Coastal Living Magazine. Are you familiar with both of those?”

  “My favorites!”

  “You and the rest of the baby boomer generation. You want to be surrounded with comfortable, unique, and inviting things.” MJ scrawled those three words on a small yellow legal pad. “Throw in a dash of handmade, and you'd nail it.”

  I reached over, grabbed the pen, and added a headline: “Beach-themed.”

  “That's right. Are you planning to change the name of the shop?” she asked.

  “I'd rather not.” I tapped the pen against my teeth. “That would be a hassle and a half. I have always liked the name 'The Treasure Chest.' I think it's in keeping with its location, the Treasure Coast. People enjoy dreaming about the ocean even when they can't be close to the water.”

  “I agree,” she said. “That's a specific quality we can offer. Anyone, anywhere, could sell antiques, but if you concentrate on pieces that echo that love of the seashore, I think your merchandise will have more appeal.”

  MJ and I studied the yellow paper pad. Slowly she turned her gaze toward me.

  “If that's your intent, this place needs a total transformation. You'll need to change it from a dark, dusty cave into a bright, welcoming environment. Someplace sunny and bright⸻like the beach. How do you propose to start? Do you have a plan?”

  “I’ll put one together.” For the first time, I thought she and I might make a good match. She wasn't endearing, but she was no-nonsense, and I liked that. “I don’t know a lot about this particular business, but I do know a lot about running a business in general. As for décor, I was in charge of decorating and stocking our family restaurant. Several friends asked me to help them decorate their homes and places of business. While I lack the training and credentials of a full-fledged interior designer, I do have a bit of experience. Especially in doing it on a budget.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “While you wrap your head around the changes that need to be made, I'll call every customer who made a request before Essie died and see if they still are interested in specific items.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. Feeling both energized and hopeful, I hopped to my feet.

  CHAPTER 38

  I'd no more than finished my conversation with MJ when my cell phone rang. It was Walter Pujoli, the man who was buying our restaurant on contract.

  “Cara, I hate making this call, but I have a problem. We had a bad storm here in St. Louis, and the power was knocked out. The old generator went down.”

  “How many coolers did you lose?”

  He hesitated. “All of them.”

  I did a quick mental calculation. The cost of lost food would be staggering. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “I warned you,” because I had. I'd told Walter when he bought the place that he should replace our old back-up generator, but he'd laughed off my suggestion. Walter was a nice enough man, but he never showed me any respect. To him, my dad was the boss, and I was my father's pesky little sidekick.

  “I need a little time to recoup my losses,” he said. “This month's check will be late.”

  As I mentally counted to ten, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “There's another problem. Cash has been disappearing from the till. When are you coming back?”

&nbs
p; When was I coming back?

  He expected me to solve this problem for him? From Florida?

  Huh, not likely.

  I heard my father’s voice in my head. “Cara, everyone learns differently. Men generally need to be hit over the head with a two-by-four to change their minds. Be nice.”

  “You need to hop on that fast,” I said to Walter, as I tactfully ignored his attempt to rope me into his problems.

  “How?” whined Walter.

  “Call Detective Chad Detweiler and tell him I sent you. He'll steer you in the right direction.”

  As quickly as I could, I ended the call. If Walter became dependent on me, he'd never gain the confidence he needed to run Cara Mia's. Besides, I didn't want him to realize how upset I was about the late payment. I'd counted on that steady flow of cash to help me as I put money into The Treasure Chest.

  All I could do was double-down and get to work.

  It is absolutely amazing what you can accomplish when your back is to the wall. Mine was, because I desperately needed to get this show on the proverbial road. Powered by panic, spurred on by worry, I shifted into high gear. Every delay in opening our doors to the public was costing me money. MJ, bless her heart, seemed to realize my predicament, too. She worked her way through the phone calls like a telemarketer while I walked around (as best I could, given the piles of junk in my way) and thought about the look I wanted for the store.

  “Hey,” I said to her. “I’m thinking that we need to both blend in and stand out. I'm going to take a quick stroll through downtown Stuart. I want to get a feel for the other successful businesses.”

  “Good idea,” she said.

  The breeze from the Intracoastal would do me good. My head was buzzing with questions. What did I need to do first? How could I redecorate on a dime? How on earth was I going to turn The Treasure Chest into a profitable retail business given my limited capital and lack of cash flow?

  Most importantly, What had I gotten myself into?

  CHAPTER 39

  When I walked back into the store, MJ looked up from the desk. With a yellow pencil tucked behind her ear, she looked like a cartoon-version of an accountant.

  “Let me tell you what I've learned,” she said. “We have three items here on the floor that people requested and still want. I'll look them over and see if they're in good shape. If not, I'll find a furniture expert who can get them fixed up. The list includes a side table, a Florida hallway chair, and a wicker love seat. They're over by the front window, on the left.”

  “Great,” I said. “It's a relief to hear that a few of these things we can actually sell.”

  “The trick is matching the item to the person. That's how these three pieces came into our possession in the first place. It's not that they have so much intrinsic value. They don't, but they were special requests that Essie managed to fill for long-time customers. When she died, and the store was closed, there wasn't any follow-through.”

  “Matching people and one-of-a-kind objects sounds to me like a hard way to make a buck.”

  “It is,” said MJ. “What have you decided about changing the interior?”

  “I've decided to replace the linoleum on the floors with tile that looks like white-washed wood. The walls should be painted a soft white. These bare bulb light fixtures definitely have to go. They are far too industrial and cold. Changing out these three key components would make a huge difference.”

  “I know where to get the tiles and whom to call about the painting, so I'll get right on that. As for the light fixtures, there's a lighting showroom down by PGA Boulevard. I suggest you go visit and see if anything there will work. Tell Darlene I sent you. She's an old friend of mine.”

  New fixtures would cost a mint, especially if I chose anything classy.

  “I'll get to the light fixtures later,” I said. “We can make do for now by replacing the old bulbs. We also need a person with muscle. Someone who can help us move the heavier objects. As jumbled up as everything is, we can't tell the trash from the treasures.”

  “I'll contact Bobby Gander,” she said. “He can do about everything. Carpentry. General contracting. Furniture work. He's retired, but he might have time to help. If not, he'll know whom we should call.”

  “How much of this can we do ourselves?” I wondered.

  “A lot.” Skye walked in through the back door with two paper bags in her hands. “I figured you two could use the help. It was also time for a dinner break, so I asked Loretta if she wanted to hang around and work my shift. She was thrilled because she needs the money. Let me change out of my work clothes, and we can get cracking.”

  When you were facing a big job, the appearance of unexpected help always seemed to provide a boost of energy.

  While Skye was changing, a flooring salesman named Jimmy McConnell knocked on the back door. Even though it was past six o'clock, he carried a complete set of samples for us to consider. MJ whispered to me, “I used to date him, so I gave him a call. I knew he'd give you a good deal, and he'd run right over.”

  I chose tiles with a white washed faux wood finish and placed the order. I also asked MJ to locate two sets of mattresses and box springs for the bed frames upstairs. Although you could argue that Skye was responsible for her own bedding, I hated to think of anyone sleeping on those disgusting remnants. In fact, I wanted them off the premises, so I told MJ, “Make sure they’ll remove the old mattresses and box springs when they deliver the new ones. That old stuff is completely disgusting.”

  “Will do.”

  Bobby Gander arrived right as the tile salesman was leaving. MJ introduced us. Bobby squeezed my hand too hard and gave me a speculative up and down once over. His eyes slid sideways as he winked at MJ. Whatever secret message passed between them, I couldn’t decode. However, MJ responded by crossing her arms over her chest and turning her back on us. She walked over to the desk and immediately began looking up and jotting down phone numbers. I assumed she was making a list of mattress stores.

  “I can be here tomorrow if you want,” said Bobby, as he twirled a key ring on his finger. The Camaro emblem on the fob blinked by as he spun the ring around. Bobby stunk of cigarettes and too sweet cheap cologne. A spark-plug of a man, he stood with legs akimbo and his hands on his hips, as if to make himself look bigger than he was.

  “You personally? MJ told me that you were retired.”

  “Yes, but she's a special gal, so I don't mind pitching in to help.” He gave me a wink as he offered his hand for a shake on the deal. The calloused skin suggested he'd worked in manual labor all his life.

  “MJ says you can do about anything.”

  “I can.” He said matter-of-factly. “Everything but finish work. I hate working with trim. I can do it, but I hate it.”

  “Then I guess we'll see you tomorrow.”

  “Just so you know, a lot of this stuff will need several passes to make it salable. I'll probably have to hang around for several days.”

  “Sure.” The cash register in my head went ca-ching, but what could I do?

  “See you around, MJ.” He sauntered toward the door with a jaunty spring in his step.

  After the back door slammed behind him, I asked MJ. “Did you date him, too?”

  “Bobby? No. He and I were married.”

  That shut me up. A glance at my cell phone told me it was nearly nine o'clock. Skye wandered over, rubbing her lower back with both fists.

  “Whew. I'm bushed. If you and MJ would come with me to my car,” she said. “I wouldn't have to make many trips to drag in my stuff. Shouldn't take us long.”

  “Better yet,” I said, “why don’t you clean while MJ and I grab your things? You won’t have time to do a deep cleaning, but at least you can remove the surface layer of dust. You’re welcome to use the cleaning supplies you bought for the store.”

  That was agreeable to everyone. Skye handed over her car keys. MJ and I headed down the stairs and out into the night. “It's nice of you to give Skye a chance,
” she said. “After what happened and all.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” MJ clamped her mouth shut and refused to say more.

  In ten minutes, we'd moved Skye's belongings from the Mustang into her apartment. I gave my new tenant the good news about MJ scaring up new bedding for us.

  “What's back at the other place? Your old apartment?” I asked, thinking I could drive over with her and make short work of the project.

  “Nothing. This is it. All my worldly goods. Let’s move the bedframe against that shared wall so I can sit and sleep on it until I get more furniture.”

  With the three of us working together, the task went quickly. As I helped my friends center the bedframe, I noticed that the wall was buckling slightly, bulging at the bottom. There weren’t any electrical sockets along it either, which seemed pretty odd for a wall that had been recently built. Oddly enough, there were a lot of screws, rather than nails.

  The whole time we pushed and shoved that rusted frame, I wondered what MJ had meant with her offhand remark.

  Skye had moved only six black plastic bags and seven boxes. Granted, I didn't own a lot more than she, but I'd downsized on purpose. The meager number of Skye's possessions confirmed that she was barely getting by, and yet she'd helped me without complaining by giving me rides, giving me a place to stay, feeding me breakfast, and bringing me food even though we'd only just met. In that manner, she reminded me of Kiki Lowenstein, who never had two cents to rub together but always found a way to lend a helping hand.

  My train of thought was derailed when MJ said she was calling it a night. The evening was inky black, so I walked MJ to her car with a flashlight.

  “What did you mean about giving Skye a chance?”

  “Nothing.” MJ’s voice was crisp.

  “But⸻”

  MJ had already slammed the heavy door on her Cadillac. Instead of getting an answer, I stood there in the dark and watched as her taillights faded into the night.