A little more than a month had passed since the tea room opened. The novelty of the concept, combined with the vibrant hue of the building against the gray backdrop of a Detroit winter, had drawn many visitors. The flavors and the warm hospitality were turning a lot of them into  repeat and regular customers. The atmosphere was completely different once you entered the Palmetto Tea Room, because you were immediately transported to a completely different place where time just passed a little slower, and smiles came a lot more easily.

Sandy had worked hard alongside her little team of employees to see that the first month was a success, and when she sat down to do the ledger (her ledger, anyway), she was very pleased at the bottom line. They had managed to make a small profit, which wasn't something she'd expected for several months. Still, it was enough that she could share it with Norris, Remi, Helen, and Jane. For Sandy's share, it went right to the bank to go into her account to be saved. After all, she didn't want to live in that apartment forever.

"Hello, Miss Sullivan. Good to see you. How can I help you?"

The teller was a woman around Sandy's age, maybe a little older, and wore a pretty stand of pearls and a wedding set. Sandy was caught a bit off guard that she was known by name. She didn't think she'd visited the bank that often.

"Hi there, I'm just wonderful, thank you. I'd like to make a deposit, please."

Sandy handed a deposit slip and a small amount of cash to the teller beneath the iron bars between them.

"Certainly, ma'am. It's the end of the month, would you like a receipt with your account balance for your records?"

"Oh, yes please, that'd be nice."

Once the deposit was completed, the teller disappeared to the back for a minute or so, then returned with a slip of paper which she slid face-down to Sandy on the polished marble counter.

"Will there be anything else today, Miss Sullivan?"

"No, thank you very much. You have a nice day now."

As she turned away, Sandy flipped over the deposit slip and looked down to give a quick glance.
Then she stopped dead in her tracks.

The teller noticed and looked up again.

"Is there a problem, Miss Sullivan?"

Slowly, Sandy turned back to the teller's booth.

"I...I think you must have confused my account with someone else's. I couldn't possibly have this kind of money."

The teller looked at the slip Sandy was holding out to her, and just nodded.

"No, that's your account, ma'am. The other signer on the account has been making most of the deposits, though. Mr. Fishburn?"

Sandy's brain kicked over like a rusty engine finally rumbling to life.

"Oh, yes, of course. Silly me. My...investments."

She smiled sheepishly at the teller, and the woman just smiled back, as if it were something that happened every day.
Still holding the slip in her shaking hand, Sandy walked out of the bank as her stomach was doing a circus act worth of flips. Remembering the instructions she'd been given after first meeting Mr. Fishburn, Sandy walked three blocks away from the bank in the opposite direction of the tea room and then found a pay phone. She dropped in a dime and waited.

"Mr. Robert Fishburn, please. Yes, I can hold."

As she waited, she looked at the now-crumpled receipt for the fifth time. The number still hadn't changed.

"Rob Fishburn."

"Mr. Fishburn, this is Sandy Sullivan. I just came from the bank, and I think there must be a terrible mistake. There is an obscene amount of money in my personal account. That can't be right. Something happened, I've got someone's money and they're going to want it back."

Sandy was whispering, but quickly and quite intensely though the phone booth was closed.

On the other end of the line, Rob Fishburn couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh.

"Christ, Sandy, you're as clean as a sheet of paper up there, aren't you? Remember when we talked about opening your little business over there, you would take care of Mr. C's dry cleaning?"

Rob put a little extra emphasis on the words "dry cleaning" as he continued.

"That's for the dry cleaning bill. You didn't think he was gonna make you work and not pay you for it, did you?"

Sandy didn't say anything for a few moments. She just stared at the receipt with her eyebrows seemingly pinned to her hairline.

"Sandy? You there? Say, where are you, anyway?"

"Oh, um, 28th and Hastings. Nearly in Corktown."

"Good girl." Fishburn said, settling back in his desk chair. "Hey look, this is just the first month. This kind of business grows fast. The dry cleaning, I mean. This is nothing compared to what you're going to see in there a few months from now. So relax, ok? Go get yourself something nice and keep doing what you've been doing. Bye now."

The line went dead and Sandy hung up the phone. Six figures. There were six figures, before the decimal, on the slip of paper in her hand. In a bit of a daze, Sandy hailed a cab to take her home. What in the world was she going to do with that? For that matter, with more than that? After all, she was just one person. It wasn't like she had a family to help support, or kids to raise.

When she got back to her apartment, Sandy changed into her favorite satin nightgown and housecoat, put on her slippers, and sat down with a glass of whiskey and water on ice and a book of photographs. She flipped the pages until she came to a single photo of a proud looking, elderly woman with salt and peppered hair arranged in a bun. Sandy took a long sip of her drink and laid the book on her lap, then sighed and looked down at the photo.

"Well, Memaw, you ain't gonna believe what I've gone and done now."