Year in Palm Beach (28 page)

“That seems to be the plan,” Dick says.

We've been zigzagging along tree-lined residential streets. “A lot of these houses look closed up,” Caroline says. “People don't live here in the summer?”

“Well, some do,” I say. “But lots of people go to Nantucket or Newport. And some of the people who own these houses only come here for February.”

“Oh,” Caroline says. “Let's walk to the beach. I haven't walked on sand in a long time.”

“It might be crowded,” I say.

“How could it be?” Caroline says. “You said nobody lives here now.”

“People from the mainland come over for the day,” I say.

The four of us walk over to the beach, and it is indeed quite crowded.

We skip the beach and walk over to Worth Avenue, where road graders and jackhammers and thick streams of water gushing out of pipes contrast oddly with the elegant window displays of Ferragamo and Neiman Marcus and Max Mara and Escada.

“What in the hell's going on here?” Pete says.

“Oh, my,” Caroline says. “This isn't what I imagined Worth Avenue to be.”

“They're redoing the avenue,” Dick says. “New street, new sidewalks, replacing all the palm trees, all the planting.”

We pick our way carefully along the makeshift boards that serve as Worth Avenue's sidewalk, but Caroline and Pete soon tire of the mud and the mess and we head home to shower and dress. Over cocktails around the pool, the golf talk takes over again and continues through our dinner at Café Boulud. We go the long way home, walking beside the now-empty beach.

As Caroline and Pete walk out to the guest cottage, Pete says, “Great evening. Can't wait to get back on the course tomorrow.”

Dick and I look at each other.

Caroline laughs. “Don't worry, we're not staying. We have to drive home right after we play.”

Sunday, June 13

Caroline, Pete, Dick and I are sitting out by the pool, reading sections of the morning papers. We're sipping espressos and munching on apples slices and biscotti. Pete has the Shiny Sheet.

“Dick,” Pete says. “This says they're going to close South Ocean Boulevard, that's the road by the beach, right?”

“Right,” Dick says.

“Well, they're going to close it for a bunch of days in July and August, so two different homeowners can build tunnels to the beach. Tunnels?”

“South Ocean cuts through some peoples' property,” I say. “Most of the property's on the west side of the road. That's where they build their mansions. But some of the property's on the east side. That's the beachfront part. The tunnel connects the two.”

“That must cost a fortune,” Pete says.

“Some people like their privacy,” Dick says.

“Sounds like conspicuous consumption to me,” Caroline says.

“Well, inconspicuous consumption,” Dick says.

Caroline looks at Pete. “Honey, we've got to go if we want to do the par-three again and get home.”

We walk them to the car and get back to our papers.

“Another espresso?”

“Yes, please,” I say. “I'll get Duckie and Blanco.”

He takes my little cup, and after a few minutes, returns with a refill for both of us.

“Our anniversary's getting closer,” I say. “Any ideas?”

“I can't decide between beach and city,” Dick says. “I was thinking of Anguilla. Or maybe San Francisco.”

“Gee, I'd love to go to San Francisco, stay at The Huntington,” I say. “I love walking those hills. Maybe we could get tickets to a Giants game. But Anguilla sounds good, too.”

“So,” Dick says, “which one?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Let's think about it.”

Monday, June 14

Dick and I are working on separate projects and don't have time to stop for lunch. We barely speak all day. Dick pokes his head into the office around six.

“Want to go to wine night?” he says.

“Did I just work for three days straight?” I say. “Café L'Europe's wine night is Wednesday, not Monday.”

“You're right,” Dick says. “But I saw in the Shiny Sheet yesterday that Café Boulud is starting a bring-your-own-wine night on Mondays. I just looked in our wine rack. There's a nice bottle of Brunello di Montalcino.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I say.

We shower, change into something dressy, walk over.

“I feel a little funny carrying a bottle of wine into Café Boulud,” I say as we walk in.

“Well, no one else seems to,” Dick says. “Look.” Several couples ahead of us are all carrying wine bottles.

“The restaurant's full tonight,” I say.

“Quite a crowd for a Monday in June,” Dick says.

We find two seats at the little bar. Martial, the maitre d' tonight, who we've heard was banned from France for breaking too many hearts, comes over and says he'll have a table for us in about twenty minutes. Just then, a party of six with reservations arrives, and Martial turns to seat them.

“Those people are serious wine drinkers,” Dick says. “Looks like they've got nine bottles of wine.” He studies their bottles. “Three whites, five reds, and a dessert wine of some kind.”

Eventually, Martial leads us to a romantic window table. Outside, fronds glisten with light from the full moon. Mariya, the sommelier, comes over to the table and opens our bottle of Brunello. We order dinner.

“We never got back to what to do for our anniversary,” Dick says.

“No, we didn't,” I say. “But I've been thinking…” I trail off.

“Yes?”

“Well, this is kind of crazy, but what if we spent our anniversary in Palm Beach. At The Chesterfield. We've done it for the past three years and had a great time. We'll just stay the weekend, two nights.”

Dick looks at me for a minute. “Well,” he says, “aren't you Mrs. Brilliant? I've been dreading the thought of airport lines and going through security.”

“So I'll call The Chesterfield in the morning,” I say. “See if they have room.”

We take the long way home to walk by the beach and end up sitting on a bench for quite a while, listening to the waves, looking at the stars, and watching several lightning shows out on the horizon.

Tuesday, June 15

I call The Chesterfield. They have a special two-night package, so I reserve for the weekend. As I'm hanging up, an e-mail comes into my computer. I assume it's The Chesterfield confirming, but instead it's from our landlords. I read it and go find Dick. “We got an e-mail from our landlords,” I say. “They're not coming to Palm Beach this summer. We won't see them again.”

“That's too bad,” Dick says. “I like them.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Their e-mail was nice. It said if we change our minds and want to stay here longer, we're definitely more than welcome.”

Sunday, June 20

For the first time ever, we walked home from an anniversary escape. Even though we were just a few blocks from our cottage, I felt as if we were miles away. And even though we went to Taboo and Renato's and Bice and The Chesterfield, I still kind of felt like a tourist. And it was so pleasant not to end the trip with airport security lines and hours on a cramped airplane.

We traditionally go out the night we return from a trip, so tonight we start with drinks at Taboo, which is funny to me, since we were just there last night while away on our “trip.” The bar is fairly crowded. A couple sitting next to us is chatting with Bobby, telling him they're headed off to Paris tomorrow for their fifth wedding anniversary.

The woman says to Bobby, “We're so excited. We've had so much fun in Paris. We went there for our first anniversary, and then again for our second.”

Bobby frowns and is silent for a moment, then says, “Wait, didn't you go to Rome for your second anniversary, and then back to Paris for the third?”

The woman pauses, looks at her husband, turns back to Bobby, and laughs. “Of course. You're right! How did I mix that up?” She pauses again. “And how can you remember my life better than I can?”

Dick looks at Bobby for a second. “Who are you, Carnac the Magnificent?” he says.

Monday, June 21

Today is the longest day of the year. When I lived in New York, I disliked winter, hated the cold and the short days, when it would be dark long before I left my office. Even in Florida, where it can be seventy degrees any given day all winter long, I still like the long days better.

I look forward to the spring solstice, dislike when the clocks go back in the fall, wait out the days of winter darkness. But I have mixed feelings about the longest day of the year. Yes, today has the most daylight, but tomorrow will have a little less, the first sign the short days are on their way.

Today is also the annual International Day of Slowness. The founders suggest taking this day to celebrate the enjoyment of slowing down, looking around, taking time to enjoy the moment. Watch a snail make its way across a leaf. Cook something from scratch. Do nothing. Pretty much the opposite of the world's current obsession with frantic multitasking.

In some ways, Dick and I seem to be incorporating this slowed-down lifestyle into our year in Palm Beach. We spend much more time here taking walks, looking at stars, and sitting in parks. Ironically, we also get more done in a day than we used to before we moved here. We do more, yet have more time.

Our life here is simpler. Back in April, when I solved the kitchen space problem by boxing up most of our plates, I wondered if I would miss the things I put away. I forgot all about them. It has been surprisingly easy to live with just a few plates.

This, in turn, made using the dishwasher pointless, and I re-discovered the simple pleasure of washing dishes by hand. When I was a child, my father often washed dishes, and I have fond memories of him standing in front of a sink full of suds, carefully rinsing off a glass or a plate. I never understood why he seemed to like washing dishes. Now I think I do.

This afternoon I walk into a tailor's shop to have some pants altered. A woman, probably in her early fifties, is standing in front of the mirror, and a seamstress is pinning the hem of the dress she has on. Behind her is an entire rack of clothes she has just bought that need to be altered. The price tags are still attached. About half the clothes have been fitted.

“I just have to stop now,” the woman says. “This is exhausting. It's making me way too tired.” She makes a date to come back and finish another day. I guess that's her version of how to celebrate the International Day of Slowness.

Friday, June 25

Ritey and Ron, friends of ours who live outside Ocala, called yesterday and asked if we'd be around tonight. He's an oral surgeon, and they're both headed to a conference in Miami tomorrow. We've only known them a few years, and just recently, Dick and Ron discovered they played against each other in a college soccer game. Ron was in the goal for Emory. Dick was in the goal for Rollins. Neither can remember who won.

They arrive about seven, and we have cocktails around the pool.

“So, Ron,” I say, smiling, “aren't you sorry you got here too late to shop Worth Avenue?”

Ron is not a shopper. He laughs. “Right. Not my thing.”

“We might have time in the morning,” Ritey says.

Ron says, “You girls can go. I'll be here, in the pool.”

We discuss various restaurant possibilities, decide on Renato's. We avoid Worth Avenue because it is so torn up and head in the back way to Renato's. Parked on Peruvian is an old Rolls-Royce roadster, probably from the late 1930s. It looks to be in mint condition. The top is down, and a white pullover sweater is casually tossed across the black leather passenger seat.

“Look at that old Rolls,” Ron says.

“The keys are in it,” Ritey says.

Indeed, in the ignition is the key, with a little gold keyring hanging from it.

“Boy, that's out of another era,” I say. Tempting, I think.

We dine outside in Renato's enclosed courtyard, bougainvillea subtly lighted against the stucco walls, the stars above. Then we walk over to The Chesterfield to dance and end up staying until the band packs up.

We head home on Peruvian and walk by several art galleries. A cop is standing inside one of the galleries, and Ron waves at him. Dick and I share a knowing glance. The cop doesn't move. Ron waves again. We get closer. Ritey says, “Oh, my God, he's not real! Or is he?” She looks carefully at the cop. “He's not alive, right? I mean, is he? Look at his skin. This is creepy.”

We all gather around the window. Indeed, the cop is a sculpure but an unnervingly lifelike one. Dick and I were completely fooled the first time we saw him. We actually stood at the window for quite some time, periodically convinced that the guy was alive but just being still, like the Buckingham Palace guards.

Saturday, June 26

I wake late and walk out to the living room. Dick is looking at his laptop but there's no sign of Ron or Ritey. Just then, the front door opens. Ritey and Ron walk in carrying, of all things, shopping bags.

I look at Ritey. “Ron went with you while you shopped?”

“No,” Ritey says. “Actually, Ron went shopping. There must be something weird in the water here. He bought designer jeans, a belt, a shirt.”

Ron smiles sheepishly.

“Worth Avenue's a mess,” Ritey says. “Anyway, we gotta go.” We do hugs all around, and they're out the door.

“Ron went shopping?” Dick says. “There
must
be something in the water.”

Sunday, June 27

Duckie and Blanco are in their cage, out by the pool with us. Duck is back to her old self and actually weighs more than she did before she swallowed the metal.

Dick says, “The Shiny Sheet says a resident called the police because a delivery truck drove over the grass at the edge of his driveway and damaged the lawn.” We may have to notify Interpol again.