Year in Palm Beach (29 page)

“Such problems these people have,” I say. “Time for a walk?”

“Good idea,” Dick says.

I take the birds back inside, and out we go. The sun is strong, the temperature's in the eighties, but there's a light breeze and puffy white clouds create patches of welcome shade. As is usual on a Sunday, tiny open signs are in front of some houses that are for sale. The Town of Palm Beach requires these signs be discreet: no bigger than eight inches by five inches, no words other than “open,” and hung on a thin black post.

We almost miss a sign tucked into the end of a forty-foot-long, ten-foot-tall ficus hedge. The gate is open and a brick driveway leads to a two-story frame house, painted white, with black shutters.

“Want to go in?”

“Sure,” Dick says. “It looks like a Norman Rockwell-type of house, only bigger.” We walk up the driveway. As we get to the door, a woman opens it.

“Hello,” she says. “My name's Frances. Please sign in.” We do, and she leads us through a foyer into a formal living room. “You can easily have cocktails for seventy in this room,” she says.

“Good, let's have one,” Dick says.

Frances is silent. I look around. The room is a riot of floral prints, from the wallpaper to the silk-upholstered furniture to the pillows and drapes. Hanging on the walls are what look to be original oils by eighteenth-century masters. I move close to one to inspect it.

“Watch out,” says Frances. “There's an alarm system. Don't touch.”

I hadn't intended to touch, but I do move a respectful distance away.

Frances leads us into an adjoining room and says, “And this is for your more intimate gatherings.”

“No,” Dick says. “We've walked through a time-space warp. This is The Huntington Hotel bar in San Francisco.” He looks around. “Where's Ty? Must be time for a beer.”

Frances looks puzzled, which I think she often might.

I say, “This looks remarkably like a bar we love in San Francisco. Ty Sanders has been the bartender there for years.”

Dick and I have had good times at The Huntington's Big Four Bar, and this room brings back memories. It's dark, with mahogany-paneled walls and leather chairs framing a large wood-burning fireplace. There's also an L-shaped mahogany bar with leather-covered stools and a brass foot rail. Behind the bar, mirrored shelves sparkle with liquor and glasses. The only thing missing is The Huntington's piano.

“Come see the kitchen,” Frances says. We follow her. Although it's state of the art, it seems modest given the size of the house.

“This kitchen looks kind of small,” I say.

“Oh, this is just the family kitchen,” Frances says. “The chef prepares some family meals here, but his kitchen is down the hall.”

“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”

“The owners entertain quite a bit,” Frances says. “When they're in town, they often have parties for fifty to a hundred people, so they built their chef his own kitchen.”

We follow Frances to a kitchen almost as big as the one in Henry and Michelle's restaurant. A giant hood covers a wide griddle and eight gas burners.

As we leave the kitchen, four people walk in, and Frances's cell phone rings.

“We'll leave,” I say. “This house is way too big for us. These people might be customers.” Frances mouths the word “thanks” and we find our way out.

It's not too long before we pass a brand-new house with a discreet open sign by the newly planted front hedge.

“Shall we?” I say. In we go. The real estate agent meets us at the door.

“I'm George. This house is brand new, never lived in,” he says. “Fifty-five hundred square feet of luxury living space. Come,” he says, “follow me.”

We walk across a polished marble floor from the foyer into the living room. The ceiling is two stories high. A grand fireplace is at each end of the room, and although there is no furniture in the house, a flat-screen TV hangs next to each fireplace.

George takes us through a formal dining room, a breakfast room, an enormous kitchen. Every room has a flat-screen TV. George shows us the full-size elevator, takes us up the wide curved stairways. Flat-screen TVs are in every room upstairs, too, including the bathrooms and dressing rooms and a long hallway.

As we go back downstairs, Dick says, “George, this house has more TVs than a sports bar.”

George smiles. “People can't be without TV these days. This house is the future.”

I say nothing, thinking of our TV-less cottage a few blocks away.

“This is a smart house,” George says. “It's electronically state of the art.” He walks to a control panel on the living room wall. “Every room has one of these panels,” he says. “It controls the air, the music, the lights.” He puts on his reading glasses, studies the panel, starts moving switches. Lights flash on and off: a massive chandelier, sconces, indirect lighting along the edge of the floor, pinpoint ceiling lights.

I look carefully at the control panel. Sixteen switches can be placed in multiple positions. Tiny notations under each indicate its purpose. “Ah, a cheat sheet,” I say.

“Yes, but in no time you'd know what was what,” George says.

Dick looks doubtful, but George's enthusiasm is not to be dampened. “Not only is this house wired for sound, it's also wired to be wireless. You can change the air conditioning settings from your car or even from your plane.”

That does it for Dick. We thank George, explain this is too much house for us. Back out on the street, grateful to be walking to our little cottage, Dick says, “Let's see. We're in our private jet flying back from Paris and want to make sure our bedroom in Palm Beach is cool when we arrive. If we owned that house, wouldn't we have a butler to handle that?”

Wednesday, June 30

It's eight in the morning. I'm in the pool, lying on a float. The sun is creeping across the north end but much of the pool is still in shadow. The circulation system is on, taking me on a slow journey around the edge. The trees above frame a cloudless deep blue sky. I relax, try to think about nothing, but also I follow my thoughts, see where they go. This is one of my forms of meditation.

This week my art class was switched from Thursday to Wednesday. This afternoon I go to my class and decide to tackle abstract painting for the first time. I set a blank canvas on my easel and put paint on it, some of this and some of that, experimenting with different brushes, different strokes, different colors.

I ask Harlan for help, but he just smiles and says to keep on going. I get into this loose style of painting a bit and realize it's not dissimilar to the way I felt this morning, letting go and then observing where I'm going. I suddenly understand this is one of the things Harlan means when he talks to us about painting.

I find I can't stay with the completely loose feeling for long, and after a while I take a second canvas and get out a photograph I have taken of a red hibiscus. I start to paint the flower. But the letting go feeling must still be with me because this time I start to paint my version of the hibiscus, the hibiscus as I see it, or maybe as I want to see it. Or want to paint it.

The painting becomes mine. I can do what I want. I don't have to make the petals look the way they do in real life. I can focus on what I like about the petals. I make the petals flashier than they really are, exaggerate the size of the stamens. It is a liberating feeling, and I paint faster. The class is over long before I am ready to leave.

Thursday, July 1

I'm standing in the pool with a frozen drink resting on the pool's edge. Pam's lying next to me on a float. It's almost ninety degrees. I say, “Mike and Maggie will be sailing in tomorrow. Do you think there are fireworks somewhere on Sunday?”

“Have to be,” Pam says. “We've already seen two shows this year. They have to have fireworks on the Fourth.”

I'm really into the ease of living here in the summer, the flow of the days and weeks. Summer has a different pace than the other seasons. Summer has always said to me, “Chill, slow down, kick back.” Summer here is no different. No Bentleys honking and blowing through stop signs this time of year.

Friday, July 2

Mike, a man of few words, and Maggie, a woman of many, are due this afternoon. Pam and I have known Mike since we were first married. Maggie arrived in the picture about two years ago. They escaped from Manhattan last year and now live in Sea Island, Georgia. Maggie's sister used to live in Palm Beach, and Maggie has informed Pam she has a very specific to-do list: she wants to spend her days “shopping and enjoying the beach, the nights eating, drinking, and staying out late.” Pam and I have been resting up.

At about two o'clock, Mike pulls in the driveway in a vintage British racing green Triumph TR-4, spoked wheels, chrome luggage rack. “Nice ride,” I say.

“Thanks. It's a lot of fun,” Mike says. He looks at the Corvette in the driveway. “Maybe we should drag for beers later.”

“Oh, please, Mike,” Maggie says.

I take their stuff back to the guest cottage, and Maggie declares it is time to shop. Pam says, “You guys are on your own till around five o'clock. Dick and I have to work. Go spend all your money, and we'll see you when you get back.”

Later, Pam walks out of the office and says, “I think I hear Maggie.”

“Me, too,” I say, “but she could still be just a block or two away.”

“Be nice,” Pam says and goes to the door to let them in. “Maggie,” I say, “Pam was kidding when she said ‘spend all your money.' You look like a bag lady.”

Mike is just shaking his head.

“Well, you'll want to see what I got. And I didn't even do the avenue today, just the vias,” Maggie says. “The town is really torn up. Worth is a mess, but I didn't mind.”

Maggie begins her show and tell, pulling things out of shopping bags. “I got these two dresses from Biba, this tunic and purse from Marley's Palm Beach Collection, and this pair of slipper shoes, aren't they silly, from Stubbs and Wooten. And look, I got these Limoge plates from Sherry Frankel's Melangerie. That's my favorite shop in Palm Beach.”

I look at Mike and say, “You know, I think some of the stores are still open. Maybe you guys could take another run at it.”

Mike, who is behind Maggie, gives me a look and apparently has some kind of hand cramp or something. One of his fingers is sticking up. “I think we're okay for today,” he says.

“For today, we're fine,” Maggie says. “Tomorrow, it's Armani, Saks, Neiman Marcus, and Trillion. Can we do Motown tonight?” Maggie asks. “I want to wear one of my new dresses.”

“Take a breath here, Maggie,” I say. “How did you know there is Motown tonight?”

“I've done my homework,” she says.

“Not well enough, I'm afraid. You and Mike are way too old for Motown. It's a young crowd,” I say.

“We are?”

“Maggie, he's kidding you,” Pam says. “Of course, we can go. There'll be people from twenty-two to eighty-two.”

“So that means there'll be people from your age, Maggie, right up to Mike's age,” I say. I think Mike should have that hand problem looked into.

“You have any place you want to go for dinner?” Pam says.

“We're going to Bice,” Maggie says.

“We are?” Pam says. “Well then, we'll change, have a cocktail by the pool, and then we'll go to Bice.”

Saturday, July 3

Pam and I are up before Mike and Maggie and walk to the beach. When we get back, Mike and Maggie are sitting by the pool. The four of us decide on a breakfast of espresso, biscotti, and fruit.

“Well,” Mike says, “last night Dick and I proved once again there is nothing much sillier than two old white guys trying to dance fast.”

“Stop. You guys were great,” Pam says.

“You were,” Maggie says. “Now we're going to the beach, and then we'll take you guys to lunch, and then we'll do some more shopping. It's dancing at the Leopard Lounge tonight.”

Mike looks at me and shrugs.

“You two go to the beach,” I say. “We'll all meet for lunch, and then you can shop till you drop.”

They're back from the beach at about one o'clock; we walk to lunch at Pizza al Fresco. We're sitting in the courtyard next to a bed of flowers. Maggie points to a stone in the flowers and says, “What does it say on that stone?”

“Actually, it's a gravestone, and it reads ‘Johnnie Brown the Human Monkey,'” I say.

“A gravestone for a ‘human monkey,' in a restaurant?” Maggie says.

“It's a long story,” Pam says, “that building used to be Addison Mizner's house, and he had a pet monkey named Johnny Brown. When the monkey died, it was buried there.”

“That's a little strange,” Mike says.

Walking back from lunch, I'm thinking how strange Palm Beach really is. There is a monkey buried on the island, and next to him a dog, but no humans. Palm Beach has no graveyards, no funeral homes, no hospitals.

Sunday, July 4

Pam and I sleep in this morning. I discover the Sunday papers out by the pool, but Mike and Maggie are nowhere to be found. I'm not unhappy.

Pam comes out of the bedroom and I say, “Anything you want to do before Maggie comes back with today's itinerary?”

“A quiet espresso and the papers by the pool with just you would be fine with me,” Pam says.

“I think the stores on Worth Avenue are closed today, so they're probably at the beach,” I say.

Around noon, Mike and Maggie find us by the pool. “The beach is beautiful today,” Maggie says, “but Mike and I were thinking about going to the Gardens Mall for lunch, maybe some shopping. I checked. The stores there are open on the Fourth. It's not very far, is it?”