Year in Palm Beach (32 page)

“Seems like last week, not almost a year ago.”

Pam says, “Let's walk and do a tally of what the different shops sell.”

About an hour later we have our results.

Places to purchase a bottle of aspirin, zero.

Number of shops selling ladies' clothing, fifty-three.

Number of shops selling bread, zero.

Number of shops selling jewelry, thirty-seven.

Number of shops where you can buy a six-pack of beer, zero.

Number of shops where you can buy antiques, twenty-one.

There are five shops that sell ladies' shoes and seven shops that just sell purses.

As we discovered soon after we moved to Palm Beach, shops on Worth Avenue have nothing people need, but just about everything people want.

Tonight after our survey, Pam and I are catching the end of a Yankee game at Bice. A guy comes in the side door and looks around. All the stools are occupied except two. These two are being occupied by a huge purse and a shopping bag.

The man says politely to the woman sitting next to these items, “Excuse me, are these your bags?”

She turns her head. “Yes, I'm waiting for a friend.” And she turns back.

After a few beats, the man asks, “Is your friend really, really fat?”

The young woman's head snaps around. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if your friend is extremely fat.”

“She most certainly is not!”

“Good. Then do you think it might be possible for me to use one of the two stools you seem to be saving for her?”

Tuesday, August 10

Today's mail has a reminder from a local insurance agent urging Palm Beachers to review their insurance coverage. This particular agent specializes in coverage such as a one hundred million dollar personal liability umbrella, twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of coverage for the hiring of a PR firm to protect your reputation in case of a scandal, insurance for your staff, and, of course, special insurance to cover kidnapping expenses.

It reminds me of the call Pam got last fall regarding our staffing needs. Anyway, I don't need insurance today. I need boxes and to start organizing our move back.

It looks like another Chesterfield night. We didn't get out of our offices until late, and it's now almost nine thirty. Time for the Leopard Lounge bar menu, specifically Bea's chicken soup for me and a plate of lobster salad for Pam, and then a dance or two. I'll miss being able to walk over and get Bea's soup and a dance after working late, or even after not working at all.

Ricky and Lucy are the servers in the dining room, and Lou and Candy are behind the bar. Lou comes over. “Let me ask you this,” he says, pointing to the dining room. “If Ricky and Lucy are working the dining room, where are Fred and Ethel?”

After a quiet dinner, it is time to walk home. The hotel lobby always has a small jar of jelly beans near the front desk, and I usually stop by to spoon out a few. Tonight the jar is not there.

“No jelly beans tonight,” I say to Pam.

We are almost half a block from the hotel when the night auditor catches up to us with a small plastic cup of jelly beans. “We always have jelly beans,” he laughs. “You just have to know the right person.” I thank him.

“You know how often something like that has happened to us this year?” Pam says.

“I'll bet I could list a couple dozen of these random acts of kindness,” I say. “It is not going to be easy to leave this island.”

Thursday, August 12

I hit some tennis balls with Todd. It's only eight thirty, but the temperature is in the high eighties, and there's not much breeze. After about twenty minutes, I say, “Todd, I feel a little weird. I'm gonna sit down for a minute.”

I walk over to a bench. Todd follows. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just going to sit for a minute.” I fade off to some other planet for a few seconds. I'm brought back by the sound of sirens.

Todd is putting a wet towel around my neck. “Thanks,” I say. “Are those sirens for me?”

“Yeah, you worried me. Better to be safe,” he says.

Two trucks from the Palm Beach Fire-Rescue Department arrive, and suddenly six EMT professionals and Mary Flynn, the facility supervisor, are marching onto the courts with enough medical machinery to open up a mobile hospital.

I am extremely embarrassed, but I'm also a little scared, so I'm not unhappy to see a six-pack of trained professionals. One of the paramedics begins by checking my blood pressure and pulse, then they hook me up to a portable EKG machine that is printing stuff like a stock ticker.

Todd hands me a cup of water. The paramedics are still checking me out ten minutes later when I see Pam walking onto the court. I look at Todd. He shrugs.

Pam looks scared, so I smile and give her a thumbs-up to let her know I'm okay.

“He's absolutely fine,” one of the paramedics says as she approaches. “He should take it easy and stay out of the sun for the rest of the day, but everything seems normal.”

Pam has several questions, actually more than several questions, but after four or five minutes she seems convinced it's okay to take me home.

I thank everyone, and as Pam and I are walking to the car, I say, “Our first day in Palm Beach we were met by the police. Then the firemen came to the cottage, and now, as our year is ending, I get a visit from the paramedics.”

“Well, I'm glad we weren't arrested, I'm glad we didn't burn down the neighborhood, and I'm glad you're okay,” Pam says.

As she's driving home, Pam says, “I was really scared when Todd called.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” I say. “Thankfully, there's nothing to worry about.”

But I know Pam is still worried, and it is not lost on me that I just had a birthday, or that when my father got off a plane at La-Guardia and was walking to the baggage area, there was “nothing to worry about” then either. He dropped dead of a heart attack before he ever got his bag.

Saturday, August 14

I felt fine yesterday but took it easy. It was Friday the thirteenth, after all, and the tennis court incident scared me a little more than I let on. Today, as Pam and I are coming home from an early morning walk, I see a young couple in the driveway of the house next door. No one has been at that house since we first arrived.

Pam and I walk over and introduce ourselves. Fabrizio and Maddalena live in Italy and are here for two weeks to check on the house, which Fabrizio's family owns. We chat for a while, then continue home.

Tonight I'm on a mission to have one more burger-and-dog cookout at our cottage before our year is up. The burgers, dogs, salad, potato salad, and all the trimmings are sitting in the icebox.

Pam and I are sitting in the pool. Peter Allen is entertaining us. I haven't started the coals yet, but I'm looking over at my little forty-nine dollar Smokey Joe grill. I remember the firemen joking about it. Our house could easily be the only house on this island with a funny little grill like this. The truth is, it is just perfect for us.

Sunday, August 15

I read in this morning's Shiny Sheet that the mayor of South Palm Beach has had a dustup at a local “gentlemen's club.” The mayor's been in a dustup in a strip joint. I'm wondering if he has some of that special PR insurance for these difficult times.

The renters of our New Smyrna house have moved out. I'm wondering if we should go up and check it out. It seems like a waste of time. We'll be moving back in two weeks, anyway. Why waste a trip? Why waste a night in Palm Beach? I run my thoughts by Blanco and the Duck. We all decide not to drive up.

Tuesday, August 17

Yesterday, Pam brought up the idea of checking on the New Smyrna house. She thought we should see it before sending back the security deposit. As usual, she's right. She also pointed out that it's only three hours away. The birds and I changed our minds.

So today we are driving up I-95 blissfully unaware how this trip may be changing our lives. We haven't made the trip for almost a year, but it is familiar and uneventful. As we leave I-95, head east on SR-44, and cross over the bridge to New Smyrna Beach, Pam says, “This is quite a different picture.”

I've also been looking at the surf shops, sandwich shops, and T-shirt shops. “This is a great beach town,” I say, “but a very different beach town from Palm Beach.

As I turn in our driveway, Pam says, “I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here.”

I park, fumble with some keys, and we go inside.

“Coming here from the cottage,” Pam says, “is like when we came back to the cottage from that little motel room in the Keys.”

“It's not the Flagler Museum, but the space feels wonderful,” I say.

Pam puts the contents of our cooler in the icebox and then we both start our house inspection. The place looks to be in perfect condition.

“Isn't this a nice surprise?” I say. “If the rent checks hadn't been coming in every month, I might not believe there were renters here.”

We both start to wander around for a closer look. I go out and check on the garage, and when I come back in, I find Pam sitting at her desk in her office. “What're you doing?” I ask.

“I'm imagining having this office in Palm Beach,” she says.

“It'd be nice,” I say, “but pretty tough to move it there. And we certainly couldn't afford to buy or rent a house like this in Palm Beach.

“You're right,” Pam says. “I know.”

“You want to check the outside and the double deck with me?” I say.

We walk out to the end of the property by the wetlands. “Everything looks great out here, I say. “It's almost seven. Shall we have a glass of champagne in the tub?”

“I'd love that,” Pam says. “I've missed our baths together.”

Inside, I fill an ice bucket and find a half bottle of Veuve. Pam starts filling the tub. After about a half hour of sipping and talking in the tub, we're rinsing off in the two-person shower. I laugh. “This shower is about the same size as the third bedroom of the cottage. The one we turned into a closet,” I say.

“The tub and the shower are great,” Pam says. “I've missed them. And I want to cook in this kitchen tonight. It'll be a nice change.”

We brought dinner with us: arugula, carrots, peppers, garlic, an onion, tomatoes, a box of penne, and a couple of hot and sweet Italian sausages. I have also, of course, brought Peter Cetera.

Pam creates the salad, and I, the pasta sauce. There is plenty of room for both chefs. Not even a near-collision throughout the entire prep. I'm beginning to think we don't even really need all this room.

Pam says, “This kitchen is huge. It's almost too big.”

“You're reading my mind again. It's creepy.”

“A game of pool while the sauce simmers?” Pam says.

“Excellent,” I say. “The table's going to seem like a football field.”

It takes us a game or two to adjust, but it appears we're now bilingual, pool and bumper pool. After several more games, we cook the pasta and have a candlelit dinner in the dining room.

“I love this table,” Pam says. “And I love these plates. The cabinets are full of stuff I'd really like to have in Palm Beach.”

“If we had room, you mean?” I say. “Anyway, we'll be back here in less than two weeks and there's plenty of room here for everything.”

We play another game of pool, then go to bed.

Wednesday, August 18

Lying in bed in New Smyrna this morning, I'm thinking about houses. In particular, I am thinking about the house I grew up in with my brother—my childhood home, “my house.” That's what I called it, but even then, it wasn't really mine. Other families lived in it before we did, and certainly other families lived in it after we left.

This house in New Smyrna is Pam's and my house, but it's only our house now. Different people have owned it and lived in it before and will again. Anyway, I've lived in this house and the house I grew up in for almost the same number of years. Pretty soon, I will have lived in this house longer than any other house in my whole life.

After espressos, we find ourselves turning out of the driveway around nine thirty in the morning, having no reason to stay. As I'm pulling onto I-95, Pam says, “That was fun last night. What a luxury to have all that space.”

“Yep, it was fun,” I say, “but it was also a little strange.”

“You mean like we were sneaking into somebody else's house?” Pam says.

“Exactly.”

“Weird, isn't it? We've lived in that house for over ten years,” Pam says.

We're both quiet on the drive south and both happy when we get to the Palm Beach bridge. Back home, I gather the newspapers and Pam lets the birds out. They've survived happily without us.

We're reading the papers with the birds. Pam says, “It's nice to be home.”

“I thought we were home when we were in New Smyrna,” I say.

“It's confusing, isn't it?”

We walk over to Victor's for lunch. Pam and I are both quiet, a little zoned out, or perhaps zoned in. We are the only ones in the courtyard. Well, the only humans. A heron wanders over to join us. He walks toward us on his spindly legs. Then he has a sudden change of mind and swoops gracefully up to the sky in the opposite direction.

Thursday, August 19

Today we pick up cartons at Scotti's, and when we get home, we find a note tucked into our door. Our new neighbors, Fabrizio and Maddalena, want to know if we would like to come for a drink this evening. Pam calls and says we'd love to.

We walk over around six with a small bouquet. Chairs and a table with light hors d'oeuvres are set up by their pool. There is also a brass tub filled with ice, two different Italian whites, and a selection of beers. These are good neighbors.

Over pinot grigio and Peroni, sopressata and mixed olives, we learn that Fabrizio's family has owned the house for almost twenty years, and that Fabrizio actually lived in it for four years when he was in college here. Maddalena is a model in Italy and this is her first visit to the States. After about an hour, I look at Pam and she nods.