“In a nutshell.”
He sits up and turns on his light. “Are we crazy?”
“I don’t know. We were awfully impulsive.” I turn on my light, fluff the pillows so I can sit comfortably. “The thing is, well, I mean, there are so many things.”
“Might as well get up,” Dick says. “Tea or espresso?”
“This morning I need tea. Something calming.”
Dick goes off to the kitchen. I slip into a robe and follow him, put some biscotti and slices of banana and apple on a plate.
We settle in the corners of the living room couch. It’s beginning to get light outside, and I can just begin to see the flowers planted around the pool.
“This all seemed so frivolous and fun yesterday,” I say.
“That’s because it was frivolous and fun yesterday. Today it’s buyer’s remorse. Or actually renter’s remorse.”
I look around. “The space here is wonderful. Do we really want to leave the house we remodeled to be our dream house to live in a tiny cottage?”
“And do it for a year?” Dick says.
“I don’t know. That seems like an awfully long time to live in something so small.”
“And a year could be way too long a time to live in Palm Beach,” Dick says.
I think about this. All we really know about Palm Beach are the bars and restaurants. We don’t know what the town is like. We have no friends there.
“You mean, like, what would we do day to day?” I say.
“Right.”
“How do you feel about renting this house, letting strangers live here? There’s a lot of nice stuff they could wreck,” I say.
“You mean like the Rookwood pottery,” Dick says. “Or all the plates you like. Or the pool table. Or the art on the walls.”
“We could put the good stuff away.”
“I suppose.” Dick says.
“Also, what about leaving our friends for a year?”
Suddenly, the idea is becoming more and more unappealing. I think of our relationships here, all our friends, our dentist, our doctors, Priscilla at the bank. We could come back to see friends or for doctors’ appointments, I suppose, but we couldn’t stay here if our house is rented.
“Have we made a mistake?” I say.
“I don’t know,” Dick says. “I’m getting something to write on.” He goes into his office and comes back with a notepad and a pen.
Duckie and Blanco start chirping. “I guess we woke the birds,” I say. “I’ll go get them.” I go into my office, where they sleep, uncover their cage, and open the door. They both hop onto my shoulders, and we all head into the living room. Dick has made more tea and drawn a two-column chart.
“Negatives on the left,” he says. “Positives on the right.” Duck hops off my shoulder, walks over to Dick’s lap, and starts preening. We start by listing pros and cons. Dick fills in the columns as we talk.
“How’re we doing?”
Dick makes a quick count. “It’s about three to one we shouldn’t go.”
“Wow. That’s depressing. Let me see.” I move next to him to take a look. The chart is heavy on the negative side. It makes clear the move is impractical, impulsive, perhaps even foolish. The cottage is too small, the risk of renting out our furnished house is too big, and we have absolutely no idea whether we’d like living day to day in Palm Beach. Not to mention that having three weeks to simultaneously move and handle our work commitments is a ridiculously short amount of time.
“Well, yuck,” I say. “They must have put something in the water down there.”
Dick says, “Let’s take a walk.”
I put the birds back in their cage, and we head over to the beach. The surf’s up, and surfers are paddling out to catch the next big one. A platoon of pelicans swoops low and flies just barely above the waves, looking for breakfast. The wind is fairly strong, coming right off the ocean, and the distance is a haze of salty air. I love this beach. We walk about a mile north along the water. Neither of us says a word.
“Head back?” Dick says.
“Okay.” We turn around and make our way south, still silent. I’ve been turning things over and over in my mind. Each time I come to the conclusion we shouldn’t rent the cottage in Palm Beach, the decision feels wrong. The truth is, I want to go, no matter what.
Finally, I say, “I don’t care if the move is impractical; I want to go.”
“Mrs. Practical wants to go even if it’s totally impractical?”
“It doesn’t feel right not to go.”
“Well, I want to go, too,” Dick says. “We’re too young to just write books and tend to our vegetable garden.”
“And we’re too old not to do this. Plus, it’ll be fun in a year to come back to our dream house.”
“I’d better call Alex, see if he really can rent this house,” Dick says.
We leave the beach and walk toward our house.
“So, we’re going to do it,” I say.
“Yup, it’s going to be fun,” Dick says. “And scary.”
“I like fun and scary.”
Dick calls Alex as soon as we get home. Alex is confident he can rent the house, probably for a little more than we were expecting. I start making lists of all the things we need to do, forwarding the mail, setting up a phone in Palm Beach, and so forth. Dick walks around the house, making a list of what we need to bring. The cottage is partially furnished. We’ll need to fill in the blanks with stuff but leave enough so this house is adequately furnished for renters.
I know some people hate to move but I love it. Packing up isn’t my favorite activity, but I like the experience of living somewhere that is new to me, adjusting to the inside of the house, the unfamiliar rooms, and exploring the neighborhood, finding out where to do errands, the best routes for long walks. I feel the thrill of the unknown, just as I have every single move in my life.
“Shall I call Michele and Henry, give them the news?” Dick says. Henry and Michele are good friends who we met when they opened the Spanish River Grill in New Smyrna a decade ago.
“Yes,” I say. “Actually, see if they want to have dinner tonight here or at Spanish River. We can tell them then.”
We get to the restaurant around eight and relax at the bar while Henry and Michele take care of restaurant business. Around eight thirty, the four of us settle in at a table. Henry orders a bottle of red, pours each of us a glass.
We hold up our glasses and say “Sim Sala Bim” in unison. It’s been our standard toast since we first met, although none of us can remember why.
Dick tells them of our impending move, with me adding details, and Henry and Michele asking question after question. Once they get over being astonished, Henry insists if we’re leaving town for a year, he’s going to be the one to move us.
“The truck I have for the restaurant,” he says. “It’ll be perfect. Everything will fit.” He laughs. “I’ll make it fit.”
“Henry, you can’t do that; you’ve got a restaurant to run. Your plate’s full already,” Dick says. “Excuse the expression.”
“No, no, no, I’m doing this,” Henry says. “Besides, I want to check on our sleeping quarters. Don’t think we won’t be regular visitors down there.”
Michele says, “I want to come, too. I want to see the cottage, see just how crazy you guys are.”
Driving home, Dick says, “We can’t let them do that.”
“I’m not sure we can stop them,” I say.
The next several weeks are a blur. Days are divided into working time and packing and planning for the move. The lease comes in the mail, and we both sign it. Because Alex is showing the house to renters, we have to keep everything neat. I pile things that we’re taking by the front door, and Dick takes the stuff to the garage and packs it up.
We go to the dentist and the doctor, get haircuts, have the cockatiels clipped. We don’t have these connections in Palm Beach and we suspect everything will be much more expensive there. We get up earlier to
write and stay up later to pack. It’s hectic, but I feel excited, like a little kid, and Dick says he does, too. One morning, Dick answers the phone, and it’s the miracle call from Alex. A couple wants our house for ten months. Close enough. The days speed past.
Two days before we’re destined to leave, Henry drops his truck off, and by late afternoon on the last day of August, the truck is packed. In the early evening, Henry and Michele arrive. They’re going to spend the night here so we can get an early start. They want to get back tomorrow before their restaurant opens.
“Let’s go to the double deck,” Dick says. He hands Henry two chilled beer mugs. “If you would fill these, I’ll carry the champagne for the ladies.” He picks up the ice bucket. Henry goes to the kegerator.
“What can I do?” Michele says.
“Just get two champagne glasses,” I say. She reaches into the cupboard, and I pick up a plate of cheese and crackers. We all walk out to the end of the property and up to the second floor of our two-story open deck. It looks out over thousands of acres of wetlands.
We settle in chairs. Dick pours Michelle and me champagne, and then we all raise our glasses.
“Sim Sala Bim.”
The sun is setting. The owl that lives in one of our oak trees swoops out over the marshes in search of dinner.
“So, Henry,” Dick says, “I need another favor.”
“Uh-uh, I just helped you fill the truck. Tomorrow’s drive is it,” Henry says.
“I need you to watch over my kegerator. I can’t let strangers use it.”
“I guess I can do that,” Henry says. “But once I put in a Heineken keg, it’s never going back to Miller Light.”
“Mmm, cold beer on tap at our house. Sounds good,” Michele says.
“We’ll pick it up tomorrow, on the return trip,” Henry says.
“So, tomorrow’s the day,” Michele says to me. “Are you still excited?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And scared.”
“You mean good scared, right?” Michele says.
“Yeah. It’s fun to be scared like this. But we’re going to miss you guys.”
“We’re going to miss you. But we’ll be down,” Michele says.
We’re all silent for a few minutes, looking out at the view. A great blue heron takes off from the marshy grasses. We watch the bird fly up, propelled by its huge wings. The bird makes an improbable landing in a mangrove bush.
“Won’t you guys miss this?” Michele says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But we’ll be back.”
“And our renters can enjoy it in the meantime,” says Dick.
After an hour or so, we walk back to the house, grill dinner out by the pool, then linger at the table, talking.
“One last game of pool before you guys go,” Henry says.
“Partner, you want to risk it?” Dick says to Michele. “We’re the champs.”
“No,” Henry says, “your wife and I are the champs. Pam and I always win. At least that’s how I remember it.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Michele says.
“You guys obviously are mixing things up,” I say. “But Henry and I will put our championship on the line.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dick says. “Whatever team wins tonight is the champ for the next year.”
Henry opens another bottle of wine and sets up the balls. After six games, we’re tied. “This is it,” says Dick, as we start the seventh game. It’s a heated battle but Dick and Michele win. Dick looks at his watch. “Good thing you guys came over so we could get an early start,” he says. “It’s almost two. We’re supposed to be on the road in five hours.”
three
“WE’LL BE FAT AND BROKE IN A MONTH.”
Tuesday, September 1
It’s eight o’clock, and although the four of us are moving slowly, we’re actually ready to go. I’m closing up Henry’s truck, and Pam is closing up the house. The four-year-old Audi is full, and our Corvette is stuffed from stem to stern. We aren’t the Beverly Hillbillies, exactly, but pretty close. No chickens or goats in the car, but the two cockatiels, Duckie and Blanco, are in their cage wedged somewhere in the backseat of the Audi.
Henry and Michele drive the truck. I drive the overstuffed Audi, Pam the Corvette filled with file folders. The three-hour drive, usually a blip, seems to be taking forever. I’m like a kid. I want to know, “Are we there yet?” Finally, our caravan pulls off I-95 and heads east toward the island. Then, just as we’re about to cross over the Intracoastal Waterway, the light turns red and the drawbridge goes up.
While we’re waiting, I’m thinking the town fathers (and mothers) will have to let the Audi over the bridge, and I’m pretty sure they have to let Henry’s truck over, but the Corvette? Very un-Palm Beach, very déclassé. Palm Beach is home to expensive, exotic Italian, German, and English automobiles, not two-seater drop tops made by Chevrolet.
I have visions of Pam crossing the bridge and being pulled over by the police. “Madam, please, we can’t have people bringing Corvettes onto The Island. What would be next? Dodge Vipers?”
Finally, the drawbridge is back down and the light turns green. All three vehicles, even the Corvette, make it over the bridge, on to South Ocean Boulevard and to the cottage.
Henry parks the truck on the street in front, and Pam and I pull the two cars into the narrow driveway. The keys are in the mailbox as promised. The four of us have been unloading for about forty minutes when a blue and white Palm Beach police cruiser pulls up behind the truck.
“That was quick,” Henry says.
A rather large police officer unfolds himself from the driver’s side. Here to impound the Corvette? Ticket the moving truck? Send us back over the bridge where we belong?
“This your truck?”
“Yes, officer. Well, actually it’s his,” I say, and nod toward Henry.
The officer looks at Henry and then says to me, “You moving into this house?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the plan. Is there a problem?”
He smiles and says, “No problem. It’s a cool house; hope you enjoy it.” He hands me his card, says to call if we ever need him.
As he is starting to leave, he turns around and says, “Sweet looking ’Vette.”
Henry’s truck is empty in about an hour, and Henry and Michele have to leave.
“We’re out of here,” Henry says, “but if you can find out what drug the guy was on who painted the inside of this place, let me know. Those colors are wild. And if that giant cop gives you any trouble, don’t call me.”
As they’re getting into the truck, Michele says, “I see what you mean about the size. Your living room in New Smyrna is probably the same size as this whole cottage. But you guys will make it work. You’re going to have fun.”
Pam and I hug and thank them, and as they are pulling away, Henry yells out the window, “We’ll be back to haunt you, probably in about six weeks.”
Pam looks at me and says, “To quote Joyce, ‘Friends, like food and beauty, are essential.’” Joyce, one of Pam’s closest and dearest friends, recently died, and I know Pam misses her. I do, too.
I look at my watch, and it’s way past lunchtime. “I’m starving,” I say. “I’m going out to look for some food. If I’m not back in a day or two, call that cop we just met.”
Just a few blocks from the cottage I discover Sandwiches by the Sea. I want everything on the menu. They’ve got chili, white bean soup, homemade chicken salad, meatball subs, hot pastrami, Italian combos. I’m thinking meatball here, but remember I’m splitting it with Pam. She’s not big on meatballs, so I settle on a turkey sub with Swiss and coleslaw and some white bean soup to go.
On the way back, I pass Scotti’s Liquor store (nice to have neighbors) and stop in to pick up a few essentials and I meet Joe and Vinnie and John. As I’m turning into the yard, loaded down with several brown bags, Pam is by the front door.
“I’m back with soup and a sub,” I say, “and some grapefruit juice, a wedg
e of cheddar cheese, crackers, two sixes of beer, and a bottle of Chianti Classico, all the essentials.”
Pam comes over and takes two of the bags and gives me a kiss. “Well, maybe not all the essentials, but a good start.”
Later, as evening approaches, I remember our bed is supposed to be delivered this afternoon. We called and ordered it when we were back in New Smyrna, and the store promised it would be delivered to the cottage today. Promised. I’m about to find Pam and share the bedless bad news when the doorbell rings. Yes, it’s the Bed Man.
He carries everything into our bedroom and goes to work. This is quite obviously not his first day on the job. This man knows exactly what he is doing, and it looks like he is doing it in fast forward. Bed Man bolts the frame together, lifts the mattress on to the frame, and leaves—bolts, lifts, and leaves, in about twenty minutes.
It is definitely time to put the birds to bed, shower, and have a nice night. The boxes, cartons, and mess will still be there for us in the morning.
As she is drying her hair, Pam says, “What do you want to do for our first date? We can easily walk to over ten different restaurants and ten bars.”
“Ten?” I say. “I could maybe do nine. Well, maybe six. Actually, it’s been a long day. How about a drink at Taboo, dinner at Renato’s, and if we’re still standing, a dance at The Chesterfield?”
“Perhaps ambitious, but perfect. Taboo, Renato’s, and the Chesterfield’s Leopard Lounge,” Pam says.
The truth is, I’m feeling a little disoriented. The bathroom seems weird, I’m getting dressed in a bedroom I’ve never slept in, and Pam is drying her hair in front of a tiny mirror.
But outside, it is a breezy, summery evening, and the streets are quiet. Pam looks beautiful in a blue dress and high-heeled sandals. We walk hand in hand along Worth Avenue, and when we get to Taboo things seem normal again.
Taboo is what a bar should be. It’s classy, dark, and long. It feels like you could settle in here. There’s a large tank of tropical fish in the middle of the back wall. Two small, silent televisions are discreetly built in at each end, and the Yankees are up by two in the fourth. Bobby, a bartender’s bartender and world traveler, is working tonight. Over the years, the three of us have shared many stories about our trips around the U.S. and various Caribbean islands.
Year in Palm Beach Page 2
