Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  My mind wanders to the present. I can’t believe it’s the first of October and we’re still dealing with house problems.

  Dick rolls over, opens his eyes, and smiles. Amazingly, even after all these years, he smiles when he wakes up and sees me.

  “Espresso?” he says.

  “That would be nice,” I say. “I’ll wake the birdies and get some biscotti and fruit.” I finally got around to making biscotti this past weekend. It’s normally part of our breakfast routine. I worried it might turn out differently in the oven here, but then, it turns out a little differently each time I make it.

  We settle in the yellow room with the screen door open. I love the view of the pool. It’s framed by tall hedges and, at the far end, bordered by geraniums and hibiscus. Two cardinals are playing in the birdbath. I hear the gurgle of the little fountain Dick made, and the coo of doves from somewhere.

  “It’s sad we can’t get these cottage problems taken care of,” I say. “Actually, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Bob’s message said he’s back tomorrow, right?” Dick says. “We’ll see if he has a solution.” He pauses. “Although maybe he’s the problem as well as Benjamin.”

  “That’s what I’m beginning to think,” I say.

  “This all sounded so easy last August,” Dick says. “Maybe we should break the lease, get out of here.”

  “That’s depressing,” I say. “A month of trying to get things done, wasted. But, I guess we could be wasting more time if we stay.”

  Peter Island comes into my mind. A few years after we got married, when Dick’s daughter Samantha was safely in college, we quit our jobs, left New York, and took our boat to the Caribbean. We eventually went to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and tried to see if either of us could find a job. Dick found one at Peter Island Resort, and we ended up selling our boat and living and working there for five years, and became travel writers in the process.

  The first year on Peter Island was tremendously stressful. We had traded Manhattan for a seven-mile-long, mountainous island that was deserted except for a forty-room private resort. There were ten full-time residents, all of us either a hotel employee or a spouse. It was a twenty-minute boat ride to the nearest grocery store. For six months, the immigration department kept finding things wrong with my papers.

  One of Dick’s jobs was resident tennis pro. I had just recently been an executive at a Fortune 500 company and was used to being near the top of the power chain. Suddenly, I was at rock bottom. At the Monday night cocktail parties Dick and I were required to host, I learned no guest wanted to be stuck talking to the tennis pro’s wife. I learned a great deal and discovered a lot about myself on Peter Island. So did Dick. It was a wonderful adventure, in the end.

  “You know,” I say. “We made Peter Island work.”

  Dick looks at me. “Yeah, we did. But that took a lot of time. I’m too old to do that again.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “So let’s hedge our bets, look for another rental. Living in Palm Beach is supposed to be our great adventure.”

  Dick laughs. “It is. It’s an adventure in home repair and managing stress,” he says. “We’ll look at other rentals.”

  We spend the day researching rentals online, talk to several real estate agents, and visit several possible cottages. Now it’s seven o’clock, and we’re both still at our computers, searching.

  “I’m done,” Dick says. “Let’s get out of here, find a saloon.”

  We change clothes and head out. Not a single car is parked along our block, and we’re the only people on the sidewalk. The air is filled with the scent of jasmine. Waves break in the distance. Our house problems slip away.

  In a few blocks we come to Amici and go in for a drink. Beth is behind the bar.

  “A Miller Lite and a Prosecco?” she asks.

  “That would be perfect,” Dick says, “but you guys don’t carry Miller Lite.”

  “We do now. Maurizio heard you asking for it the other night,” she says.

  Just then Maurizio, the restaurant owner, emerges from the kitchen and comes towards us. Medium height. Brown eyes. Five o’clock shadow. Fabulous smile.

  “Buona sera,” he says. “Welcome back to Amici.”

  Dick thanks him for getting Miller Lite. We stay for a dinner of salad and pasta at a candlelit table on the terrace. The wind picks up a bit, the surf gets a little louder, and distant thunder and lightning again provide a nighttime show. For the rest of the evening, house troubles are forgotten.

  Friday, October 2

  First thing this morning, my cell rings. It’s Bob. He’s back. Got my message.

  “Look,” I say, “Dick and I are through. We’re breaking the lease.”

  Bob says, “Wait, wait, wait. Calm down. I’ve got a solution.”

  “Too late.”

  “No, no,” he says. “I was stupid. Benjamin’s the son of a friend. I gave the kid too many chances. This is my fault. I’ve got you a new property manager. His name’s Eduardo. He’s reliable. He’ll be at your place in half an hour. I promise things will get better.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But this is your last chance.”

  In twenty minutes, Eduardo arrives at the door. Tall. Very thin. Dark-haired. A trim moustache. Notepad in hand, he looks at the leaky toilet, the faulty water heater, the clogged gas jets, and everything else that isn’t functioning properly. He writes it all down. “This stuff was patched, not fixed,” he says. “It’s easy stuff. Just have to do it right.”

  He makes sure one of us can be here Monday and Tuesday, goes outside to use his cell phone, returns with the news that everything will be fixed by Tuesday afternoon, guaranteed. A gang of workers will start Monday morning.

  Eduardo seems knowledgeable and efficient, but I can’t help feeling skeptical. This isn’t the first time promises have been made.

  Saturday, October 3

  The weather is still summery. We take the morning papers and Duckie and Blanco in their cage and go out by the pool. So far life in Palm Beach away from the cottage is a pleasure. I’m not sure exactly what Dick and I expected, but it definitely was not the small-town feeling we’re experiencing. This is a community where the morning’s Shiny Sheet reports, “Police are investigating the theft of a pair of sunglasses.”

  In New York City, years ago, my car was stolen. I called the police. They told me to come in and fill out some paperwork; I’d never see that car again. Dick and I laugh at the silliness of some of the police reports here, but the truth is, serious crimes are rare in this town. The police force is wonderful, helpful, polite. I feel very safe.

  We spend the day outside doing chores. Now the evening sky is a blend of pale blues and pinks, the air is soft and warm, and the family of doves is lined up along the guest cottage roof.

  “Dinner at home?” Dick says.

  “Sounds great,” I say. “Maybe those grilled chicken breasts you make, with ham and Swiss on top?”

  “And ‘Pam’s potatoes’?”

  “And an arugula salad?”

  “And a bottle of Barolo?”

  We go into the kitchen. Dick sets the iPod to Peter Cetera and we get to work. Dick pounds chicken breasts, mashes garlic and mustard for a marinade, and makes a salad. I peel and quarter small potatoes, thinly slice mushrooms and brown them on both sides, then sauté garlic and onions in a cast-iron baking dish. The kitchen fills with the aroma of garlic. I add kalamata olives, then the mushrooms and potatoes, and put the casserole in the oven, covered, to cook for an hour. The potatoes will sponge up the flavors of the other ingredients and become intense.

  The space we are working in is tiny compared to our kitchen in New Smyrna, but Dick and I are adapting. It’s easier to stay in one place, so there’s a lot of “could you hand me” this or that and an occasional “I’m behind you.” In a funny way, I find it pleasantly cozy.

  Prep work done, we go outside. Dick lights the wood in the fire pit, starts the charcoal, sets the iPod to Elton John.
Eventually, the coals are ready, and Dick grills the chicken. I bring out the potatoes and salad. We linger over dinner, watch the fire burn into embers, then walk to the beach.

  The ocean is black ink, the night cloudless, the sky glittery with stars. To the north, two stars grow larger, turn into headlights. An airplane is making its way south, following the coastline. It passes us, out over the water and fairly high in the sky, then makes a sweeping curve toward the West Palm Beach International Airport, just ten minutes away by car on the mainland. I have always loved planes, and this beach is a good place to watch them, day and night.

  Soon another set of headlights materializes and repeats the sequence. A third set of headlights, these much smaller, comes straight out of the east. A tiny plane appears, probably from somewhere in the Bahamas, seventy or eighty miles away.

  Suddenly, Dick says, “What’s that? Something’s in that first wave.”

  I peer into the darkness. “I see it,” I say. “It’s coming onto the beach.”

  “It’s the Loch Ness monster,” Dick says.

  “Whatever it is, it looks weird.”

  “Maybe divers?” Dick says.

  Now it does look like several people wearing diving equipment, silhouetted against the black sky. They follow the path from the beach, trudge past us, and climb wetly into a parked van.

  “We never see anyone at the beach at night,” Dick says. “Now people are walking out of the ocean?”

  Sunday, October 4

  We’re sitting on a bench in the gardens at The Society of the Four Arts. Statues and sculptures are set between colorful flower beds and under leafy trees. Brilliant purple and red bougainvillea blossoms hang over wooden trellises. It is an oasis of peacefulness and such a contrast to the cottage.

  “Shall we say hello to the statesmen before we head home?” Dick says.

  We walk over to admire the almost life-size sculpture of Winston Churchill and FDR sitting on a bench chatting, FDR with his cigarette holder and Mr. Churchill with cigar in hand.

  Then we walk out past the two miniature bronze giraffes, zigzag our way south along the empty streets toward the beach, and then on to the cottage.

  Back on our block, I check on The Invisible Man’s House, so named because we’ve never see a person there, though we do see a grey Volvo parked in many different positions in the driveway. Sure enough, the Volvo is there this afternoon, but not parked where it was earlier today. So far, the car is the only sign of life at the house.

  This evening Dick says, “I was thinking of going to Café L’Europe for dinner.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. I mostly still like to just wander and end up somewhere, but this Sunday Café L’Europe feels like a good choice.

  I choose a dress in a blue peacock print, decorated with sparkles. It makes me feel feminine. And blue high-heeled sandals. I have always adored high heels. Dick puts on a navy blue linen suit. He’s had it for years, but it’s still beautiful.

  It’s close to nine, and although people are dining, the bar is fairly empty. Dick and I settle into bar stools, order cocktails, and listen to David’s piano fill the room. After a quiet dinner, we walk home along the beach. No Loch Ness monsters tonight. Instead, a single spectacular shooting star streaks across the sky.

  Monday, October 5

  It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I hear a knock at the door (the doorbell still isn’t working). Could this be progress?

  Tuesday, October 6

  Yesterday’s eight o’clock knock was just the beginning. By eight thirty, the house was full of people, and by nine it was a real mess, with workers and tools everywhere. It stayed that way until late this afternoon. Even though we put down tarps, the white floors now look like they have chocolate as well as vanilla fudge ice cream smeared all over them.

  The good news is that by five o’clock, everything is fixed. Every faulty valve, pipe, knob, and vent. Over five weeks to get a two-day job done. But the cottage is finally functional. Eduardo is a real property manager. Maybe now Dick and I can finally divide our time between getting our work back on schedule and enjoying life in Palm Beach.

  We still haven’t gotten around to hooking up the television. I think both of us just want to get workmen out of the house and get on with our lives. I’m also interested to see what life is like without that connection.

  Thursday, October 8

  I’m at my computer, finishing up an assignment. Duckie’s on the floor, playing tug-of-war with the rug fringe. Blanco’s on my knee, preening.

  Dick comes into the office. “We’ve got a CD at SunTrust Bank that matures today,” he says. “I looked in the Yellow Pages. There’s a branch across the bridge.”

  “I think we’ve walked by a SunTrust,” I say. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

  Dick collects our documents, and we walk to where I remember seeing the SunTrust sign. The sign is actually quite small and there is no obvious entrance. Several paths lead to dead ends. At last I spot a door, and in we go.

  “This doesn’t look like a bank,” Dick says. “There aren’t any tellers.”

  “It looks like a living room,” I say, taking in the arrangements of chairs and coffee tables on several large Oriental rugs. I see a woman at an antique-looking desk at the far end of the room. She smiles and waves us over.

  “Please, have a seat,” she says. “How may I help you on this beautiful morning?”

  Dick says, “We have a CD that’s matured, but maybe we’re in the wrong place.”

  The woman smiles. “This isn’t one of our regular branches,” she says. “But I can roll over a CD for you.”

  “Are you sure?” Dick says. I realize he’s slightly embarrassed. “Yes, yes,” the woman says. She reaches for our paperwork, finds us on her computer. We sign papers, she hands us the new CD.

  Dick thanks her, and we walk out. “I don’t think we’re in the right tax bracket for that particular branch,” Dick says.

  “Sorry I dragged you in there,” I say.

  Friday, October 9

  Now that the cottage problems are behind us, Dick and I are able to really explore the neighborhood, and I have a much better understanding of where we live.

  Our cottage is “in town,” as the locals say, on the widest part of the island, which stretches about a half mile from the beach and Atlantic Ocean to the Lake Worth Lagoon, an estuary separating Palm Beach from mainland Florida.

  The center of our part of Palm Beach is Worth Avenue, which is a few blocks south of our cottage and runs from the ocean beach to the lake.

  It’s one of the world’s most famous shopping streets, wide and lined with palm trees, flower beds, and mostly one- or two-story buildings. Arched walkways, locally called “vias,” lead from the avenue to charming courtyard shops and cafes.

  In many ways, Worth Avenue resembles an old-fashioned Main Street from the 1950s, except that instead of apothecaries and hardware stores and barber shops, there are luxury boutiques selling designer clothing and linens and handbags and jewelry. And rather than DeSotos, Studebakers, and Packards lining the sidewalk, there are Mercedes and BMWs, and the occasional Rolls-Royce.

  The streets just north of Worth are mostly residential, with a real estate office or a restaurant or a dry cleaner here and there, plus The Chesterfield Hotel and The Brazilian Court Hotel.

  Just south of Worth Avenue is also residential, with the exception of the exclusive Everglades Club and The Colony hotel. Near the center of town, a handful of five- or six-story condominiums border the lake and the ocean, but the rest of the area is made up mostly of one- or two-story houses.

  Although our walking routes are random, Dick and I mostly stay within a rectangle that extends from the Breakers resort south to Hammon, and from the ocean beach to the lake.

  There are little cottages like ours here and there, but most of the houses range from about 3,000 to 10,000 square feet, though some are much larger, and virtually all the houses facing the lake or the ocea
n are immense.

  Most houses have at least one guesthouse and a pool and are frequently hidden by twenty- or thirty-foot tall hedges. Wrought iron gates open to driveways of coquina or brick.

  Many are Spanish Mediterranean in style, with barrel-tile roofs, balconies, and loggias. Others are Italian Renaissance, or Bermuda-style, or even New England clapboard. All are immaculate. Many were created in the 1920s and 1930s by a handful of influential architects, including Addison Mizner and Maurice Fatio. The town has a dizzying set of strictly enforced renovation and new construction rules. No garish McMansions allowed.

  To the west, from certain vantage points, skyscrapers are visible in the distance. These are on the far side of the Lake Worth Lagoon, in the city of West Palm Beach.

  Saturday, October 10

  We take our morning papers over to Victor’s Café, in the Gucci courtyard off Worth Avenue. It has a tiny dining room and alfresco tables set among flowers. As we approach, a delicious aroma mingles with the scent of tropical flowers. Victor stands at the entrance, dressed in his signature Bermuda shorts and golf shirt.

  “Victor, what smells so good?” Dick asks.

  “Scones,” he replies. “Blueberry ones are baking right now.” He looks at his watch. “They’ll be ready in one minute.”

  Dick orders one for us to split, plus two espressos, and we settle at an outdoor table. I break open the scone. It’s warm, slightly crusty, soft inside, with lots of blueberries. Dick reaches for The Wall Street Journal so I take The New York Times, but instead of reading, I look around the courtyard.

  Brilliant bougainvillea blossoms cover some walls. There’s a little sculpture garden with enchanting life-size sculptures of children playing, picking apples, and climbing trees. Several small birds swoop down from a tall, slender cypress tree and land at my feet, hoping for a crumb. Other birds are perched on a tree branch, singing.