Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  “Has to be some kind of private party or special function,” Pam says.

  “I think so,” I say. “Want to try Café Boulud or just head home?” We turn around and start back out. Candy, tan and perfectly coiffed, is bartending tonight. She spots us and waves us in.

  “We’re open, you two,” she says.

  “Not a private party?” I point to the woman at the table.

  “No, no, no,” she shakes her head and laughs. “This is just the Millionaires Club.”

  Pam and I look at each other. “Candy, if this is the Millionaires Club,” I say, “we are definitely in the wrong saloon.”

  Mark, the Restaurant Manager, comes over and says “No, no, no. Come on in. Everybody’s welcome. There’s room at the bar.”

  Lou brings us a drink. “So this guy comes into the bar. I look at his pants and say, ‘Is that a steering wheel in your pants?’ He says, ‘Yes, and it’s driving me nuts.’”

  I ask Lou and Candy about the Millionaires Club. The best anyone can determine, it is an eclectic assemblage of singles who have get-togethers at local bars, organized by the club’s founders, allegedly two of the early Doublemint Twins. These ladies have the table set up at The Chesterfield tonight, and they collect ten dollars from each of their members who come into the bar.

  I say, “Lou, members have to pay ten dollars to get in here and non members like us get in for free? Does that make any sense?”

  Lou wrinkles his forehead. “It doesn’t make a lick of sense to me, but it’s making the twins ten bucks a head.”

  On the walk home, we pass Club Colette. Eight or nine Bentleys are parked in front. I’m thinking maybe it should be called Club Bentley instead of Club Colette.

  Wednesday November 11

  This morning I awaken with what is known in our family as “Dick’s wing-thing.” This is a partially frozen and painful shoulder blade condition that I have somehow acquired while sleeping. I used to be a decorated student athlete, a man of steel. Now I can injure myself when I’m asleep. Sleep-related injuries?

  Sometimes I can work it out with heat and ice or by lying on a golf ball. If not, it takes a few visits to the chiropractor. Today, no luck with home remedies, so this evening I say, “Pam, you think Bobby would know a chiropractor?”

  “Let’s walk to Taboo,” Pam says, “perhaps have a cocktail and ask him.”

  There is room at the bar. Bobby greets us and brings us a drink. When he has a free moment, I say, “Bobby, I’ve got a question for you tonight.”

  Pam says, “Actually, I’ve got one, too. We’ll pay the usual fee.” He laughs. “You said two questions. I’ll have to double the fee. But I guess two times zero is still zero.”

  “Okay, first, do you know of a good chiropractor in town?” I ask.

  “A great one,” he says, “but he’s not in town. He’s in Lake Worth. Dr. Keith. He’s helped me. He’s helped Cindy. Heck, he’s helped most of the people who work here. He’s the chiropractor for the U.S. Olympic and National Triathlon teams. He’s really good.”

  “Sold,” I say. “How far away from here?”

  “About twelve or fifteen minutes,” he says.

  Pam says, “Okay, we have a chiropractor. Now do you know where can we find a fresh fruits and vegetable stand, fresh produce?”

  He smiles and nods his head. “Don Victorio’s Market is right on the way to or from Dr. Keith’s. Really fresh produce at great prices,” he says.

  We finish our drinks, thank Bobby, and start home for dinner with all the pertinent information safely recorded on a bar napkin.

  On our walk home it is a little cool and just misting a bit. Fall must be on its way. We both notice more and more sidewalk squares with large white Xs drawn across them.

  Pam says, “These Xs are not from kids, and they’re not chalk, they’re paint.”

  “Are you ready for this? They seem to be only on the cracked squares of sidewalk,” I say.

  “You mean you think the town’s actually going to replace all these squares?”

  “Looks like it to me,” I say, “but who knows. We’ll see.”

  Thursday, November 12

  My wing-thing is better this morning, so I put off making an appointment with Dr. Keith. Almost pain-free, I’m enjoying an espresso.

  Pam says, “The Shiny Sheet has a calendar of the season’s upcoming events. It looks like there’s something every day, balls, luncheons, you name it. Do you think the town will be different with all these events happening?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’ll be more traffic. We’ll wait and see,” I say.

  On an afternoon walk, we come upon two men with a jack-hammer and a wheelbarrow, breaking up the X-marks-the-spot sidewalk squares.

  Pam says, “Amazing.”

  Later, we see two guys with rolling cement mixers pouring, spreading, and smoothing the new portions of sidewalk. The ones not being replaced are being pressure washed.

  I tell Pam that I’m walking to Scotti’s to pick up some beer. On the way, I pick up a stick and etch a heart with an arrow through it and the initials “P” and “D” into one of the damp squares. I drop the stick, pick up my beer, and go back home.

  Friday, November 13

  Pam and I are watching a Knicks game at Bice. We still haven’t done anything about hooking up our TV. A small entourage of thirty-something “area people” is finishing up their drinks and discussing where to go next. The apparent leader of the crowd exclaims, “Okay, okay, come on, we’re going to go to the Zebra Lounge at The Colony. We can dance there.”

  Well, yes and no. There is no Zebra Lounge at The Colony or anywhere on the island. There is the Leopard Lounge at The Chesterfield, and the Polo Lounge at The Colony. No Zebra Lounge. But since it is a weekend night and there is dancing at both The Colony and The Chesterfield, they’ll be able to dance wherever they end up.

  The Knicks are depressing me, so I suggest we walk over to Amici. As we approach the restaurant, I stop next to a certain section of sidewalk.

  “What are you doing?” Pam says.

  I sort of nod my head towards the sidewalk.

  “Dick, why are you stopping?”

  “Look down.”

  She looks down and sees the heart with our initials. She laughs and puts her arms around me. “When did you do that?” she says. I just smile.

  We walk on to Amici and take a seat at the bar. Two men next to us cash out and leave. As they hit the sidewalk, Beth, the bartender, comes over with her wonderful smile. “Do you guys know who you were sitting next to?” We look at each other. “That was Jimmy Buffett,” she says.

  Pam says, “We had no clue. None. And actually Dick and I are big fans of Mr. Buffet and his music.”

  His songs were the sound track for our escape from Manhattan to the Caribbean several decades ago. I can still see Pam dancing crazily by herself to “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on the aft deck of Maverick, the boat we were living on then.

  “Well, it could have been Warren Buffet next to us for all I knew,” I say. “Jimmy got by us this time. Won’t happen again.”

  Tuesday, November 17

  This morning the Shiny Sheet informs me that a lady in Palm Beach has notified the police that her flatware is missing. She last saw it in May. What’s with these people?

  Our cottage problems are a thing of the past. I’m even adjusting to the Lilliputian doors and ceilings. But the longer we live here, the more the lack of storage space becomes an issue. My clothes closet is packed so tight I can’t even get a jacket off the rack. The cabinet under the sink is so full it takes me five minutes to find the Windex.

  I’m in the kitchen, thinking, why don’t we just turn this little room and tiny bathroom off the kitchen into a closet? Get a clothes rack, a few shelves, whatever will make it work. There are two other bathrooms in the house and one in the guest cottage.

  I tell my plan to Pamela, and after work we head out for supplies. By the end of the evening, Pam and I have put
shelves in the shower, a rolling clothes rack in the utility room, file holders on the walls.

  “Seems like a great solution,” I say “At least for a while,” Pam says.

  Thursday November 19

  We walk over to the tennis courts. It is now mid-November, and trucks fill every available parking space: air conditioning repairers, security system installers, plumbers, painters, electricians, and wallpaper hangers. People are actually going to be coming to Palm Beach. It looks like all the houses will soon be full.

  Pam and I have hit tennis balls for almost an hour and are now sitting by the courts, sharing a bottle of water. A woman who seems about our age (which means she is ten to fifteen years younger) is on a rapid and direct approach to where we are sitting.

  “Rehydrating?” she asks. We look at each other, our water, back at her. “Mary said you’re the one who wrote this book,” she says. She has apparently just bought Tennis for Humans in the pro shop.

  I nod and say, “Yes.”

  “Mary says you’ll sign it for me,” she says. “I don’t have to do what Mary says, you know.” She looks a little puzzled.

  “I’m just kidding,” I say. “I’d be happy to sign your book.” She says her name is Melissa, so I sign her book: “For Melissa, good luck on and off the tennis court.”

  We start talking with Melissa, who is actually very nice. “I’m just down from New York to help the housekeeper open our house for Thanksgiving. My husband Mark and our three sons are still up north,” she says.

  “When are they going to join you at the house?” Pam asks. “Well, I’m not really staying at the house yet. I’m at The Brazilian Court,” she says. “I’m flying home in two days, and then we’ll all fly down for Thanksgiving next Wednesday. Then home again for Christmas, and then Mark and I are here for January and February. Mark is a good player, Dick, maybe you two could play some tennis then.”

  I say, “If I’m still breathing, I’d love to hit with Mark. Have him call me.”

  We wish Melissa a happy Thanksgiving, walk home, and open our house, with no help from our housekeeper, in four or five seconds.

  Saturday, November 21

  Pam and I are sitting on a bench under the giant canopy of a banyan tree at the town docks. I say, “The twin forty-fours on that sport fisher are missing today.”

  As usual, there is little activity and few people are around. In all the times we have visited these slips in the last two and a half months, I’ve rarely seen a boat arrive or leave. Yet there are many more yachts here today than usual. “Boats must be sneaking in at night,” Pam says. “I think the docks are more full than empty for the first time.”

  “Nobody’s ever around here but us,” I say. “We should have some official monitoring position with the town.” I think for a moment. “The Docks Official Protectors, Examiners, and Supervisors.”

  Pam looks at me. “I see. That would make us the town DOPES.”

  Returning from our dock duties, we see a large truck parked in front of a house on Australian. A moving van? Well, sort of. Two men are carefully unloading a spotless Bentley that is going into the garage of that house. The people aren’t quite here yet but their toys, the boats and cars, are arriving.

  Around seven o’clock, Pam says, “I think we need pizza tonight.”

  “That we do,” I say. “I have a doctor’s prescription for one pizza, two salads, and a bottle of wine.”

  “Let’s go to Pizza al Fresco,” Pam says.

  At the restaurant, a young lady greets us and takes us to a table in the courtyard. “The prescription is for salads and splitting a pizza?” Pam says.

  “Yes, and a bottle of Italian red. Your choice.”

  “How about two Caesars, a pizza with Italian sausage and mushrooms, and a bottle of Chianti Classico?”

  The setting is a small, romantically lighted courtyard with bougainvillea growing up the sides of the walls. I can’t help but picture the dozens of dinners Pam and I have had in similar settings on St. Barts or St. Martin or even Virgin Gorda. For some reason, tonight is reminding me specifically of a dinner we had on our honeymoon at a little outdoor restaurant in Antigua. That night we shared a cardboard box of wine, a first.

  Pam says, “Sitting here, I feel as if we have come a lot farther than five minutes from our house. Remember that box of wine we had at that place in Antigua?”

  I laugh. “Exactly what I was thinking,” I say

  Monday, November 23

  Perhaps I should have made an appointment with Dr. Keith the other day because it took me ten minutes to get out of bed this morning. When I sneezed, it felt like my shoulder blade was exploding. Pam calls and Dr. Keith’s office promises to fit me in. Pam drives me to Lake Worth. With some adjustment, some ultrasound, and some magic, Dr. Keith has me feeling almost human. I make a follow-up appointment and we’re gone.

  Driving back, we pass Don Victorio’s, the market Bobby suggested, on Dixie Highway in West Palm Beach. Pam decides it is time for a visit and circles around the block. As we pull in the parking lot, I say, “Man, this looks like a parking lot in the islands. Cars are parked every which way.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to park all the way in the back. You and your shoulder stay in the car. I’m just going to check it out,” she says.

  About four songs later, she emerges and I start laughing. She looks like a New York bag lady. She’s carrying so many bags I can barely see her. I reach over and pop the trunk and she unloads her haul.

  She gets in the driver’s side, smiling, and says, “Well I guess I did a bit more than check it out, but you should have seen it. There were bins of fresh fruit and vegetables everywhere. I got grapefruits and oranges and tomatoes, bunches of carrots and beets with the greens still attached, lettuces of all kinds, a pineapple, bananas, and apples.”

  “A little more than just checking it out,” I say. “It is just like the farm store I went to as a kid,” she says, “and all this stuff cost less than twenty dollars.”

  Tuesday, November 24

  It is now two days before Thanksgiving, and the Shiny Sheet informs me the police were called to a north end home because of a dispute about ficus trimmings being left in a yard. A ficus trimmings dispute? I’m wondering if it could be gang-related.

  Our morning walk is to Worth Avenue, which is completely closed to cars today. Workmen are repainting all the curbs and parking space lines. We weave our way through, wander about for a while, and head toward home. Turning onto our street, we almost run into a man squatting at the curb next to a bucket of bright yellow paint. He is hand-painting the no-parking curbs along our street. His companion has a bucket of white paint and is hand-painting the parking-allowed curbs. Another man on a ladder is coating the lampposts with glossy black paint.

  “Pretty soon there won’t be a cracked sidewalk or a faded street line or street curb in all of Palm Beach,” I say.

  “It reminds me of getting a house ready to put on the market,” Pam says.

  “They’d better not be selling it,” I say. “We just got here.”

  Wednesday, November 25

  The alarm gets us up before dawn. We dress, fill a thermos with breakfast tea, grab our beach chairs, and we’re off to watch the sunrise. The street is peacefully empty. We set up the chairs at the ocean’s edge. It is a bit early for animated conversation or probably any conversation at all, so we just sip our tea and be.

  In the few months we have been in Palm Beach, we have seen more sunrises and moonrises and spent more time stargazing than we have in many years. I feel it’s giving us a better perspective on what’s important. Whatever it’s doing, I like it.

  The show begins. Slowly, the sun rises out of the Atlantic. Slowly, the night becomes a new day. Slowly, the sun warms the sand. We sit for a few minutes enjoying the new morning, then pick up and head home.

  When lunchtime rolls around, I suggest Victor’s. Walking out, Pam says, “The street is still quiet. There are no trucks today, there’s no comm
otion. Strange.”

  As we approach South County, we hear cars and even a honking horn. “I can’t remember hearing a car honk in Palm Beach,” I say. “Wow, South County is crazy. Look at this traffic.”

  We continue on to Worth Avenue, and Pam says, “Look at this.”

  “What the hell happened to our quiet hometown street?” I say. There are people everywhere, people and dogs. People driving with dogs in their laps. People walking with dogs on leashes. People carrying dogs.

  The scene could not be more different from yesterday or any day so far. It’s like a B movie. I live in a quiet, empty little town, and suddenly the entire population of Greenwich, Connecticut has somehow dropped in overnight. I’ve sort of been waiting for this, but I’m not sure I’m going to like it.

  “Victor’s? Lunch? Not today,” I say.

  Returning home on South County, I see Amici is busy inside and out. Maurizio is nodding his head and smiling. He gives us two thumbs up and laughs.

  Thursday, November 26

  Pam and I are excited. My daughter Samantha is flying down from New York for the Thanksgiving weekend. She arrives today. Her mother lives across the bridge in West Palm Beach, and her grandmother lives in Palm Beach Gardens, about twenty minutes north of us. The logistics of the weekend should work out beautifully for everyone, which has not always been the case.

  Pam and I get one night and a day. And I’m hoping very much it will all be easy and hassle-free for Samantha. Well, that’s what I’m hoping.

  Samantha is having Thanksgiving dinner with her mother and grandmother tonight. We have a quiet cookout by our outdoor fire pit with a soft-mix playlist, walk to the beach for some stargazing, and then home for more stargazing from our front yard.

  Friday, November 27

  Because it is the Friday after Thanksgiving and because Samantha is here, I want everything to be absolutely perfect, so I make a dinner reservation. A first for us in Palm Beach. I pick her up at her mother’s condo across the bridge and come back to the cottage.