Friday, December 25
“Think we can have a fire?” Dick says. “The temperature’s already up to sixty.”
“Well, it’s a pretty chilly sixty. How about a little one?” I say. “I’ll open some more windows. Want me to turn on the AC?”
It’s Christmas morning. Dick builds a small fire and turns the tree lights on. We gather the birds and settle into the couch. Dick and I give presents to others at Christmas, but not to each other. This seems to be the only tradition we’re sticking to this year.
We open boxes from Samantha and other family and friends. Finally, the only thing left under the tree is the surprise ball. Dick hands it to me, and I start unwinding the crepe paper. How much I loved these balls as a child. However, maybe I’ve glorified the experience. This expensive ball is a bust. Tied for best prize are a tiny cube of Bazooka bubble gum and a Santa tattoo. Well, not a complete bust. Duckie and Blanco have fun turning the paper into confetti.
We make lunch, dine with the birdies, and go for an afternoon walk to get a snapshot of the town on Christmas Day. The weather is sunny and warm. There’s very little traffic, but couples and families are walking along the sidewalks. A lot of people are at the beach.
Now it’s almost six o’clock. Dick and I are working in the kitchen. The doorbell rings, and in walk Henry and Michele, both carrying cardboard boxes. They head straight to the kitchen and put the boxes down. We all hug, everybody talking at once.
“We brought flatbread from the restaurant. For appetizers,” Michele says.
“And vast quantities of wine,” Henry says. “How’s my kegerator doing?” Dick says. “Your kegerator?” Henry says. “It’s my kegerator now.” He grins. “It’s gotten used to Heineken. Doesn’t ever want Miller Lite again.”
We all go into the living room. Michele looks around. “What’s with the tree? You guys never had a tree before. And am I hearing Christmas music?” she says. David’s CD is playing.
I start to explain when Henry says, “Quick, guys, where’s the TV?” He looks at his watch. “We missed Boston and Orlando but the Lakers are on now. And then Phoenix.”
“We don’t have a TV,” Dick says.
“Yeah, right,” says Henry. “Come on, where is it? We gotta catch these games.”
“We really don’t have a TV,” Dick says.
Michele looks at me questioningly. I smile. “It’s true,” I say. “Henry,” Dick says, “we can get the scores on the computer. Let’s open some wine. And then we have a surprise.” We take them to the guest cottage and show them the bumper pool table.
“It’s not quite a pool table,” I say. “But we can sort of have our traditional Christmas tournament.”
We settle in chairs around the pool. Henry opens a bottle of red and pours us each a glass. “Sim Sala Bim,” we say in unison, holding our glasses aloft.
We sit around the pool and talk, play bumper pool, eat the flatbread, walk to the beach, enjoy our traditional Christmas dinner of penne rigate with a vegetarian sauce, linguine with pork ragu, and a huge arugula salad. We drink superb wines, compliments of our guests.
We play more bumper pool. Henry and I, and Dick and Michele, have our classic dispute about which team is the reigning champion. Finally, quite late, we move the bumper pool table to the corner of the room, unfold the futon, and say good night.
Saturday, December 26
Everybody is moving slowly this morning, kind of like the day we moved. At least this time we could all sleep in. We go out for brunch at Taboo and then say goodbye. There are hugs all around, then Dick and I watch Henry and Michele drive away.
“That went way too quickly,” I say. “I’m glad they came.”
“Me, too,” Dick says. “I miss seeing them.”
Tuesday, December 29
I’m reading the Shiny Sheet. There’s the usual article about not drinking and driving on New Year’s Eve. But then I start reading out loud to Dick. “Police remind residents that officers will provide a safe ride home for those too impaired to drive. Police will help make other arrangements for those living outside of town limits.”
Dick says, “In most towns, when the police offer you a ride, it’s not to your home. Here they hand out business cards, drive you home. Palm Beach is some kind of alternate universe.”
Thursday, December 31
Between Christmas and New Year’s, we take time off from work and from the town. This is no time to go to restaurants or try to shop. Maurizio was right; people are everywhere. We stop in a bar once or twice, have some dances at the Leopard Lounge, but mainly stay around the house.
Now it’s the last day of December. Dick and I usually avoid the crowds and stay home on New Year’s Eve.
“What do you want for dinner?” Dick says. “I was thinking of making a pasta sauce with your braised pork. Maybe adding some mushrooms and cipollini onions.”
“Sounds delicious. I’ll be your sous-chef,” I say. I’ve gotten many good ideas from Mark Bittman’s cooking column in The New York Times and one of the best is braised pork. I cut the pork into small pieces, brown it (even though he says you don’t have to), then cook it for a long time with onions, garlic, and red wine. The pork shreds, becomes exceptionally tender. I freeze this in batches, and we use it as a base for quick stews or pasta sauces, adding tomatoes or mushrooms or carrots or potatoes or cannellini beans or whatever else grabs our fancy.
“Thought we’d dine outside in front of a fire, with a bottle of Barolo,” Dick says.
“Magnificent,” I say.
Tonight, New Year’s Eve, it’s about seventy-five degrees. The sky is clear. We spend much of the evening outside, dining by the pool, listening to playlists Dick has made, and, between bumper pool contests, walk back and forth to the beach to moon-gaze.
It’s just about midnight. We are sitting in lounge chairs, enjoying the last of the Barolo. Suddenly, there’s the sound of explosions and the flicker of lights through the trees to the northwest.
“What’s that?” I say.
“We must be under attack,” Dick says. The flickering lights grow bigger, and the explosions get louder.
“Must be fireworks,” I say.
“Let’s walk out on the road, see if we can get a better view,” Dick says. We walk to the end of the block. Dazzling fireworks streak across the sky. The displays are huge and feel as if they are coming right at us. Fantastic colored bars of light explode out of balls of colors. Shapes drop out of shapes. As one display fades, out pops something even more spectacular, filling the entire sky.
“Do you remember seeing anything about fireworks in the paper?” Dick says.
“No,” I say. “From the direction, it could be the City of West Palm Beach, but you’d think someone would have mentioned them.”
“These can’t be ordinary fireworks,” Dick says. “Can they?”
“No way. I’ve been watching fireworks all my life and I’ve never seen anything like these. They’re extraordinary.”
The show goes on for thirty minutes. It’s spectacular.
We watch the smoke from the last display fizzle across the sky and then head home to bed.
It feels good to be starting the new year here in Palm Beach. Despite the rough beginning, the decision to come here for a year has been the right one, at least so far.
eight
“I FEEL LIKE TONY SOPRANO
WHEN THE DUCKS LEFT.”
Friday, January 1
“New Year’s Day,” Pam says, “and we’re reading the papers with our feet in the pool. It must be almost eighty degrees.”
“A nice way to start the year,” I say. “Those fireworks last night, the Shiny Sheet says, were donated by some guy for a party at the Flagler Museum. And by the way, they were designed by Grucci, the people who do presidential inaugurations and Olympic ceremonies. It also says the total cost for last night’s show was in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. That’s some neighborhood.”
I’m sur
prised at how fast our year in Palm Beach is going. It has already been four months. First there were the several months of the island’s emptiness. Then the sudden influx at Thanksgiving, followed by another lull, and then the festive buildup to the holidays. Now Christmas and New Year’s Eve have already come and gone.
Meanwhile, the crime wave is continuing. “There has been another arrest at Publix,” I tell Pam.
“That guy stealing beer again?” she says.
“Nope, this time the police arrested another guy after Publix employees saw him stuff a sandwich down his pants,” I say.
Pam smiles. “You men.”
Pam and I are now in the living room, again surrounded by boxes. The birds are helping us take down our Christmas tree. Well, actually Duckie is overseeing our work, and Blanco is wrestling with a piece of string on the coffee table. Pam’s putting ornaments in cartons, and I’m grappling with lights.
“I want to have a tree again next year,” Pam says. “Then you shall.”
Having a tree this year and taking it down today are stirring memories I had almost forgotten: images of taking down Christmas trees with my brother and parents and later with Samantha and her mother. I remember Pamela’s and my first Christmas tree in New York. It was about four feet high and had almost no decorations. I think it cost six dollars, and when Christmas was over we didn’t really have to take it down. It was more like just pick it up and throw it away.
Monday, January 4
I’m trying to put a book away. Every bookcase in the cottage is stuffed. There are stacks of books on the floor by the bookcases. Books are piled on window sills.
“If we fill these two cartons with hard covers that we’re never going to read again, we can take the books to the Four Arts library and donate them,” I say to Pam.
“Good idea,” Pam says. “It’ll give us a little space, at least get them off the floor.”
“We’re both book people, but why on earth did we bring all these down here?”
“I guess so we could donate them to the library,” Pam says.
In about four minutes, we have two cartons filled. I dump them in the car and head to the library. The librarians seem happy with our donation, and I’m quite happy to have made another small step toward getting rid of stuff we don’t need.
Driving home, I flash back to when Pam and I first dated. I’d just gotten divorced and had been living in my office for almost a year. All I owned was a couple of suits, a sport jacket or two, some slacks, and a bunch of tennis clothes. She lived in a tiny Manhattan apartment and didn’t own much more. Neither of us owned a car.
Now we have two houses full of stuff. Just how does this happen?
Tuesday, January 5
The temperatures have suddenly dropped since yesterday, and even colder weather is coming soon. I need to find some socks and maybe a sweater.
I’m walking back from tennis today, and as I turn onto Hibiscus I see, about a block away, a tall guy dressed in a dark pinstripe suit and a fedora. He is holding one end of a leash.
As he gets closer, I see that on the other end of the leash there is a rather large pig. The pig is decorated with a little pink bow on its tail and tiny blue bows on its ears. As they pass, the man raises his hat and says, “Good afternoon.” A moment later, I watch them both get in the driver’s side of a Lexus. I find this scene a bit strange, but what do I know? The pig probably finds me strange. Actually, the guy walking the pig is probably the strangest of the group. Maybe it’s the year of the pig.
Later, I tell Pam about the pig. Around six-thirty she says, “I’ve been thinking about that pig. Let’s go to Renato’s and get some pork chops tonight.”
“That’s a little strange,” I say.
“I know. I was kidding, but let’s go anyway,” she says. The town is suddenly quiet again. Not quiet like October, but certainly quieter than it was over the holidays. Renato’s courtyard has several empty tables, but it seems a bit chilly so we decide to sit inside. Brad seats us, and Luciano arrives with a Peroni and a champagne.
As Luciano finishes telling us the specials, four people next to us get up to leave. One of the men looks familiar, but I can’t figure out why. Suddenly, Brad materializes, the way he does, and says, “We hope you had the time of your life here tonight. Always a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Of course,” I say to Pam, “that’s Billy Cunningham.”
“Billy who?”
“Right, sorry. Back in the day, Billy Cunningham played high school basketball in Brooklyn, then went on to North Carolina, and then the NBA. He is one of the NBA’s fifty greatest players, a class act.”
Pam smiles. “I knew all that.”
Monday, January 11
This morning the temperature has dropped down to the forties. Pam and I take a quick walk over to the docks to catch up on our DOPES duties. The yachts now fill every slip, and it is apparently too cold for our sunbather.
Heading home along Brazilian, we see two men in the distance walking towards us. Four people walking on the same side of a residential street is a crowd in Palm Beach. The first man is walking with two of those small, silly-looking Chihuahuas with bows and ribbons and jewelry. He smiles and says, “Happy New Year,” and we respond in kind.
The second man, who is still about thirty yards away, is fairly tall and has his sweatshirt wrapped around his waist like a kid walking home from the playground. Even from this distance, the walk is unmistakable. His fellow senators might remember the walk from the Senate floor. I remember it from a rather different floor, the floor of Madison Square Garden.
“You know who this guy is coming towards us?” Pam looks ahead. “Should I?”
“It’s Bill Bradley,” I say. “The guy who used to play basketball for the Knicks and then was a senator?” Pam says.
“The same,” I say.
As he is about to pass us, I say, “Happy New Year, Mr. President.”
He smiles, nods his head, and says, “And Happy New Year to you both.”
After he goes by, Pam says, “He was a senator. Why’d you call him Mr. President?”
“Because,” I say, “back in the early seventies, when number twenty-four Bill Bradley was helping the Knicks win two championships, his teammates nicknamed him Mr. President. I just wanted him to know people remember those times. I guess I was trying to thank him.”
“I knew that,” Pam says.
Tuesday, January 12
Tonight there has been a shift from the hall of fame to the hall of shame. Pam and I are sitting at the end of the very busy bar at Bice. The town is filling up again.
Next to me a young lady, cute as a button, starts talking to us. “You guys look cold. Isn’t this weather freaky? I’m originally from Connecticut, but this is really cold for down here. My condo doesn’t have any heat. I used to have one on Worth. It had heat. You guys live here all the time?”
She’s reminding me of those early FedEx commercials where the guy talked so fast. I’m starting to get a headache. Actually my teeth are starting to hurt. Thankfully, she wanders to the other end of the bar. Philippe comes over to us, grinning, and says, “She’s some piece of work, huh?”
I look at him. Philippe smiles. “Don’t you guys know who you’ve been talking to?” He says her name.
“Who?”
He says her name again and explains, “She’s one of Tiger Woods’s friends.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of her, but I’m happy she’s moved along,” Pam says. “She could certainly talk.”
Talk? I felt like I was being beaten up. “Let’s get out of here and have a quiet dinner at home by the fire, just the two of us.”
We walk home briskly along Peruvian, passing Club Collette. The Club Colette Bentley Barometer is hovering around ten.
Wednesday, January 13
Overnight, Mother Nature sends south Florida record-breaking cold, news which the media pounce on like snow leopards. The frigid weather makes newspaper, ra
dio, and internet headlines (and, we assume, TV). Reports tell of snow in Florida, freezing temperatures, orange crops being destroyed, farmed fish freezing to death, frozen iguanas falling out of trees. Frozen iguanas falling out of trees?
“I don’t need this media blitz to tell me it’s cold,” Pam says. “You mean because the fireplace is roaring, the heat is set at eighty degrees, the electric fireplace is blasting in the bedroom, and it is still freezing in here?”
“Our blood is way too thin for this.”
To my horror, I realize our outdoor plants must be hosed down and the more fragile ones, like the orange tree and the lemon bush, covered, to prevent damage from the possible freeze.
“I’m going out to hose down the plants outside. Maybe move and cover a few.”
“I’ll help,” Pam says. “We’ll only be out half as long.”
So, looking quite ridiculous, suited up with layers of clothing, various scarves, and some mismatched gardening gloves, Pam and I uncoil two hoses and begin our mission to save the planet, or rather our planting. Pam works her way up the west side of the pool. I work my way up the east. We meet at the north end. There, on the ground next to a fishtail palm, looking very much like it has just fallen out of the tree, is an iguana. It is not a big one. Maybe two feet from tip to tail.
“Is it dead?” Pam asks.
“Can’t tell.” I pick it up carefully by the tail and carry it to a sunny area of the pool deck to warm up. Pam leaves a hibiscus flower for food and a little saucer of water within reach. “Let’s see if the sun warms him up.”
“I’ll come out later to move him to keep him in the sun,” Pam says, “if he’s still here.”
Pam has moved our visitor twice to make sure he stays in the sun, but now the sun is setting. We go out to see how the iguana is doing. “He’s moved a little. He must be alive,” I say, “but he won’t make it through the night out here.”
“No, he won’t. It’s supposed to get much colder. Let’s move him into the guest house,” Pam says.
I move the iguana, and Pam moves the water and hibiscus into our tiny guesthouse. “We’ll sacrifice our bumper pool games for a night or two to see if we can save this guy,” I say, “although I’m not sure if we’re Dr. Kildare or Dr. Kevorkian.”
Year in Palm Beach Page 11
