Year in Palm Beach
Page 13
I pretend this is fine. I know I’m fortunate, the injury is temporary, and surgery won’t be necessary. Secretly, I’m stunned. Walking is a major part of our life this year in Palm Beach. So is dancing. In the car going home, I silently start crying and turn my face to the window.
“You okay?” Dick says.
“I’m okay.”
He looks over. Very softly, he says, “Hey, look at me. Are you crying?”
“I’m being a baby,” I say. “I mean, I know I’m lucky it’s not serious.” I wipe tears away but they keep coming. “But this is our one year in Palm Beach. We walk everywhere here. Walking is what we do here.”
“So, we haven’t driven much. We like our cars. Now we have an excuse to drive,” Dick says. “And we can stay home more. It’ll be fine.”
“I’ll miss dancing,” I say.
“So we’ll dance at home. I’ll just hold you, and we won’t really move.”
We’re both quiet for a while.
“I’m really sorry to wreck our year like this,” I say.
“Don’t be silly. You’re not wrecking anything,” Dick says.
I know on the one hand he’s right. This isn’t a big deal. But on the other hand it’s not just me who’s suffering here. I may have to deal with the pain, but Dick’s temporarily losing a walking and a dancing partner.
Also, walking is when we talk, when we hash out ideas, smooth out our misunderstandings, come up with revelations. Walking has always been a vehicle for managing our life together. We’ve figured out a lot as we walk along. For the next six or eight weeks, walking won’t be a big part of our life.
Saturday, February 6
Our life is different now. Although Dick still takes walks and plays tennis and goes to the gym, I do none of that. Instead, I hobble around the house, ice my knee twice a day, and mostly try to stay off my feet, determined to heal my knee as fast as possible. Not walking and not exercising gives me lots of extra time to work, and I’m way ahead on several projects, but I miss my regular life.
Although we both like to cook we’re not used to doing it nightly, and this evening, our sixth night in a row at home, I browse through last Wednesday’s The New York Times dining section, looking for inspiration from Mark Bittman.
“Listen to this,” I say to Dick, “Bittman’s got a pasta that drinks.”
“Well, anything that drinks sounds good to me.”
“He says to put dry pasta right in the sauce, short pasta like ziti works best,” I say. “Think the pasta would really cook enough?”
“Probably,” says Dick. “But you might need extra stock or wine.”
I look back at the article. “That’s what he says. Make the sauce first, add dry pasta, stir it off and on, add broth or wine when you need to. Want to try it?”
“Sure,” Dick says. “Do we have any short pasta?”
I go in the kitchen to look. “No ziti,” I say. “But we have penne rigate.”
“That’ll work.”
Dick comes into the kitchen carrying the Nano and its little speaker stand and turns on Peter Cetera. He opens a bottle of Amarone and pours us each a glass. I make a salad. Dick sautés garlic and onions, scrambles some Italian sausage, adds some chopped red peppers, cannellini beans, a little arugula, some vegetable broth, and some Chianti we use for cooking.
I have gotten used to the smallness of this kitchen and quite enjoy cooking here with Dick. I wish I could adapt so easily to the rest of the cottage. After all these months, I’m still bruising my elbows in doorways.
“This stuff needs to simmer,” Dick says. “Shall I light a fire?”
We go into the living room, Dick lights a fire, and we sit and talk for an hour or so. Dick periodically goes into the kitchen to stir.
Eventually, the mixture turns into a sauce, we both go into the kitchen, and Dick dumps in the pasta. “This could take a while,” he says, and pours us each more wine, adds more Chianti to the sauce. For the next twenty minutes we sip Amarone and the penne drink Chianti. Dick keeps stirring, adding wine and broth. The aroma is intense. The penne turn reddish brown.
We move a table in front of the fireplace, Dick puts another log on the fire, sets the Nano to random, and we dine. I have always liked the ceremony of sitting down and enjoying a meal, the formality of a tablecloth and napkins, lighted candles, sparkling wine glasses.
The music tonight is eclectic. First the Gipsy Kings, then Carly Simon, Bankie Banx, Michael Bublé, Survivor, Aaron Neville.
“This Bittman stuff is great,” Dick says.
“Yeah,” I say. I wiggle a piece of penne onto my fork and taste it. “The pasta is intense. The sauce gets totally into it.”
“Makes boiled pasta seem bland,” Dick says. “But we might get a bit crazy eating this. I added an awful lot of wine.”
We finish our dinner and watch the fire turn into glowing embers.
“Think if we bundled up we could sit outside for a few minutes, look for shooting stars?”
“I’m game,” Dick says.
We put on heavy sweaters, get a blanket, go to the two chairs in our front yard. It’s a dark, moonless night, still and cold. The air is rich with the aroma of our wood fire. The night sky glitters with stars. In the distance, waves break.
“I’m sorry about my knee,” I say.
“Don’t be a dope,” Dick says. “It’s a reminder. We’re alive. We’re basically healthy. We need to use our time well, good knee or bad knee.”
“Thanks.” I think about time, how fast it goes now. Too many people have already died. Yet, despite making so many resolutions to use time better, I am still capable of wasting it, occasionally in huge quantities. And I still spend too much time doing things I don’t want to do. Will I ever learn, I wonder?
Sunday, February 7
I’ve had two laser sessions with Dr. Keith, and today my knee feels slightly better. I hobble out to the garden to water and clip. Keeling is impossible, but it feels wonderful to be back outside. I miss the gym.
The other day, a brochure from the Armory Art Center came in the mail, and this afternoon I idly browse through it. I learn the center is just across the bridge and hosts art exhibits and classes. I read the course descriptions.
When Theo and Deborah were here last fall, Deborah, who teaches art, set her easel up outside. She asked me if I wanted to paint with her. I told her I didn’t know how, but I’d try. She gave me a small canvas and helped me paint a hibiscus. It was fun, and the painting looked kind of nice, and she and Dick both said I should take lessons.
I didn’t pay much attention to them. I’m not really a hobby person. And I haven’t been in a classroom in years. But now the idea intrigues me. Why not spend time taking art lessons? Maybe it would be fun.
“I’m thinking of signing up for an art class,” I tell Dick.
He looks at me and smiles. “It’s about time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re talented,” he says, “but that doesn’t matter. You’ll like the class. You’ll have fun. That does matter.”
I sign up. My first class is in less than three weeks. I feel excited and somewhat anxious. Like our impulsive move here, little do I know how important these classes will become to me.
Monday, February 8
The weather continues to be unseasonably chilly, and this morning we read the papers in front of a fire in the living room. Dick is skimming an article about the Knicks in The New York Times, Duckie on his shoulder. Blanco is on my forearm, shredding the outside edge of the Shiny Sheet as I try to read it. An ice pack drips from my knee.
“Munchkin Manners Dinner Socials,” I report. “They’re formal dinners for kids in first to fourth grade. The next one’s at Café L’Europe. Boys have to wear jackets and ties, girls, white gloves and party dresses. Where do you think one buys white gloves in this day and age?”
Dick says, “Aren’t first graders like, five or six? How do you think they keep the kids at the table?”
“Maybe I should sign up,” Dick says. “My party manners need help, and I like getting gifts.”
The town hall clock chimes ten. The windows are closed against the cold, and the sound is muted. The clock only chimes during the day. There must be a town ordinance against chimes when people might be sleeping. I love telling time by that clock. It makes our clocks seem unnecessary, at least during daylight hours. Another possession we don’t need.
Homemade biscotti is part of our breakfast ritual. We ate our last two pieces this morning, so I go into the kitchen to make a batch. I turn the knob to preheat the electric oven. Bang. There’s a huge noise, and the inside of the oven bursts into flames.
“Dick,” I yell.
He comes running. The flames disappear.
“What happened?”
“I just turned the knob and, whoosh, the oven was full of flames.”
Dick crouches to look through the oven window and then cautiously pulls open the door. The bottom heating element is in charred bits and pieces and is lying on the oven floor.
“Time to bother Eduardo,” Dick says.
“I hope he remembers who we are,” I say. We haven’t needed him since he did his magic last October.
“We’ll see,” Dick says, and goes off to make a call. He reappears. “Eduardo knew exactly who we are. A stove guy’s coming this afternoon.”
The stove guy miraculously appears when he says he will and inspects the oven.
“You just need a new element,” he says.
“Those flames didn’t damage the inside?” I say. “There was a real fire in there.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve seen that happen. It looks scary, but that’s just how they burn out sometimes. I’ll order you a new one. Should be here in a few days. You won’t have an oven, but the burners still work.” He turns one on to show me.
Later, Dick comes into the office. “You know, that wine dinner at Amici is tonight. Can you walk that far?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I say. “Plus, I’d love to get out of the house.”
At the end of the day I shower and start to dress. Normally, I wear high heels and a skirt or a dress when we go out. But my knee is a big mess of tape going this way and that, and pants seem a better option. I don’t have many pairs of pants but I find some that work. I slip into high heels and my knee rejects them. I go searching for a pair of flats.
We walk slowly to Amici, with me holding on to Dick’s arm and limping slightly. The wine dinner is in Amici’s private room and hosted by Bob and Gudrun, owners of the Livernano and Casalvento wineries in Tuscany. Gudrun introduces the wines offered with each course, and Bob and the dozen or so of us at the table enjoy drinking them.
After dinner, we stop at the bar for a nightcap. Maurizio, Amici’s owner, is near us at the bar going through little envelopes.
“Buona sera,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Buona sera. These are heirloom tomato seeds my mother sent me from Italy, from the little town where I was born. I’m going to plant them tomorrow.”
“I love fresh tomatoes,” I say. “I eat them right off the vine, whole, with salt.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Hey, do you want some seeds? Can I give you some?”
“I’d love to grow tomatoes down here,” I say.
“Excellent.” He disappears into the kitchen with the envelopes and reappears with several tiny containers of tomato seeds, each one labeled. “Now you will have Italian tomatoes in Palm Beach. Excellent.”
Wednesday, February 10
This winter is colder than normal for this part of Florida and much colder than either of us expected. It still hits the forties some days, but predictions are for warm weather soon.
On Groundhog Day, I wasn’t out but Dick said he didn’t see a groundhog. I don’t think Palm Beach actually allows ground-hogs. According to an ongoing story we have been following in the Shiny Sheet, the town does not allow pigs to live here, either. The one parading around on Hibiscus last month must have been a tourist.
There has been a problem with a potbelly pig, one Piggy Pie Freckles, living in an apartment in town. Some neighbors objected, and the Code Enforcement Board ordered Piggy Pie Freckles to leave. But apparently the pig and the pig’s owner did not get the message.
However, according to today’s Shiny Sheet, after a bit of intrigue, some definite pig sightings, and the threat of a one hundred and twenty-five dollar per day penalty, Palm Beach is once again pig-free. Cats, iguanas, doves, and even renters can live here. No pigs.
It’s lunchtime, and I’m getting cabin fever from being home so much. I say to Dick, “My knee’s better. What about a short walk, and maybe even lunch out somewhere?”
“Your call. I can always get the car if you can’t walk back.” We start inching our way toward Taboo. We come up to a corner, and a woman in a Bentley breezes right through a stop sign, giving a slight honk on her horn and holding up a hand to alert everyone she is not going to stop.
“Did you see that?” I say.
Dick looks at me. “Because of your knee, you haven’t been out walking since the February people arrived. This stuff is normal. The Bentley Bunch apparently answer to different traffic rules than the rest of us.”
“I guess we’d better walk carefully,” I say. “Not just because of my knee.”
We walk by Amici, and it’s full of people.
“We may not get into Taboo,” I say. “Look how crowded Amici is.”
“The town really changed once February started,” Dick says. “It’s more crowded than over Christmas.” He looks at his watch. “But it’s two o’clock. Taboo might have room.”
We get to Taboo. It’s slammed.
“Trevini?” Dick says. “That’s pretty close.”
We walk there. The restaurant is quite full, but Gianni finds us a table. Next to us sit two men, both probably in their early fifties. One says to the other, “So what’s going on with them? Why all the problems?”
His companion replies, matter-of-factly, “I just think he spoiled her. You know, buying her all those Ferraris.”
Dick looks at me. “Only in Palm Beach,” he whispers.
When we leave Trevini, we follow an older couple out of the restaurant. They were sitting near us, and the woman had a blue, basket-style handbag on her lap, which I admired. When we get outside, the woman reaches into the purse, lifts out a tiny dog, snaps a leash onto his collar, and gently sets him down. Off the threesome goes, past Trevini and on into Saks.
“So that dog was inside the restaurant the whole time, on that woman’s lap,” Dick says.
“And now they’re all going into Saks. I still can’t get used to seeing all these dogs inside stores.”
Dick says, “Dog, dogs, dogs. I can’t get used to seeing so many dogs everywhere, and so many tiny dogs.”
My knee is holding up nicely, and we make our way home, slowly. Now that I’m out I see what Dick is talking about. There are people everywhere, and tons of traffic. The town feels fuller than ever before.
“It’s funny,” I say, “to have the town change so fast. This traffic is amazing.”
“Yes, the February people are here,” Dick says. “But not around us. Our little cottage still has empty houses on three sides.”
Friday, February 12
Now that I have signed up for an art class, the Armory Art Center has started sending me e-mails about upcoming events. The current exhibit, I discover, is a retrospective of the work of Muriel Kaplan, a local portrait artist. I ask Dick if he wants to go and he does, so we get in the Corvette and he drives us across the bridge to West Palm Beach. It turns out the Armory is less than ten minutes away. Because of my knee, Dick lets me off and finds a parking space, and then we walk in. The
show is called “Face of Humanity.”
Impressive sculptures are arranged in a spacious exhibit hall. Most are on pedestals, and some are of family members and friends of the artist. Paintings, drawings, and mixed-media pieces hang on the walls, often accompanied by written observations from the artist. Occasionally, a handwritten message is scrawled in large letters right across the canvas. One says, “Our pursuit of youth blinds us to the possibilities of age.”
“That should be on billboards all over Palm Beach,” Dick says.
“The town would never allow billboards,” I say. “But it’s a great message. Too bad it’s not the American way.”
Dick gets the car. The day has turned summery, and he’s put the top down. He picks me up and drives back toward Palm Beach. As we approach the bridge, I think how driving back onto the island now feels like coming home. Just then I hear a throaty “zoom” coming from behind us.
“Ferrari?” I say.
“Nope, a black Lamborghini,” Dick says. “Look to the right. It’s about to pass.”
The car roars by with its top down. Up ahead the drawbridge light goes red. We come to a stop alongside the Lamborghini, and I can see the whole gorgeous car: the giant wheels, the blackness, the singular shape and design.
As the bridge comes down and the gate goes up, Dick gives the Corvette’s engine a provocative little rev. Next to us, tires squeal and the engine screams. The Lamborghini bolts ahead of us like an Air Force F-22.
“These kids today,” Dick says.
Saturday, February 13
Tonight is the first in quite a while it’s warm enough to eat outside. It’s a lovely evening, dark now. Our backyard family of doves is asleep. Earlier, we saw them head to their sleeping place in the giant seagrape tree when we went to play bumper pool.
During the fall months, they would line up along the cottage roof in the evening and stare down at us. It took us a while to realize this staring contest meant they were waiting for us to leave the area so they could go to bed. One night, they got tired of their vigil and flew into the boughs of the seagrape while we were watching, revealing where they slept. They’re used to us now.