Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  “Duckie is fine now. Go to your art class,” Dick says. “I’ll figure something out.”

  I go to class, work on my copy of a Georgia O’Keefe flower, come home.

  Dick says, “It took a while, but I found a simple place in the Keys; they have room for us for the weekend. Duckie and Blanco have reservations at the vet.”

  “Where are we going?” I say.

  “Island Bay Resort on Islamorada Key.” He shows me the website. “I think it’s less than three hours from here,” he says. “Each room has a little kitchen and a charcoal grill outside. I thought we’d bring our food, make a pasta sauce one night, grill out the next.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  Friday, April 30

  We drop off the birds, head south to the Keys, arrive at Island Bay around two. Numerous palm trees create an overhead canopy of palm fronds and lots of shade. Hammocks hang here and there. Ten units are set along a gravel driveway that ends at the bay. We luck out and get the only one directly facing the water. It’s a charming single room with a tiny kitchen and two porches.

  Unpacking doesn’t take long. We have almost no clothes, just food. We take an afternoon walk, sit in a double chaise by the dock and look out to distant flat, green islands. We read together in a hammock.

  The evening comes, and Dick puts on Peter Cetera and makes a pasta sauce, opens a bottle of Amarone. I make a salad. We dine on one of our little private porches.

  “A walk?” Dick says.

  “Lovely idea,” I say.

  We pour the last of the wine into our glasses, walk across the small beach out to the end of the dock. The bay is inky black and still. There are no people about, almost no lights on along the shore. We sit down, dangling our feet over the edge.

  Dick shines a flashlight down into the water, revealing a world of busyness. Schools of small fish swim by. A gangly,

  long-legged crab makes his way across the bottom. Dick turns the light off and the water goes black. I look up and see a black sky studded with stars. There are so many it’s hard to find the constellations. “Look up,” I say softly. “It’s like one of those Caribbean nights, when the sky is almost completely filled with stars.”

  We both lie down on the dock and stare up at the sky for a long time.

  “Remember that time at Lake Tahoe?” Dick says.

  The scene swims into my head. We were at a tiny motel on the north shore of Lake Tahoe. After making dinner, we spent much of the evening sitting outside, alone on the narrow beach, the mountains surrounding the lake a jagged black border to the star-studded sky.

  “You mean when we stayed at that little motel on the beach and sat out, just the two of us, like tonight, and watched a sky full of stars?”

  “Right.” Dick says. “And in the morning, when we checked out, we saw the sign that said, ‘Beware of bears, don’t sit on the beach in the dark.’”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Think we should be worried about alligators or something?”

  twelve

  “YOU DON’T HAVE

  THE BULGE.”

  Monday, May 3

  Pam and I spent three days and nights relaxing in the Keys, reading and taking walks during the day, driving to nearby lunch restaurants for fresh fish, and making simple dinners. This morning, we had coffee out on the dock. Then we packed up what little we had left. Our luggage this trip was mostly food and wine, and it’s mostly gone. Packing was easy.

  Driving back to Palm Beach, I’m thinking about interior space. Pam and I just spent several days and nights, happily, in a tiny motel room. The reason, of course, is because we had almost no stuff with us. I think maybe the relationship between stuff and space could be getting clearer for me.

  We stop and pick up Duckie and Blanco and are home by noon. I pull in the driveway. As we get out of the car, Pam says, “Isn’t this fun to have almost nothing to unpack?” As we go in the front door, Pam says, “Wow, this place looks much bigger today than it did two days ago.”

  “After that room in the Keys,” I say, “this is a castle.”

  “It’s funny,” Pam says. “I guess this space stuff is relative.”

  I’m pretty sure she’s been reading my mind again.

  Pam goes to take care of the minor unpacking and to get the birds settled with new food and water. I go into the kitchen and quietly start making Pameleggs, which are fried eggs, over easy, on an English muffin with sliced tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and melted provolone. It’s one of Pam’s favorites, and I’m trying to surprise her.

  She walks in the kitchen. “Pameleggs, great. Thank you.”

  So much for the surprise.

  “They’re going to start ripping up Worth Avenue even more next week,” Pam says. “Did you know the redo is costing over eighteen million dollars?”

  “I’d have done it for fifteen,” I say, and flip over the eggs.

  “After Pameleggs, let’s go over and walk the avenue. Maybe do some window shopping, check on things.”

  This afternoon it is obvious the Worth Avenue Pam and I have known for so many years will be totally transformed in a few months. The first block is now mostly mud.

  As we’re walking along holding hands, I’m trying to figure out how many days and nights we have actually walked along this avenue. If we’ve been visiting, let’s say ten days a year for ten years, that’s a hundred days and probably a hundred nights. And if we’ve been here around two hundred and forty days since we moved, we must have walked the avenue at least another hundred and fifty days and nights, probably more, maybe two hundred and fifty days and nights in all.

  It would be nice if we could get that many days and nights together on the new Worth Avenue.

  Tuesday, May 4

  Our windows still stay open day and night, but pretty soon summer will be here, and I’ll be turning on the AC. This morning’s Shiny Sheet tells of a coconut catastrophe. Apparently, a cluster of ten coconuts came crashing down onto a parked car, causing serious roof damage. Ten coconuts.

  We’re finishing our espressos when Pam says, “You know, it was in March or April when people started asking each other when they were heading north.”

  “Right. I heard the question everywhere,” I say.

  “Well, have you noticed,” Pam says, “the people who work in town have started asking us when we’re going north.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, but yes.”

  “And when you say we’re staying here, do you see the way they look at you?” Pam says.

  “You mean like I’m kidding, or maybe just nuts?” I say.

  “Yes, and what’s funny is a lot of people who work in restaurants and stores here go north as well,” Pam says. “People who were dining and shopping here this winter will see some familiar faces in the shops and restaurants in Nantucket and Newport and the Hamptons this summer.”

  It’s funny, but it occurs to me that the super rich don’t really live anywhere. They may have an apartment in Manhattan, their house in Palm Beach, maybe one in Newport and another in Aspen or Spain, and of course their mega yacht, but in a certain way they don’t really live anywhere.

  Pam, the lobster queen, also loves soft-shell crabs. Last night we ate at Bice, and she discovered that the soft-shell crab season had begun. Tonight I thought we were staying home, but the idea of another plate of fresh soft-shells is too enticing for Pam. I think she’s hoping these crabs are now specials in all the Palm Beach restaurants.

  Time to shower, dress, and investigate. Our first stop is Taboo. We go in the Peruvian entrance to avoid the Worth Avenue mess. We have a drink and a chat with Bobby. Turns out soft-shells won’t be on the menu until tomorrow.

  Pam suggests we check out the crab scene at Renato’s, so to avoid the Worth Avenue construction, we follow Peruvian Avenue to Via Mizner. As we approach the restaurant, Brad opens the door and says, “Mr. and Mrs. Myers, I hope you’ll be dining with us tonight. The chef just got a shipment of beautiful soft-shell crabs.”

&nb
sp; Pam just smiles and nods. Brad takes us to a table in the courtyard. The May breezes are balmy, and the skies are clear. Pam dines on fresh sautéed soft-shell crabs. I stick with spaghetti Bolognese.

  We finish and walk out Via Mizner toward Peruvian and see Luciano. He is overseeing the unloading of some fresh fruit for the restaurant out of his Porsche Cayenne. (In another town the fruits might be delivered in a Ford F-150 or an old Dodge pickup. In Palm Beach, it’s a Porsche.)

  “Luciano, buona sera. What are you doing out here?” I say. “Are you stealing fruit?”

  He laughs. “No, Mr. and Mrs. Myers. Did you enjoy your dinner tonight?”

  “Of course. Everything was perfect,” Pam says. “Now we’re off to The Chesterfield for a dance.”

  “Oh, very nice. Wait. Wait, you need some fruit!”

  He hands me a bunch, probably eight or nine, of miniature bananas.

  “Luciano, what are you, nuts?” I say. “It’s ten thirty at night. We’re going dancing at The Chesterfield. What’ll we do with these bananas?”

  I try to give them back.

  “You take the bananas. They are good for you. They are a gift from me.”

  History has taught us one cannot argue successfully with Luciano. So, we thank him and head to the Leopard Lounge, now carrying a bunch of bananas.

  Adam is at the piano. Lou is behind the bar. Lou spots us coming in. He approaches us at the bar, expressionless. “So, I guess that’ll be two banana daiquiris?” he says.

  Saturday, May 8

  We’re walking back from the lake along Royal Palm Way. As we approach the Palm Beach Recreation Department grounds, I say, “We’ve fallen through the looking glass again. And landed at a field day out of the fifties.”

  Ahead, there is a football toss going on, and one by one, boys take their turn. Well-dressed older children and adults stand to the side, politely clapping at each try. There is a girls’ soccer game on another field. Parents and children quietly watch from the sidelines.

  “You remember these?” Pam says.

  “Yes,” I say. “My long-term memory is still quite good. I used to love things like this when I was a kid, and when Samantha was growing up.”

  Everywhere we go in Palm Beach there seem to be snapshots of the past, of simpler times, more civilized times, maybe. A football toss, a soccer game, relay races. Today’s field day is sending me some kind of message. I just don’t know what it is. Maybe I want to live the simpler Palm Beach life we’re living and seeing.

  The message Pam is sending me tonight, and as hard as it may be for me to believe, is that she might like soft-shell crabs again. I’m easy. If there were a pasta season, and you could only get pasta out, like, twenty nights a year, I would probably be out eating pasta all twenty nights.

  We’re back at Taboo’s bar tonight. All the seats are taken. Many people are dining at the bar, and in front of just about everyone is Taboo’s signature basket of homemade breads and rolls and cheese crisps.

  A woman who is by herself at the bar, probably in her fifties, finishes up and asks Hugh, one of the bartenders, for the check. She hasn’t touched the bread in her basket.

  Hugh begins to clear her plates, but when he touches the basket, she says, “No, wait. Don’t take that away. Could you please just put all that in a doggy bag? And maybe add some extra pieces of those delicious cheese crisps? It’s for my girlfriends,” she continues, “they would be very upset if I came home empty-handed.” And out she walks with enough bread for a family of four.

  Sunday, May 9

  Another civilized Sunday at Café L’Europe. And, possibly, more crabs. As we’re walking over, the lyrics are playing again in my head about eating her own weight up in crab meat. I’m thinking maybe Jimmy Buffett knew Pam back when he wrote that song. Lobster or crab, she never gets tired of either one.

  About a block away from the restaurant, I can clearly hear David at the piano, which is strange. I never hear his music until I am inside Cafe L’Europe. As we arrive, and I hold the door open for Pam, I notice all the French doors in the restaurant are wide open. Probably against some ordinance, but it transforms the restaurant into an alfresco setting and gives it a Caribbean island feel.

  Pam spots fresh sautéed soft-shell crabs as a special on the menu and is, of course, delighted. We order and settle back and relax. Suddenly, I hear an explosion. Bombs? Gunshots? Our table is right next to a set of open French doors, and I see the sky light up with fireworks.

  “I’m sure it’s not New Year’s Eve,” I say, “and I don’t think it could be July Fourth quite yet.”

  Bruce is passing our table. “Bruce, what are these fireworks for?” I ask.

  “It’s the last night of Sunfest,” he says. “Surely, you guys have been to Sunfest.”

  “No,” I say. “We’ve never been, and don’t call me Shirley.”

  He looks at me and laughs. “Ah, I forgot. You guys don’t get off the island much. It’s a music festival over in West Palm. They always have fireworks the last night. Enjoy. No extra charge.”

  And we do. Our table offers a full view of the display. We see one burst of color after another, fireworks in red, blue, green, and gold, lighting up the night sky, accompanied by the sound of David at the piano.

  Pam says, “New Year’s Eve, and now tonight. I can hardly wait until the Fourth of July.”

  Tuesday, May 11

  According to the Shiny Sheet Police Report this morning, a Palm Beach resident reported that he thinks a Rolex watch was stolen from his bureau drawer sometime between the beginning of February and now. Guess it wasn’t his favorite watch.

  The paper goes on to describe a volunteer squad called the Code Watchers. These people apparently travel around town spotting code violations like “overgrown grass, peeling paint, unsightly debris, and other blemishes that mar the ambiance of Palm Beach.” Blemishes that mar the ambiance?

  Our tomato plants keep growing taller and taller and have outgrown their stakes twice. Over the last several days, some of the larger fruits started turning orange, and this morning many are bright red. So much for planting the seeds in batches so we wouldn’t have too many tomatoes ripe at the same time.

  Tonight we’re in the kitchen with Peter Cetera preparing large, very fresh tomato salads, among other things. The phone rings. I look at Pam. I pick up. Pam is listening, but, of course, she can only hear my part of the conversation, which goes something like this: “Van Duzer, when did they let you out?” Short silence. “Are you serious?” Long silence. “Be there or be square.” Click.

  “Yes?” Pam says.

  “Van and Sue are flying into West Palm from LAX on Thursday, spending a night at The Chesterfield, and flying to Connecticut Friday morning. We’re meeting them at the Leopard Lounge at seven o’clock Thursday.”

  “Cool,” Pam says.

  Wednesday, May 12

  In all the years we’ve been visiting Palm Beach, we have never gone to the Flagler Museum, so today we decide to walk over. We quit work early and zigzag our way north to the museum, which is on the lake, about fifteen blocks north of Worth Avenue. The whole way, we never see another pedestrian. At times like this, Palm Beach feels like our own private town, here just for the two of us.

  As we’re paying our admission, I pick up a brochure. I start reading it. “This whole place is a museum,” I say.

  “I see. I didn’t quite get that,” Pam says.

  “Henry Flagler, the Standard Oil and railroad guy, built this as a present for his wife in 1902.”

  “A nice little gift,” Pam says.

  “This was the couple’s winter residence,” I say. “Could have told me it was a hotel and I’d have believed it. It has fifty-five rooms, sixty thousand square feet.”

  “What’s that, about the size of twenty-five normal houses?” Pam says.

  “Something like that,” I say. “It even makes ‘normal’ Palm Beach mansions seem insignificant.”

  We stroll through grand ballro
oms, vast hallways, solariums, many sizeable bedrooms, a music room, and a billiards room big enough for three tables. I can’t believe that people actually lived like this.

  “Look at this,” Pam says, “an entire tea service in eighteen karat gold.”

  “Perhaps a bit extravagant,” I say, “but I guess it fits.”

  Signs in some of the rooms indicate that individual donors have sponsored each restoration. I’m reminded of how much of the conservation of not only this museum, but of the entire Town of Palm Beach, is paid for privately.

  My favorite exhibit is Henry Flagler’s private rail car. It has beautiful oak paneling, a comfortable bedroom, and bathrooms more modern than those found on today’s trains.

  In a previous life, I spent two hours a day commuting on a train, six and sometimes seven days a week. If I’d had Flagler’s private car, I might not have hated it so much.

  Thursday, May 13

  Pam’s at her art class, and I’m goofing off trimming some palms out by the pool. I’m thinking about seeing Van and Sue tonight. Van and I became friends in second grade. We lived on the same street, played Little League together, and went to the same summer camp (until I was asked to leave). In high school we played on the same championship soccer team and the same basketball team, along with Theo. Van and I even went to the same college. We certainly both see where we are and we both know where we’ve been. Old friends. Harry Chapin was right.

  We all meet at The Chesterfield. The night flies by as we catch up on news and laugh, a lot. They’ve been in LA for a month visiting their son Bill (mercifully no longer referred to as Van-Van), Bill’s wife, and their three grandchildren. Bill is now a television hotshot out in Hollywood. I remember when he was throwing Cocoa Puffs around in his crib.

  Van and I reminisce, but the ladies don’t mind. They actually expect it. And, not surprisingly, the older the two of us get, the better we were.

  Friday, May 14

  We’re finishing up in the office and Pam says, “Did you see the invitation from the Preservation Foundation?”

  “No, what’s it for, a tea party?”

  “No, actually it’s for a garden party, an evening of cocktails, dinner, and dancing,” Pam says.