Saturday, July 3
Pam and I are up before Mike and Maggie and walk to the beach. When we get back, Mike and Maggie are sitting by the pool. The four of us decide on a breakfast of espresso, biscotti, and fruit.
“Well,” Mike says, “last night Dick and I proved once again there is nothing much sillier than two old white guys trying to dance fast.”
“Stop. You guys were great,” Pam says.
“You were,” Maggie says. “Now we’re going to the beach, and then we’ll take you guys to lunch, and then we’ll do some more shopping. It’s dancing at the Leopard Lounge tonight.”
Mike looks at me and shrugs.
“You two go to the beach,” I say. “We’ll all meet for lunch, and then you can shop till you drop.”
They’re back from the beach at about one o’clock; we walk to lunch at Pizza al Fresco. We’re sitting in the courtyard next to a bed of flowers. Maggie points to a stone in the flowers and says, “What does it say on that stone?”
“Actually, it’s a gravestone, and it reads ‘Johnnie Brown the Human Monkey,’” I say.
“A gravestone for a ‘human monkey,’ in a restaurant?” Maggie says.
“It’s a long story,” Pam says, “that building used to be Addison Mizner’s house, and he had a pet monkey named Johnny Brown. When the monkey died, it was buried there.”
“That’s a little strange,” Mike says.
Walking back from lunch, I’m thinking how strange Palm Beach really is. There is a monkey buried on the island, and next to him a dog, but no humans. Palm Beach has no graveyards, no funeral homes, no hospitals.
Sunday, July 4
Pam and I sleep in this morning. I discover the Sunday papers out by the pool, but Mike and Maggie are nowhere to be found. I’m not unhappy.
Pam comes out of the bedroom and I say, “Anything you want to do before Maggie comes back with today’s itinerary?”
“A quiet espresso and the papers by the pool with just you would be fine with me,” Pam says.
“I think the stores on Worth Avenue are closed today, so they’re probably at the beach,” I say.
Around noon, Mike and Maggie find us by the pool. “The beach is beautiful today,” Maggie says, “but Mike and I were thinking about going to the Gardens Mall for lunch, maybe some shopping. I checked. The stores there are open on the Fourth. It’s not very far, is it?”
“No,” Pam says, “it’s about a half hour, straight up US 1 or I-95.”
“Good. Then we’re going. They have a California Pizza Kitchen. You guys want to come?”
“No thanks,” I say. “We’re good. We’ll see you when you get back.”
“Okay, tonight’s a big night, maybe Echo and the Palm Beach Grill,” Maggie warns us. This means we’ll be heading about a mile north tonight to Royal Poinciana Way, near Publix. This is quite a journey for us at night.
Monday, July 5
Not surprisingly, last night went as planned, by Maggie. Since Maggie wanted to go to Echo and the Palm Beach Grill, we had to drive. Driving home, I figured out the last time I drove a car at night was in January.
This morning has gone as planned, by me. We have just waved goodbye to Maggie and Mike. Walking back to the house, Pam says, “How long was she here for, a week?”
Exhausted, we walk back into the house and I see this morning’s unread newspapers. I pick one up. “Today’s July fifth,” I say to Pam.
She laughs. “You mean we missed the fireworks last night?”
“It’s the Maggie factor,” I say.
In our year in Palm Beach, Pam and I have seen two great, completely unexpected fireworks displays, and missed the only fireworks we’d planned to see. Humans plan. The gods laugh.
Tuesday, July 6
We’re just wandering and end up walking through the construction on Worth Avenue. The scene is now familiar, a jumble of heavy machines. There are cranes lifting long sections of pipe, backhoes digging up the street, jackhammers tearing at the sidewalks. The process and the progress continue to be interesting to us. It is extremely well organized. “It’s quieter in the middle of all this construction than sitting by our pool with Maggie,” I say.
“She certainly can talk. And shop. Anyway, it was nice seeing them,” Pam says.
Well, I was happy to see Mike, but the jury may still be out on Maggie.
Today, traipsing through the construction, Pam and I start laughing. Pam says, “Wouldn’t you know they’d pick ‘our year’ in Palm Beach to redo Worth Avenue.”
“Yes,” I say. “The winter people are going to come back and see a new avenue but they’ll have no idea the mess that went on while they were away.”
“I like seeing the construction,” Pam says. “It’s quite an undertaking. I like being here for all this.”
I’m happy today it’s just the two of us, out together. We cross Hibiscus and are walking on Peruvian. Ahead, there’s a building that’s been going up for quite some time. It is obviously going to be a commercial building. Today, the contractor and some other men are looking at a blueprint right by the sidewalk.
I say, “Excuse me, what kind of business is going in here, do you know?”
The contractor looks up and says, absolutely straight-faced, “A McDonald’s. We’re putting up the golden arches today.”
Before he’s even finished his sentence, everybody starts laughing. The idea of a McDonald’s anywhere in the Town of Palm Beach is, of course, preposterous.
“That, my friend, is an excellent choice,” I say. “My wife and I are building a waterslide on the Preservation Foundation property and,” I say, pointing to a parking lot, “turning that space into a go-cart track.”
“Well, I guess we’ll all get rich,” the contractor says. “Or arrested.”
Pam and I leave the future home of what is anything-but-McDonald’s and head home. We come to The Invisible Man’s driveway where, for almost eleven months now, we have seen a car parked in virtually every possible position but have never seen a person other than the gardeners.
An attractive gray-haired woman is standing there. She says, “Good morning. You’re the authors, in the little cottage, right?”
I’m looking at The Invisible Woman, amazed that she has managed to remain invisible for eleven months, and wondering how this woman knows where we live and what we do for a living. I say, “Yes, we’re both writers,” and we all introduce ourselves.
“How are you liking Palm Beach?” she says.
“We love it,” Pam says. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” I’ve got to find out about the invisibility thing, so I say, “Do you live here full time?”
She smiles. It’s a sad smile, or maybe just a wistful smile. “My husband and I have lived in this house full time for over twenty years. He’s not doing so well the last year or two, so full time has taken on a whole new meaning for us.”
Pam says, “I’m sorry. Can we help in any way?”
“No, thank you.” She smiles. “We’re doing okay. I usually sneak out very early in the morning to do errands and get supplies. Then we sit together on the back porch or by the pool. He still enjoys reading and his oldies music. We’re doing okay.”
“Well, Pam’s offer was serious. You know where we are if there is ever anything we can do to help,” I say. “And it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
When we get back home, Pam says, “I feel terrible. We’ve been making jokes about The Invisible Man for almost a year. And it isn’t funny. He is sort of invisible.”
“We didn’t know.” And it’s not funny. It’s scary. Stuff does happen. And the older I get, the less I am concerned about dying and the more I am terrified of becoming a burden to Pam or Samantha. As far as I know, I’m healthy at the moment, but the thought of becoming Pam’s invisible man haunts me a bit. Some things we can control, some things we can’t.
Thursday, July 8
First I hear the doorbell and then, a moment later, several authoritative knoc
ks on our door. I open it and am greeted by a police officer. I put my hands up.
He shakes his head and says, “I’m wondering if you’ve seen anyone that looked suspicious in the neighborhood today.”
Pam has joined me at the door. We look at each other. “Actually, we were out walking earlier,” Pam says, “and not only did we not see anyone suspicious, we didn’t see anyone at all.”
“I can believe that,” he says. “I’ve knocked on every door on this block and you guys and one lady down the street are the only ones who answered. Anyway, somebody knocked on a woman’s door the next block over, and she called us because she didn’t recognize him. When we got there, he was gone. It’s probably just a mistaken address, but we’re checking anyway.”
Even though the Palm Beach Police do investigate stolen sunglasses and the occasional unknown knocker, and they’ll give you a ride home on New Year’s Eve, they are not Keystone Kops. This is a thoroughly trained, professional modern police force. They are the reason this is such a safe place to live.
Sunday, July 11
We’re in Café L’Europe for another civilized Sunday. David is working his usual magic. I’m realizing how much I’m going to miss things like our civilized Sundays, dancing any night we want, going to the Royal Room Cabaret. Back in New Smyrna, the closest thing to cabaret is probably karaoke. But the truth is, unless Pam’s done something she hasn’t told me about, we haven’t been banned from returning to Palm Beach to visit. We only live three hours north. Still, I’m feeling like September is coming at me way too fast.
David starts his rendition of “Happy Birthday.” The wait-staff comes out carrying Café L’Europe’s signature sparklers, and Pam and I both turn to see who the birthday person is.
At the table is a father and, next to him in a booster seat, a tiny, precious-looking little girl. In front of her is a decorated cup-cake with a single candle on it. Pam says, “Not a bad place for your first birthday.”
I raise my glass. “May all her birthdays be as elegant.”
Norbert and Lidia, the owners, have walked over and are talking to Pam. Norbert is German, Lidia from Brazil. I’m looking around the restaurant at various employees we have gotten to know. This is not Café L’Europe, this is Café Le World, I’m thinking. Rainer is from Germany, Damir from Croatia, Noureddine from Morocco, Marco from Brazil, Sergio from Argentina, Francesco from Nicaragua, Milton from Brazil, Greg from Philadelphia, Monsieur Jean from Haiti, Sylvaine from Monaco, Billy from Peru, Clarissa from Miami, Bruce from Maine, John from Brooklyn, Ayhan from Russia, and Ramsey from North Carolina, and these are just a few people from the front of the house. Café Le World.
Monday, July 12
It’s getting hotter. Some nights the temperature doesn’t go below eighty, but if there is a breeze off the ocean it’s still quite pleasant. Even this far south in Florida, I’m struck by the changing of the seasons. Every month so far has been different from the last, at least in subtle ways. And, of course, certain seasons down here in Palm Beach are marked by the comings and goings of people, not the falling of leaves or snow, or the sprouting of crocuses like up north.
Duck and Blanco are reading the papers with us this morning. Pam says, “Today’s Shiny Sheet reports that police were called to a shop in Via Parigi. Overnight someone removed a terracotta flowerpot from outside a shop.”
“That’s funny,” I say. “I mean it’s not funny, but it’s unusual that storekeepers and restaurants here close up and leave flowerpots, chairs and tables, potted plants, and other stuff outside.”
“You mean, and this is the first time we’ve ever heard of anything being taken?” Pam says.
“In most towns, store owners bring everything inside at night or lock it up, or it’s gone.”
Pam and I eat outside tonight with early Sinatra and then slip into the pool for a swim. After a few minutes, we dry off and go around to the front yard to do a little stargazing. It is a very clear and dark night with no moon, and we are sitting in our beach chairs on the grass, talking and looking at the night sky.
“Did you see it?” Pam says.
“Yep,” I say. “A big one.” My head knows shooting stars are only bits of cosmic dust hitting the earth’s atmosphere, but my heart knows they’re magic.
Pam says, “Do you remember Antigua?”
“No,” I joke, then add, “yes, of course I remember. Who could forget that night?”
Pam and I were alone on the beach one December night in Antigua. The entire sky was filled with shooting stars. We were laughing and pointing and counting. We finally just stopped counting at ninety-six, even though the show continued on.
Whether it’s one hundred or just one, I love seeing shooting stars with Pam. As long as we have been together, Pam and I have been stargazers. From Connecticut to the Caribbean to California and all over Florida, we have gazed into the night sky.
Saturday, July 17
Pam and I are checking out a sale at Polo Ralph Lauren. Pam is looking through some sweaters. A man next to her is buying several jackets that need altering, and the saleswoman asks, “Which address would you like me to have these sent to?” She obviously knows the guy has several houses.
A moment later, a different salesperson asks another customer the same question. Pam whispers, “You think everyone who shops here has two addresses?”
“The truth is most of the customers here probably have more than two,” I say. An alternate universe.
We have only one address at the moment. Fortunately, it is near the Colony’s Royal Room, and tonight we’re going to see Jennifer Sheehan.
Ms. Sheehan’s show is a celebration of the Great American Songbook, and she is brilliant. I have socks older than Ms. Sheehan, but she is poised and confident and hugely talented.
After the show, we go into the Polo Lounge for Rob Russell’s cast party. Pam says, “I think we just saw a woman who is about to be a big star.”
“I think you’re right,” I say.
We order a late supper and dance to the Switzer Trio, which is a duo tonight. Rob Russell takes the stage and gets the crowd going with a few songs. Then Wayne Hosford, a former headliner, makes a surprise appearance and does a few Peter Allen songs. To cap off our evening, Jennifer Sheehan does two more numbers and then puts on a dancing exhibition with Rob.
As Pam and I are walking home barefoot on the beach, I am struck yet again by what a wonderful evening we’re having. I’m very happy, but also aware that evenings like this won’t be possible in six weeks or so.
Sunday, July 18
I put a CD into the Bose to listen to some music while I read in the living room. I hit the AM radio button by mistake, so instead of Robin Spielberg’s piano, it sounds like a Red Sox game.
Pam comes around the corner and says, “Is that a baseball game?”
I start changing stations, figuring if the Sox are on down here, the Yankees probably are, too. Bingo. “Yep,” I say. “I think we’re listening to a Yankee game now. Yep, Robbie Cano just hit a double.”
Pam shakes her head. “Talk about simpler times,” she says. “This takes me back almost a half a century.”
“Remember those transistor radios with the single earplug? I used to snake the wire under a long-sleeved shirt and listen to games in school.”
“My first summer boyfriend was a baseball nut,” Pam says. “We used to sit on his parents’ porch all the time and listen to games holding hands.”
“You held hands with someone before me?” I say. “Was this that Willy cad?”
“I don’t think you can be a cad at twelve, but yes, it was Willy,” Pam says. “Now, can we listen to the game?”
After the Yanks hold on to win it, Pam and I head out for the evening with our umbrella in a light rain. We stop and have a glass of wine at Pizza al Fresco. The skies clear and we head over to Bice for dinner. Halfway through our salad, Pam says, “Do you have the umbrella?”
“Nope,” I say, “I forgot it.” Just then, J
avier walks over to the table with our umbrella.
“Anna called and said you left it, so I just went up and got it for you guys.”
“That was very, very nice,” Pam says. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
Javier just smiles and shrugs.
Wednesday, July 21
“Did you know there were German submarines off the coast of Palm Beach during World War Two?” I ask Pam. I’m reading the Shiny Sheet.
“I think those were rumors,” Pam says. “I don’t think they were, like, shelling the beach here.”
“They weren’t shelling the beach, but at least twenty American ships were attacked in Florida waters, some just off of Palm Beach.”
“I didn’t know the war got that close to home,” Pam says. “Your father was in the South Pacific, mine was in the North Atlantic, and the Germans were a few hundred yards east of Saks?”
“Well, sort of.”
The phone rings, and I pick up. “Dicky Boy, it’s the reigning Palm Beach bumper pool champion,” Henry says.
“Madam, I think you have the wrong number,” I say.
“Ha. How’re you guys doing? Look, I’m working out August’s schedule. What day are you moving back?”
I say, “We’re not coming back. Pam’s been elected mayor. We’re staying here.”
“Okay, but just in case you decide to move back, what day should I drive the truck down?” Henry asks.
“Enrique, I think you and Michele already did your part for our year, using your truck, moving us down. You guys are off the hook.”
“Stop. Stop. Stop,” Henry says. “Look, my other line is ringing. Figure out the day and let us know. We’re on it.”
Pam comes in. “Who was that?”
“Henry. He and Michele want to help us with the move back.”
“That’s too much. They’ve done enough,” Pam says. “We can rent a truck down here.”
“I agree. We’ll figure it out next week.”
Saturday, July 24
In the summer, Palm Beach is definitely on island time. It is warm. It is empty. Those of us who are here year-round are not in a rush. And there aren’t many of us. I love it.
Today we are walking back home from the dry cleaners when Pam says, “It’s warm but much too beautiful a day to go back inside. Let’s just leave the dry cleaning inside the door and walk on to the beach.”
Year in Palm Beach Page 23
