Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  We’re outside by the pool, sipping glasses of Barbaresco and admiring the wood fire Dick built in the fire pit. The playlist selection for tonight includes Peter Cincotti, Matt Dusk, Steve Tyrell, and Tony DeSare.

  Dick gets up and checks on the charcoal in his Weber Smokey Joe. “Still a little too hot,” he says. “Maybe another couple of minutes.” He comes back and sits down. We’re waiting for the coals to calm down so we can grill onion and red pepper kebabs and skewers of marinated shrimp.

  “Looks like something’s going on over there through the trees,” I say. “See that red light in the distance?”

  “Yeah,” Dick says. “There are lots of red lights. Looks like a fire engine.”

  I hear the rough noise of diesel engines. “Sounds like a fire engine,” I say. “It’s going quite slowly, like it’s looking for something.”

  A searchlight scrapes across the sky. Another points along the tree line. Soon there are many searchlights. Clearly, people are looking for something in the yard north of us. I hear voices.

  “What could be going on?” I say. “Think they’re after someone?”

  We both stand up to get a better view. The lights are moving much too slowly for a chase, but they are definitely getting closer. We walk toward the far end of the pool and look through the branches above the fence bordering our property.

  I see maybe seven or eight firemen, in full gear, milling about. They’re holding monster flashlights, obviously looking for something, and getting closer and closer.

  One of them shines his light over the fence onto our pool area. He waves the light about, zeros in on our fire pit, and yells, “I have the source!”

  “Oh, my God,” I say. “It’s us.”

  The firemen gather on the far side of the fence. One of them keeps a light focused on our fire pit. Another finds us with his flashlight and tells us to stay put, they’ll drive the truck around to our street.

  “Do you think we’re in trouble?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” Dick says. “A fine for an illegal fire? Maybe jail time for endangering the neighborhood? Deportation?”

  The fire engine stops in front of our house, red lights revolving, and the firemen file along the side of our house to the scene of the fire. They seem relieved. We, on the other hand, are both rattled.

  Dick says, “We are very, very, sorry. We’ve been having fires like this since September. We didn’t know it was a problem.”

  “It’s not a problem,” says the head guy. “We just got a call from a woman who smelled burning wood so we followed up on the call. It’s what we do.”

  Two of them walk over to the fire pit. “It can’t get much safer than this,” one says. “Maybe you could move it a little bit away from the planting, but it’s fine.”

  “We just need some information to fill out our report,” another says, “and then we’ll leave you alone.” He asks some routine questions, then apologizes for bothering us.

  Dick says, “Well, as long as you’re here, why don’t you all stay for dinner?”

  The head guy eyes the Smokey Joe and says, “I don’t think you could grill enough on that thing for all of us.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” Dick says, “but we have lots of beer.”

  The firemen give us some scattered applause, say maybe another time, and head back to the station.

  Dick pokes what’s left of the coals, adds more charcoal. “This is going to take a while,” he says.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I need time to recover.”

  Dick pours us another glass of wine. We both start laughing. “Wonder if we’ll be in the Shiny Sheet Police Report,” Dick says.

  Sunday, February 14

  The weather continues to be warm, and I’m admiring the view from the yellow room. The hibiscus plants somehow survived the severe cold, and now there are pink and red and orange flowers. Blanco’s on my knee, enjoying a neck massage. Duckie’s on the floor playing her favorite game, rug-fringe tug-of-war.

  “Want to hear something crazy?” Dick says. “The police report that a man was cited for leaving the scene of an accident. He crashed his car through trees, a wall, and onto someone’s yard. Then he used his cell to call a cab to take him home. Left the car right where it was.”

  I start to answer but am interrupted by a loud, throaty engine noise. It’s very close, sounds like it’s next door. Definitely a Ferrari. Dick and I get up and go toward the kitchen window to take a look. A second Ferrari starts up. Out the window and through the hedge, I see two Ferraris, a blue 360 and a red 430, parked next door. The two cars muscle their way out of the driveway and roar down the street.

  “Guess we finally have neighbors,” Dick says.

  We tend to stay close to home on Valentine’s night to avoid the crowds. We have made an avocado and Bibb lettuce salad and boeuf bourguignon and set a romantic table out by the pool, complete with candles.

  “Think it’s okay to have a fire,” I ask Dick, “after our event last night?”

  “Of course,” he says, and sets up some wood in the fire pit.

  I set the table while he lights the fire and we dine under the stars to a late-fifties playlist: Elvis, The Platters, Mickey & Sylvia, and Buddy Holly. I notice Dick has built a particularly small fire tonight.

  After dinner, we walk to the beach. The sea air is almost balmy, and I can tell spring is on its way. The ocean is flat; moonlit clouds are drifting slowly westward. Apart from the occasional Loch Ness monster, we almost never see other people here late at night, but tonight there’s someone in the distance moving towards us along the water’s edge.

  “Look at that,” Dick says. “It’s a couple.”

  Sure enough, a rather formally dressed couple is dancing slowly along the beach. She has on a long white dress and he is wearing a suit, but they both are barefoot. They look to be in their early twenties and are performing a classic waltz in time to the breaking waves. I look around for a camera crew, thinking this might be staged, but it’s just the two of them, together on the beach, lost in love.

  Wednesday, February 17

  I read in the Shiny Sheet this morning that a homeowner has reported to the police that his house has been battered by at least eight eggs. These February people.

  Over the weekend, I drove to the mainland to get seedling containers and a soil mix, and this morning I plant the tomato seeds Maurizio gave me. The weather forecast calls for another bout of cold, so to be safe I keep them inside, lined up on a table in front of the living room windows. I won’t leave them there for long. The cottage is far too small to be used as a greenhouse.

  My knee is improving. Dick and I now take several short walks each day, timing them carefully so I can get back home before I start to feel sore. I am also learning where every available bench or ledge is, where I can sit and rest. Dick is patient with my slow pace and frequent stops.

  I do feel old when I have to stop so often, and I get glimpses of how daily life might be when I am older. I’m grateful this limping is supposed to be temporary, although I know sometimes these things don’t go completely away. I still have periodic back pain from a diving accident when I was a teenager, and a shoulder injury when I was forty continues to haunt me.

  Tonight we snail our way over to Renato’s. For the second time since we moved here, because the town is so full and Renato’s is a long walk, Dick has made a reservation. Brad asks us where we have been, and I give a quick explanation about my knee. Then I hobble after him as he escorts us to a table.

  We enjoy a quiet dinner. As we are paying the check, Brad comes over and says, quite formally, “Mr. and Mrs. Myers, your car will be here in just a minute.”

  “Would that be the Bugatti or the Lamborghini?” Dick asks. Brad knows we always walk to Renato’s.

  “No, I’m serious,” Brad says. He turns to me. “Mrs. Myers, I watched you limp in here. It would be my great pleasure to drive you home. I’m leaving now, anyway, so I’ll go get my car and meet you at t
he entrance.”

  I feel embarrassed and try to talk Brad out of it, but he insists. “Renato’s is, after all, a full-service establishment,” he says.

  Brad goes to get his car. Dick and I walk out to the sidewalk, and Brad pulls up at the curb. I get into the passenger seat, Dick gets into the back. As he pulls the car away from the curb, Brad turns to us and grins. “Of course, now that I have your complete attention, I can give you a taste of why I rarely miss a Grateful Dead concert,” he says, popping in a CD.

  Our cottage is close, so all we get to hear is “Jack Straw.” As Brad pulls away, “Friend of the Devil” begins. We don’t do concerts but do like the Grateful Dead.

  Saturday, February 20

  In late January, Dick and I tried to make reservations at The Colony’s Royal Room for another cabaret night, only to discover that just about every performance for several months was sold out. We found one opening, for Johnny Rodgers and his band. We’d never heard of him but read that he’s won numerous awards, including the Great American Song Contest. We made reservations and tonight’s the night.

  All eighty-two seats in the intimate room are taken. Johnny Rodgers and his band members Mud Man, Mad Dog, and Cotton Eye Joe entertain with Great American Songbook standards, Elvis and Billy Joel hits, and some of Johnny’s outstanding originals, including “Mary Jean,” “The Best of You in Me,” and “One More Moment.” Dick will no doubt download these from iTunes as soon as we get home.

  When the show ends, Rob Russell, the Royal Room’s entertainment director, stands up and says, “Everyone’s invited to a cast party, just through those doors, in the Polo Lounge. Come dance to the Switzer Trio.”

  “What’s that about?” I say.

  “I don’t know, but if we can eat there this late, let’s go,” Dick says. “I’m starving.”

  The Polo Lounge has a bar, a dining area, and a small dancing area. The kitchen is still open, and we are taken to a table near the dance floor. Fast dancing is still out of the question because of my knee, but Dick and I dance slowly several times while we wait for our food.

  Johnny Rodgers and his band have settled in at a nearby table. When they are finished with dinner, to our surprise, Johnny gets up, walks to the front of the room, takes the mike, and sings a few songs. The setting is casual and even more personal than the Royal Room. Our waiter explains that the cast party happens every Saturday, and the Royal Room headliner always makes an appearance and performs a few numbers.

  “I guess we never came to a show on a Saturday,” Dick says. “It’s funny the things we still don’t know,” I say, “after being in this town for almost six months.”

  Sunday, February 21

  Dick and I emerge from Taboo after a leisurely brunch and walk along Worth Avenue. All the parking spaces are filled.

  “There are even more exotic cars than usual,” Dick says.

  “And I don’t see any non-fancy cars,” I say. “Two Ferraris, no, make that three, a Lamborghini, two Maybachs, plus a whole bunch of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys.”

  “You missed the two Maseratis,” Dick says. “And there’s a Lotus and an Aston Martin.”

  “Every single one of these cars is showroom-clean,” I say.

  “Well, that Ferrari has some dirt on its right front wheel.” Almost all the cars I am looking at can go about 200 miles an hour. They do zero to sixty in three or four seconds. Just what one needs on an island where the top speed limit is thirty miles an hour. Whenever I read about a brand-new model of an expensive or exotic car, I invariably spot one soon after on the streets of Palm Beach. No wonder there are so many exotic car dealerships just across the bridge.

  “Your knee okay to walk over to the lake?” Dick says.

  “It seems fine,” I say, and we continue on to the lake.

  “Let’s find a bench,” he says. “We’ve been remiss in our duties as DOPES.”

  We settle onto a bench under one of the banyan trees. The town docks are as full as can be, with mega yacht after mega yacht.

  As I gaze out at the bridge to the mainland, which is just north of the docks, the bells sound and the drawbridge goes up.

  I flash back to all the times we drove over that bridge for our Palm Beach escapes. The feeling of getting off I-95 and then getting onto the bridge was something. I could feel the real world slip from my shoulders and get left behind on the mainland.

  But I knew it was always a brief escape, could never be where we really lived. In fact, I was sure we would never even want to be here for more than a few days. Sometimes we know so little about ourselves, I think. I’m glad we still have more than six months ahead of us here.

  Tuesday, February 23

  February is supposed to be the busiest month of the year in Palm Beach, and so far this holds true. The stores, streets, and restaurants are full and the town feels crowded to me, which is bizarre.

  When we lived in New York, crowded meant twenty women in line for a dressing room at Bloomingdale’s, or a movie queue snaking around the corner and up the next block. Going to a Knicks game involved jostling with thousands of people fighting for space on the escalators in Madison Square Garden. Somehow I’ve gotten so re-adjusted that if four other women are in the shoe department at Saks, it feels busy to me.

  The restaurants are so full this time of year it’s impossible to get in without a reservation on weekends. We’ve learned that Monday and Tuesday after nine are the best nights to be spontaneous. Tonight we stop by Café L’Europe late, and they have a table for us.

  “Lots and lots of people, night after night,” Dick says.

  “I know the restaurants need the business, but I’d sort of like these crowds to go away,” I say.

  “It’s funny,” Dick says. “It wasn’t long ago we were looking forward to the season. Now we want it to be over.”

  “You know what’s even funnier?” I say. “You and I were here before these people arrived and we’ll be here after they leave. We’ve already been here almost six months. Many of the seasonal people only see Palm Beach for six or seven weeks, or maybe even less. It’s starting to feel like the on-season people are the visitors, not us.”

  We finish dinner close to eleven and walk the block to the beach. The evening’s so beautiful we walk along the ocean for several blocks and turn east onto Worth Avenue. My knee is getting better and I walk more, but still slowly. As we pass Saks, the door opens and Terri, who works there, walks out.

  Dick says, “Terri, you lose your watch? Saks closes at six.”

  “Not tonight,” she says. “Not for me, anyway. I just spent two hours with a private shopper whose name you would certainly know if I could mention it. I can’t.”

  “So Saks opens the entire store just for this one shopper?”

  “Exactly. And it is well worth it for the store. And for me.” She smiles.

  Thursday, February 25

  I drive to my first art class today, where I hope to learn how to paint with acrylics. The instructor e-mailed his students a list of necessary supplies, and I have everything with me, I hope. I haven’t been to a class of any kind in many years and feel excited and a little scared.

  The classroom is big and high-ceilinged and full of paint-splattered easels. I love how it looks. The teacher is a young guy. There are seven other students besides me, all adults and all different ages. He asks us to introduce ourselves, and I learn there are several other true beginners like me.

  The teacher talks to us about types of brushes, shows us how to mix primary paints to make a whole range of colors, then suggests we try to paint a still life he has set up. The class is three hours long but goes by quickly.

  “So, how was it?” Dick says when I walk in the door.

  “I really liked it,” I say.

  Dick smiles. “I knew you would.”

  Tonight Dick and I are walking slowly toward The Chesterfield. I’m encouraged by the progress of my knee, but life is still not quite normal for us.

  We hope to
dance tonight, but it won’t be to “Hungry Like the Wolf” or “Shout,” one of my all-time favorite dancing songs. It’ll be more like “Lady in Red” and “Second Time Around.” As we pass The Invisible Man’s House, I see the telltale glow of a television.

  “Dick,” I say. “Look in that upstairs window. He could be in there watching TV.”

  We walk a little further, and I hear a cacophony of squawking. It’s above me somewhere, coming closer.

  “What’s that noise?” I say.

  “I have no idea,” Dick says.

  Dozens and dozens of bright green birds appear overhead. They land on the phone wires and on the palm fronds directly above us.

  “Those look like parrots,” I say. “But they can’t be. Isn’t it way too cold here for parrots? Don’t they live in South America or something?”

  There must be at least sixty birds now perched above us. They are beautiful. We watch them for a while, then walk on to The Chesterfield, take a seat at the bar. Michelle, John, and Lou are working this evening.

  “Michelle,” I say, “Dick and I just saw a flock of birds that look like parrots. They landed on the telephone wires. Have you ever seen them?”

  She laughs. “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Aren’t they noisy? They’re parrots, green-cheeked Amazon parrots, to be exact. I think it began with pet parrots that escaped, but now there’s a huge colony of them.”

  John, who is listening, adds, “They’re protected. The entire island of Palm Beach is a designated bird sanctuary. And some people say a designated nut sanctuary, as well.”

  Adam plays a slow song, and we dance. After a minute or so, another couple gets up to dance. They are doing a Dancing with the Stars thing, with kicks, and twists, and spins, and dips. They look like professionals.

  The music stops and we go back to our stools. Lou, John, and Michelle are standing there, expressionless.

  “No jokes tonight?” Dick says.