We all swap stories and outrageous memories of the Willie T, a floating saloon off Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. Pam, Jimmy and I are all laughing like a bunch of expats at some island beach bar. Except we’re this sort of square old couple, and Jimmy Buffett is, well, Jimmy Buffett.
Sunday, March 14
This morning I was up early and set all the clocks to spring forward. I’m scanning the Shiny Sheet’s special advertising section on “Health and Beauty Solutions.” I’ve noticed this section from time to time but have never really looked at it. I say to Pam, “Have you seen this beauty section?”
“The one with ads for liposuction and body sculpting and boob jobs?”
“That’s the one,” I say. “But I was reading somewhere else the other day about adjustable breast implants.”
“Adjustable?” Pam says. “You mean you can adjust the size of your boobs to fit your mood?”
“I guess. And they also had six-pack ab implants, male pectoral implants, calf implants, dimple creation, nipple enlargement, and, my favorite, the Brazilian butt lift.”
“Instead of getting your butt lifted today,” Pam says, “why don’t we go see the inside of one of those houses we walk by all the time?” She shows me a picture of the house in an ad. “There’s an open house here today.”
“That isn’t a house, it’s a mansion,” I say. “Do you think it’s okay just to go and look?”
“Why not? The real estate agent has to be there anyway, and how many people that go into these open houses actually end up buying them do you think?”
“Probably none,” I say, “and it’d be fun to see the inside. I’ll have my butt lifted another day.”
A little after noon, we’re walking up the impressive driveway to an expansive two-story white stucco house. At the entrance, double doors, arched and ornately carved, open into a two-story round foyer with marble floors.
Inside, the real estate agent, Stephen, greets us, and we sign in. He ushers us into a living room with a twenty-foot ceiling and more marble floors. “This, as you can see, is a serious house,” he says. “Notice the two fireplaces, one at each end of the living room.”
“Notice them?” I say. “You could fit a Volkswagen in each of them.”
“And you could easily have a cocktail party for a hundred in this room,” Pam says.
“Yes, it is a gracious house for entertaining,” Stephen assures us.
Across the room, two-story wall-to-wall windows and several sets of French doors look out to a flagstone patio, a pool with an elaborate fountain at one end, and manicured flower beds.
The rest of the house is just plain huge. A wide stairway out of Gone with the Wind rises to the second floor, but there is also an elevator, not a little elevator, a hotel-sized elevator. Upstairs are two guest bedrooms, each with its own elaborate bathroom.
Then we come to the master suite, which actually makes me laugh, it is so ornate and over decorated.
“Quite roomy, and nicely decorated,” I say to Stephen.
“Oh my, yes. Notice the his and hers bathrooms.”
Notice? His bathroom is black and gold, and there is a shower with eight showerheads. Hers is decorated in gold and blue and silver and white. A raised soaking tub sits in an alcove. There is a makeup table with more jars, tubes, and brushes than I have ever seen.
The master suite also has a kitchenette with a built-in espresso-maker, microwave, sink, and icebox. The owners would, I believe, call it a mini-fridge.
The his and hers closets are enormous. Each is the size of a large bedroom in a normal house. The closets are organized and extremely neat, with clothing either on handsome hangers or perfectly folded, doubtless by someone other than him or her. In the woman’s closet, at least two hundred pairs of high-heeled shoes are lined up next to each other, shelf after shelf, arranged by color.
We go back to the first floor by a different set of stairs and make our way to the billiards room with mahogany paneling, leather easy chairs and sofas, three giant TV screens, and two full-size pool tables with black felt. Yes, there is a temperature-controlled wine room at the south end. “This is where the men play,” Stephen says.
“And apparently where the men pee, as well,” I say. I’ve just opened the door to a black marble bathroom with gold fixtured showers, a sauna and steam room, two massage tables, and three urinals.
Next we check out the kitchen, which is, of course, outfitted with top-of-the-line equipment. There’s a double-door refrigerator. Another separate freezer. Several Sub-Zero refrigerator drawers, two commercial dishwashers, three sinks, two islands, and a Wolf six-burner gas range. Henry and Michele would love to have a kitchen this size in their restaurant.
We move on to the formal dining room. The walls are covered in red silk and sport gilt sconces. Two glittery chandeliers hang above a polished mahogany table, which is surrounded by twenty upholstered chairs.
“You must come see the guest house. It’s quite special,” Stephen assures us.
“Thanks, Stephen. I’m sure it is, but this is far too important a house for us,” I say.
“I can appreciate that,” he says. “You know who owns it?” He says the name, which is a name we recognize. Surprisingly, it is not Imelda Marcos.
“And,” Stephen adds, “George Hamilton’s brother owns a house just a few doors away.”
With that tidbit of information, we head out the door. As we are leaving, a woman who has apparently been viewing the guest house with Stephen’s partner is also leaving. “There is another open house just down this street,” she says, and we all introduce ourselves. Her name is Katie.
“A nice little place,” I say nodding towards the palace we have all just left.
Pam says, “Did you see that billiards room? Two billiards tables, three TVs, and the walk-in wine cellar at one end? That was something.”
Katie says, “Actually, that’s what I do for a living. That’s why I’m in Palm Beach this weekend.”
“You play pool for a living?” I say.
Katie laughs and says, “No, I’m down here taking care of a wine cellar for a gentleman over on South Ocean.”
“Taking care of?” Pam says.
“Yes, my job is to replenish the collection, add some new selections, and generally make sure the cellar is in tip-top condition. I fly down from Chicago at least once a month,” Katie tells us.
“I hope you get to drink some of this wine as well,” I say. “This is really your job?”
“It really is. I have clients all over the country and two in Mexico.”
Two clients in Mexico. I think of the song by Fountains of Wayne, about changing, but instead they have another glass of Mexican wine or something. Oh, well.
“They keep me busy,” Katie continues, “probably too busy, but I love it.”
Pam and I decide to skip the next open house, say goodbye to Katie, and wish her well. Walking back, Pam says, “Another job our parents never told us about.”
When we get home, Pam looks at the clock and says, “Were we really gone that long? It’s already five thirty?”
I look at my watch. “You didn’t by any chance turn the clocks ahead, did you?”
“Yes, of course. I always do,” she says.
“So did I. It’s only four thirty.”
Saturday, March 20
The Shiny Sheet reports one hundred fish are missing from a pond on a site where a house is being built. First, illegal spearfishing, now fish rustling. Hmm.
We’re both in the office, buried under paper. I’m looking around, and there are piles of folders and books and pamphlets spread on every available surface, including the floor. It is impossible to find anything. I feel like drenching everything with gasoline, grabbing Pamela and the birds, and tossing a match in as we walk out the door. I say to Pam, “Remember the line in The Magnificent Seven when Steve McQueen says, ‘We deal in lead?’”
“Why,” Pam says. “Are you going to start shooting people
?”
“No, but it seems for you and me, it’s ‘We deal in paper.’ And too much paper. There’s paper everywhere in here. You can’t even walk across the room.”
Pam looks around and starts laughing. “If we get any more files or piles or stacks of paper in here we might not be able to get out.”
“Well, I’m getting out right now and taking a bunch of this paper with me,” I say.
“I’ll miss you.” Pam says. “Can you leave the keys to the Corvette?”
“Everybody’s a comedian,” I say. “I’m taking my laptop and this entire project out to the big table in the yellow room. I know we said work stays in the office, but this has to be an exception.”
Pam bends her arm, points her index finger, moves her arm back and forth, and says “This one time, Kay. This one time.”
“If that was supposed to be Michael Corleone,” I say, “it’s the worst imitation I’ve ever seen.”
She just smiles and says, “Take your stuff out there. Leave the cannoli.”
Sunday, March 21
Pam loves her art classes and is painting another bird. She also made a drawing of Duckie and captured exactly how Duckie stands and holds her head. Today a French artist, Duaiv, is giving a demonstration in a gallery on Worth Avenue, and she definitely wants to go. We choose the beach route to Worth. As we’re walking toward the beach, I say to Pam, “Remember that naked woman on the sport fisher at the docks?”
Pam looks up ahead, sees what I’m seeing, and laughs. “This one’s not naked, she’s wearing the bird.”
This young lady is not, in fact, naked. She is wearing the absolute tiniest bikini I have ever seen and a large white cockatoo on her shoulder. I say, “Good afternoon.” Both woman and bird answer, “Good afternoon.”
We cross South Ocean and I cannot believe the scene. The beach is totally covered with kids and volleyball nets, Frisbees, and coolers. “What happened?” I say.
“Spring break has arrived,” Pam says.
“I guess.”
We continue on to the demonstration at the Phillips Galleries. Rows of folding chairs are set up, but all the seats are taken, so we find a space against the wall.
Monsieur Duaiv is standing before a canvas, rapidly creating a painting of a harbor. He uses several palette knives at once, scooping globs of pastel-shaded paint out of an assortment of cans next to him. In moments, the bare canvas becomes a scene of colorful sailboats at anchor in front of a quaint village.
He does this again and again—sailboats, harbors, flowers, villages, and more. Now, I am a cultural infidel, but even I find this amazing. Pam is mesmerized. We watch for about a half hour, but there are people waiting to come in, so we leave to make space for them.
“Don’t try that at home,” I say to Pam.
She smiles. “You know I’m going to try it, but I don’t think I’ll have the same results. The stuff I do is pretty realistic.”
Wednesday, March 24
This afternoon Samantha and her gentleman caller Jason are flying down from Manhattan. I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks. I’m picking them up at the airport this evening. This explains why, when I go out at four o’clock in the afternoon to shuffle the cars in the driveway, the Audi’s right rear tire is flat. The Audi dealer put these tires on the car only two weeks ago. I’m crazed.
I call the Sunoco station around the corner and explain my problem to the guy who picks up. He apologizes and says they are quite busy and no one can get to our house for fifteen or twenty minutes. Ten minutes later, two men arrive, fill the tire, and drive the car back to the station for further inspection. They call me about fifteen minutes later with the problem (a faulty valve) solved. I pick up the car and explain how tremendously happy I am that they fixed it so fast. I get to the airport but the plane is late. Samantha and Jason are behind schedule so there’s not much time and I drop them at The Chesterfield.
Thursday, March 25
Jason and Samantha are in town on a three-night whirlwind tour. Samantha wants to introduce Jason to us, her mother, and her grandmother. This leads me to believe the relationship is serious. This also leads me to believe that if Jason can make it through these three days, he should receive a Purple Heart or Medal of Honor or something.
Last evening they had dinner with Samantha’s mother in West Palm. Today and tonight we have the pleasure, and tomorrow they’re with Samantha’s grandmother in Palm Beach Gardens. So far, they have had a walking tour of the island, a driving tour of the island, and a jog along the beach.
They are staying at The Chesterfield, and the plan is for them to come here at eleven and we’ll play it by ear. I’m very interested in talking to Jason and, of course, I want to see Samantha. I’m pacing around the house. They arrive at our cottage about eleven. We all sit around the pool and talk.
Jason, it turns out, played soccer in college and is still playing in a men’s league. I played soccer, too, a hundred years ago, so the two of us talk soccer for a while. The conversation switches to talk of work, and spring training, and March Madness.
A little after noon I say, “All right, we can get subs, soups, and salads right around the corner and bring them back here. Or we can walk over to Pizza al Fresco, great pizza.”
“Pizza always sounds good to Jason,” Samantha says. “Do they have salads and lighter stuff, too?”
“Great salads,” Pam says. “And maybe we could do a little shopping off Worth. There are some neat shops.”
The four of us are ambling down Worth towards lunch. As we pass by the Polo store, we can’t help but hear a guy in front who’s practically shouting into his cell phone. “No, no, NO! I said meet me at the Polo store in Palm Beach. NO. Palm Beach Gardens is not Palm Beach. Palm Beach Lakes, Palm Beach Shores, North Palm Beach, South Palm Beach, Royal Palm Beach, West Palm Beach have nothing to do with Palm Beach. There is only one frickin’ Palm Beach,” he barks, and snaps his phone shut.
After we’ve passed this guy, Samantha says, “He seemed a little intense.”
I laugh and say, “For sure. I think he told someone to meet him in front of the Polo store in Palm Beach and, whoever it was is now in front of the Polo store in Palm Beach Gardens up where Granna lives.”
The four of us walk across to Via Mizner and get a table in the courtyard. Pam orders the lobster salad, Samantha a chicken Caesar, I order an antipasto misto, and Jason orders a Hawaiian pizza.
I check the menu and say, “Jason, ham and pineapple? Real men don’t eat ham and pineapple on their pizzas. They eat stuff like pepperoni or sausage.”
Samantha rolls her eyes and says, “Dad.”
“You wait and see,” Jason says. “I’ll give you one piece and you’ll be begging for more.”
Pam is discussing some post-lunch shopping possibilities with Samantha, and Jason and I are talking basketball as our food arrives.
True to his word, Jason separates a piece of his pizza, hands it to me, and says, “Here, the first piece of your newest favorite pizza.”
I thank him and take a bite. The table is awaiting my reaction. I think about spitting it out and making a scene, but it’s quite good. “Not bad,” I say.
Jason turns his head and gives me a look. “Okay, it’s actually very good,” I say, “In fact, it’s great.”
After lunch, Pam suggests a couple of stores Samantha might like, and we cut them loose for the afternoon, a few hours to themselves. Pam goes off to her art class.
They meet us at Bice for dinner. When Samantha walks in decked out in a new dress she bought at Biba, I am speechless. This cannot be the little girl who played second base on an otherwise all-boy little league team, or the munchkin who used to shoot baskets sitting on my shoulders. She can’t even be that beautiful Tulane graduate smiling in her cap and gown.
The four of us have dinner and laugh and talk easily. Pam and I walk them back to The Chesterfield for a nightcap. Tomorrow they’ll have a day to themselves and then dinner with Samantha’s grand
mother. Saturday we will take them back to the airport. Tires permitting.
Saturday, March 27
This morning, we pick up Samantha and Jason at the Chesterfield and make the short drive to the airport. We say goodbye and drop them off.
I have the usual sort of sad feeling in my stomach, but somehow it’s different this time. Maybe because Samantha seems so happy, maybe because she’s not going home alone.
The sky is a brilliant blue, and the temperature is in the high seventies. Driving back with Pam, I say, “I like Jason.”
“So do I,” Pam says, “and so does Samantha. Did you see them together?”
“I did. It makes me very happy.”
“How about dropping the car off,” Pam says, “and having a quiet espresso and maybe a scone at Victors?”
“Sounds good.”
I drop the car at home, and Pam and I walk over to Victor’s. As we enter the courtyard, it’s filled with people and dogs in costume, again. Pam starts laughing. “So much for a quiet espresso.”
“Help me here,” I say. “Isn’t it March? It can’t be Halloween. What’s going on?”
What is going on is the annual Worth Avenue Pet Parade and Contest. Sherry, President of the Worth Avenue Association, is again the emcee.
Once again, we see dogs in pink tutus and in blue sequin dresses and dogs with nail polish to match the color of their outfits. One dog is dressed as Michael Jackson, another as the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. The courtyard is overflowing with people and pets in costume.
“I think once a year is enough,” I say. “Actually, once a year is more than enough.”
“I agree,” Pam says. “Let’s go home for an espresso.”
Wednesday, March 31
March is almost over, the winter people are mostly gone, and the spring breakers are back in class. The island has gone quiet again. We are sitting at the edge of our pool, dangling our feet in the water and talking.
Year in Palm Beach Page 16