Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  “A garden party?” I say. “You remember what happened to Ricky Nelson? Maybe we should take a pass.”

  “What about Ricky Nelson?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “The party is in Pan’s Garden,” Pam says.

  “Really? Eating and drinking and dancing in Pan’s Garden would be fun.”

  “We won’t know one person there,” Pam says, “but I don’t care. Do you?”

  “Please,” I say, “call these people up and tell them we’ll be there.”

  Saturday, May 15

  The newspapers didn’t make it to the driveway this morning. They’re out by the road. I sneak over to the hedge and peek both ways. The coast is clear, so I walk over and retrieve the papers. As I’m standing on the sidewalk in my boxers, looking down the street, holding the morning papers, I’m thinking, what a great street. What a great location. What a great hedge.

  I walk back inside, struck by how lucky we were to choose this place. We’re on a quiet, residential, tree-lined street, and everything we want to do day and night is only a short walk away. We’ve been here over eight months, and I just finally, really figured this out standing on the sidewalk in my underwear.

  After the papers and tea and biscotti, Pam and I walk to the ocean, head south, and soon find ourselves walking along the plywood sidewalks of Worth Avenue, which looks a little like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Pam stops to look at some leather purses in a window. “Every one of those purses you’re looking at is bigger than our carry-on luggage,” I say.

  “I don’t get it,” Pam says. “I’d never be able to find anything. If you asked me for Chap Stick, it could take five minutes of searching to dig it out.”

  “What about the white leather luggage over there?” I say. “Very practical. They’d be marked and battered after a flight or two.”

  “I don’t think so,” Pam says. “Those bags are never going to fly commercial.”

  “Of course,” I say. “The chauffer takes them from the Rolls directly to the jet.”

  We walk to the lake and then circle back onto Worth. In the distance I notice a group of people on the lawn just outside the Everglades Club dining room, all dressed in white.

  “I believe we have fallen through the looking glass once again,” I say to Pam. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a formal croquet match on the club lawn.”

  Sunday, May 16

  The front-page story in today’s Shiny Sheet is about a daring kitten rescue. It turns out this kitten wedged himself underneath the hood of Vic Damone’s Mercedes, which was parked in his driveway. His wife’s grandson Krystofer heard the kitty’s cries and called the police. A team from the Palm Beach Fire-Rescue Department arrived and, with Mr. Damone’s blessing, spent three hours dismantling the engine compartment to free up the kitty. The cat is alive and well and being cared for, and he is now named Crooner after Mr. Damone. As to the car, there is no mention of how it got back together.

  I read on. “You know that mansion they’re building way south of here, the one that looks like a French chateau?” I say to Pam.

  “Yeah,” she says. “The one we think some billionaire must be building.”

  “Well,” I say, “it’s not being built for anyone. It’s a spec house.”

  “A spec house,” Pam says. “Wow. How much is it?”

  “Don’t know yet, but I’ll give you some details. Nineteen thousand square feet of living space, eight bedrooms, five powder rooms….”

  Pam starts reading over my shoulder. The grand hall has his and her powder rooms and columned galleries, there’s a formal dining room with Marie Antoinette-patterned wood floors, Versailles-patterned floors are elsewhere, a five-car garage, a six-thousand-square-foot raised garden, a twelve-thousand-square-foot motor court, service parking for thirty-five cars (not guests, service people), a powder room for the gardener, a commercial-size elevator, and a two-thousand-bottle wine room, among other things.

  “A good starter house,” I say. “And here’s the asking price. It’s eighty-four million dollars.”

  Wednesday, May 19

  Pam and I are dining inside at Bice tonight with George Hamilton and his young son. Well, not exactly. George and his son are about three tables away. We are talking and finishing dinner when I notice a woman at another table staring at us, smiling. She gets up and walks toward us. Then I whisper, “Uh-oh.” This woman, cocktail in hand, is now standing at our table.

  “I met you in Winter Park,” she says. We look at each other. We look back at her and smile. I stand and introduce myself and Pam.

  “I know. You are the island people, the romance people,” she says. “You signed your books for me. You remember. I was with my daughter, Kimmie.”

  This woman, who is definitely not holding her first cocktail of the evening, was apparently at a book signing of ours at a Barnes and Noble in Winter Park almost two years ago with her daughter Kimmie.

  “Of course, Winter Park. Nice to see you again,” Pam says.

  “Well, Kimmie is getting married, and she and her husband can’t decide where to go for their honeymoon.”

  “Oh, I think I remember Kimmie,” I say. Well, maybe not. “Where are they thinking of going?”

  Kimmie’s mother drops some resort names and some vowels and may drop her drink at any moment.

  “Caneel Bay, Little Dix Bay, and Peter Island are all elegant choices for a honeymoon,” Pam says. “If they want to be isolated and swim and hike, maybe Peter Island. If they want to dance every night, perhaps Little Dix, and if they want a choice of seven beaches, then Caneel.”

  “Thank you. Thank you,” she slurs. “Kimmie won’t believe this. Can I buy you two a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I assure her, “but it is great seeing you again. Please give our best to Kimmie.”

  We do not get recognized very often and when we do it isn’t a problem. I am amused that if we were really famous, Kimmie’s mom would probably not have come over to our table. I mean, there are a hundred people in the restaurant who know George Hamilton is here. No one approaches him. There is only one person who knows us.

  If you’re really a celebrity in Palm Beach, everyone respects your privacy.

  Thursday, May 20

  The multi-million-dollar renovation of Worth Avenue continues, and the whole scene is a bit surreal. Many sidewalks have been replaced with plywood, there are pipes and pumps everywhere. Despite the usual chaos, when the jackhammers and bulldozers are resting, it is actually quiet, no yelling, no radios. All the workers are deferential and polite.

  Pam says, “They must have sent all these construction workers to those Munchkin Manners classes.”

  “There’re no radios playing, no one is yelling. Where do they find these guys?”

  “I don’t know,” Pam says, “but it’s quintessentially Palm Beach.”

  Wednesday, May 26

  In a disturbing development, the Shiny Sheet reports that a West Palm Beach man has been arrested for scuffling. First we had rummaging, now scuffling. What’s next?

  After dinner at home tonight, I suggest a walk to The Chesterfield to listen to Adam and have a dance or two. As we’re going in the Leopard Lounge, Pam decides to stop in the ladies’ room. I say I’ll go find us a couple of seats at the bar. There are two seats on the right side of the bar next to a woman of a certain age. I walk down, nod to the seats, and say, “Pardon me, are these taken?”

  “No, they’re yours,” she says. “Are you taken?”

  I smile. “Yes. Quite. My wife just stopped in the ladies’ room.”

  “Well, too bad, but you don’t have the bulge anyway,” she says.

  Don’t have the bulge? I’m thinking I should grab my stuff the way Travolta does at the beginning of the movie Basic, but I’m an adult. I just smile.

  Then she says, “What kind of watch is that, anyway?”

  I look at my watch and say, “It’s a Skagen.”

  “Too skinny,” she says. “To get t
he bulge you need a big Rolex or a Piaget. That’s what the ladies are looking for in here.”

  Mercifully, Pamela arrives, and my new friend drifts off in search of the bulge.

  Friday, May 27

  I’ve been looking forward to or at least curious about the garden party, and tonight’s the night. The gates we usually use to get into Pan’s Garden are locked, so we follow some other people into The Preservation Foundation of Palm Beach building, through the library, and out to the garden.

  The sounds of people quietly talking mingle with the clinking of glasses and soft music. People are gathered in small groups. Women are in dresses, most men in jackets. It’s uncrowded and peaceful. A waiter appears out of nowhere, takes our order, and is back with our drinks in seconds.

  “I already like this,” I say. “I see at least three bars and waiters are everywhere, carrying drinks and plates of hors d’oeuvres.”

  “I don’t think we’ll starve or die of thirst,” Pam says. “It’s beautiful here at night.”

  “I agree. Especially since people are bringing us drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”

  Dance music is playing now, and the buffet and tables are set. Some guests have started eating. Pam and I wander about talking and keeping to ourselves. These are the same paths we walk along during the day. But the night sky, the night sounds transform Pan’s Garden into a romantic, moonlit hideaway.

  We have a few dances, and Pam says, “Want to join the two couples at that table?”

  “Eat with strangers?” I say. “Are you crazy?”

  We join the two couples. One is perhaps a few years older than we are and the other, quite a bit younger. The older couple has flown down from New York for this party. I get the impression it was their own plane and wonder if perhaps they have white luggage. The younger couple has been in Palm Beach since Christmas but will be going to Newport in a few days until next Christmas. Both couples seem fascinated, or horrified, that we will be summering in Palm Beach.

  We get food from the buffet and eat with our new friends, have a dance or two, and just relax for a while. After coffee and another dance Pam and I decide it is time to go. As we start to walk home, Pam says, “I definitely want to do that again next year.”

  “Pamela,” I say, “you are losing it. We’re not going to be here next year.”

  “I know,” Pam says. “But it’s a nice thought.”

  We continue walking. It’s a little after midnight, and there’s no traffic, no other pedestrians. We slowly amble along in the darkness, enjoying the soft balmy air, the aroma of jasmine, and having the town all to ourselves.

  I’m asking Pam how her knee is doing when suddenly, maybe ten feet in front of us, a man pokes his head around a hedge and calls out, “Hello.”

  I put my arm out in front of Pam.

  “Hello?” I say. “You startled us a bit.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but please, can you do me a favor? Can you come into the house and help me?”

  I’m looking at this guy. He’s got a beard, he’s smiling, he’s not very tall, and unless he has a gun in his waistband, I don’t think he is much of a threat.

  “Talk to me,” I say. “What’s the problem?” I walk a little closer. Pam is behind me now.

  The man says, “Can you turn off a light in the bathroom for me? There is water leaking into the fixture.”

  I look around. “Are we on television or something?” I ask. “Turn off a light switch?” Then I get it. I look at my watch. “It’s your Sabbath, right?”

  “Yes, thank you for understanding,” he says. “Will you help?”

  “Of course we will,” Pam says.

  I look at Pam and then at this guy. “Are you in your pajamas?” I say to him.

  He laughs. “Yes, I’m sorry. My wife and I were about to go to sleep when I discovered the leak.”

  “Are you a rabbi?” I say.

  “Soon, I hope,” he says.

  We follow him through a hallway and on toward the bathroom. Sure enough, water is leaking into a ceiling fixture. I switch off the light.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” this guy in his pajamas says. “I was worried for my family.”

  His wife appears out of nowhere and she thanks us, too. She takes Pam’s hand, and thanks us again. “Please,” she says, “come and share some food with us.”

  “Thank you, but no. It’s late,” Pam says.

  “You must stay,” she says.

  “We really can’t,” I say, “but we’re glad we could help.”

  Walking home, I’m going through some of the other unexpected encounters Pam and I have had since moving to Palm Beach.

  Pam turns and says, “Have you heard the one about the rabbi, the light switch, and the weird walking couple?”

  Saturday, May 29

  I make us a lunch of Pameleggs. Pam gets some pasta for the birds. When we are settled at the table, Pam says, “Last night, the garden party, that was a turning point for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “When we first moved down here, I felt like we were outsiders. We were only renters, only here for a year. I felt intimidated in certain ways.”

  “The red-headed stepchild, you mean?”

  “I guess,” Pam says, “but now I feel like we belong here. “That’s because we do belong here,” I say.

  Monday, May 31

  Pam and I are hitting some tennis balls at the Seaview courts. We’re the only people here. We finish playing and walk to the lake and then back to the cottage. We almost always take the long way home.

  “Is that a note?” Pam says and points to our front door.

  “Looks like it. Maybe it’s from that plumber,” I say.

  “Very funny, but who do you think it could really be from?”

  I reach and take the note off the door. “It’s from someone named Timothy who says he used to live in this house. He missed us today, but he’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “He’s the one who’s been getting all those AARP and Medicare mailings sent here,” Pam says.

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Pam says.

  thirteen

  “CHARDONNAY, AND A BOWL OF CHILLED

  EVIAN FOR MY PUPPY, PLEASE.”

  Tuesday, June 1

  This morning Dick and I walk to the beach with newspapers and cups of espresso. The day is slightly cloudy, and a cool breeze is coming off the water. The sound of the construction on Worth Avenue, the jackhammers, the beeping of trucks backing up, mingles with the lapping of the waves. Dick starts reading The Wall Street Journal. I look at Sunday’s Shiny Sheet, which neither of us got around to reading.

  “A man told police he left his twelve hundred dollar watch on his beach towel while he went for a long swim,” I say. “When he came back, the watch was gone. Wouldn’t you think he’d at least hide the watch in his towel?”

  “He should have sprung for that waterproof one,” Dick says, “the one that guy said cost more than his Ferrari.”

  I go back to reading and see an ad for pre-owned Bentleys. One only has 112 miles on it. Another, 128 miles. Another, 213 miles. I ask Dick who would drive a car so little.

  “Maybe someone with ten cars,” Dick says. “Or maybe someone like us.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “And here, it says Amici is closing this week.”

  “Well, we knew it was closing soon,” Dick says. “Maurizio’s opening that gourmet market.”

  “So our closest neighborhood bar and restaurant bites the dust. And Worth Avenue is all torn up. Funny this all happens the year we choose to live here. It feels like our Palm Beach is dissolving around us.”

  “I’ll miss Amici,” Dick says. He looks at his watch. “We’d better go back.” We head home and go to work, me to the bird’s room, Dick to the yellow room, which still doubles on and off as Dick’s office. He commandeered it in March, just to finish up one project, but now, whenever we both have a lot of work, he hijacks the ye
llow room. It keeps us both sane.

  Several hours go by. The doorbell rings. Dick gets there first and opens the door to a large man in a T-shirt and shorts with bare feet.

  The man smiles and says, “Hello. I’m Timothy. I used to live here.”

  Dick says, “Timothy. Your mail still comes here. I think I know how old you are.”

  “I get those mailings at home, too.” Timothy laughs. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I wonder if you’d let me take a look around. I have such fond memories of my time here.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Come in.”

  He walks into the living room. “This room was white,” he says. “There was a beautiful mural painted on the ceiling. What a time we used to have.”

  “We?” Dick says.

  “The woman who owned the house was quite elderly, but she liked to have houseguests. And loved to entertain.” Timothy walks into the yellow room. “Yep, the bar’s still here.” He steps over to a set of small yellow doors built into the wall and opens them to reveal our bar. “Every afternoon at five o’clock, she’d throw open these doors and announce to her houseguests, and whoever else was around, that it was officially martini time. People would come and go late into the night. It was wild.”

  Timothy turns around. “Is that little room still there, past the kitchen?” he says.

  “Sort of,” I say. “We turned the shower into a storage area and keep clothes and our printers in there. Come see.”

  Timothy follows us through the kitchen. “You won’t believe this, but the maid slept here,” he says. “And that was her bathroom.”

  “This was her entire living space?” I say. “Was she little?”

  “Not particularly,” Timothy says. “The owner was of that generation when everyone had a maid, no matter what.” Timothy laughs. “I can’t remember the maid’s name, but she was on the phone all day. She’d come out at meal time, cook breakfast, lunch, or dinner for whoever was around, and then come back in here and get back on the phone.”

  “Want to see the guest cottage?” I say.

  “Definitely,” he says. “That’s where I usually stayed.” We walk outside for a look at the guest cottage, and a man about half the size of Timothy comes around the side of the house. He has bare feet, too, and he has no shirt on.