Year in Palm Beach

by Acheson, Pamela

  “I’m with Timothy,” he says. “I’ve been at the beach.”

  “No shirt, no shoes, no service,” Dick says. The guy looks at Dick strangely.

  “He’s just kidding,” I say. “Come join the tour.” We take them through the guest cottage and back through the main cottage while Timothy reminisces about the good old days. They invite us to lunch, but Dick and I have deadlines and must decline. As Dick closes the door, I hear Timothy say, “Let’s walk over to Worth Avenue to eat.”

  “They’re going to be surprised when they get to Worth,” I say. “Much of it’s mud and boards.”

  Dick says, “Where on Worth Avenue do you think they can have lunch barefoot?”

  Wednesday, June 2

  The daytime weather has changed from warm to hot. In the evenings we switch from bumper pool to the swimming pool for cocktail hour, and we almost always sleep with air conditioning at night.

  “A frozen drink, to celebrate June?” Dick asks. It’s seven o’clock and very warm outside.

  “Sounds delightful,” I say.

  He puts rum, fresh blueberries, frozen strawberries, and lots of ice into the heavy glass pitcher of our retro Waring blender, runs it for a couple of minutes, then fills two glasses to the brim.

  We walk outside and dangle our feet in the pool. I slide into the warm water, Dick follows. We stand in the pool, leaning against the rim. I look at the doves, lined up on the cottage roof, not ready for bed yet. The hibiscus bushes around the pool are covered with red, yellow, pink, and orange blossoms. At the far end, the geraniums are bright red. Up above is a square of sky framed by treetops, blue and cloudless. I love this pool, love how private it is.

  “This is the last quarter of our year in Palm Beach,” Dick says. “The tenth month.”

  “It’s going so fast. Remember when we worried we’d get tired of this town if we moved here?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Actually, I think I like the town even more.”

  “I’m certainly not tired of anything we do here,” I say.

  “You mean you’re not sick of dancing with me?”

  “I’ll never be sick of dancing with you,” I say. “We’ve danced here more than we ever have in our life, and yet, if a few days go by without dancing, I miss it.” I think of the restaurants we go to for dinner, of staying home and grilling, of the cabaret, of lunch at home and out. I think of the gardens and parks and the lake and the beach. How could I get tired of any of this?

  “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” I say. “It’s like nothing’s missing.”

  “I feel the same way,” Dick says. “Funny, isn’t it? To be so content even though this cottage still makes us crazy. And even though Worth Avenue is being torn up.”

  “Also, since we’re here for just a year,” I say, “I’m probably not paying attention to things I would miss long term. Like our Jacuzzi tub and double shower in New Smyrna. Or our pool table.”

  “Or doors wide enough that we don’t bang our elbows,” Dick says. “And driving.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I miss driving, too. Or think I do, anyway, when I get in a car. But most of the time, somehow, I completely forget about it.”

  “It won’t be long before we have our old life back,” Dick says.

  Thursday, June 3

  I’m asleep, having a nightmare. I’m in a thick forest of tall pine trees, and a giant bulldozer is slowly, relentlessly coming toward me, crushing everything in its way. Broken branches and chips of bark are flying. The noise is terrifying. Frightened, I wake up, but the noise is still there. I sleepily wonder if the town’s tearing up our street as well as Worth Avenue. I see Dick getting out of bed.

  “What’s that noise?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” Dick says, “I’m still half asleep. I’m going to look.” He walks out of the bedroom. I get out of bed, grab my robe, and follow him to the front door. The noise keeps getting louder. We both walk out to the sidewalk to see what could possibly be happening.

  “Chainsaws,” Dick says. “An army of them.”

  At the far end of the street a bunch of men are busy with power saws, making their way closer to us as they trim the palm trees. A Town of Palm Beach maintenance truck pulls up in front of our house, and a guy gets out.

  “What’s going on?” Dick says.

  “It’s June,” he says. “Beginning of the hurricane season. We’re giving a hurricane cut to all the palm trees on the streets.” He points to a big frond. “See that,” he says. “A big wind knocks that off, you got a dangerous weapon blowing about.”

  “Oh,” I say, looking at the fronds. I’ll probably see them a little differently from now on.

  My art class is today. I’m copying another Georgia O’Keefe painting, Calla Lilly on Grey. I work on it at home, too, in the guest cottage, where I have taken over a corner and set up an easel and my paints. I learn a lot by copying: how to mix the right colors, and how to see what is there on the canvas. While we’re painting, our teacher, Harlan, often reads us things artists have written or said as he walks around looking at our work, giving each of us helpful advice.

  I am learning a lot but wonder if I’m hiding behind this copying business, afraid to try my hand at something original or abstract. The other students seem comfortable putting paint on canvas, seeing where it will lead. But Harlan is patient with me and excellent at pointing out exactly what I am missing as I try to copy the O’Keefe painting.

  Tonight we stop at Taboo for a drink. We walk in the back way, to avoid the Worth Avenue construction. A big guy, maybe six foot six, two-sixty, is sitting at the bar several seats away. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and intricately-detailed leather cowboy boots. Two young women are sitting near him. He strikes up a conversation. One of the women asks, “What is it you do?”

  He slowly drawls, in a very thick Texas accent, “Ahm in oaul an gas.”

  Then he invites both women to come with him “to hear ole Davey at the pie-anne-o bar at La Ropa.” Perhaps that’s Texan for “listen to David play the piano at Café L’Europe.”

  Sunday, June 6

  Now that Worth Avenue is being torn up, we spend most of our walking time on the residential streets and only go to Worth to check on the progress being made. The mess is monumental, and sometimes the noise is unbearable, but the construction process is actually interesting. Huge pipes run under the road and they are all being replaced. Much of the sidewalk is now a labyrinth of boards over dirt and mud.

  I see workmen installing hurricane shutters on our walk today. Hurricane season is June through November. We’ll be here for half of it. I hope we don’t have to evacuate. One year, we spent what felt like half the fall packing the car and running from storms.

  One time, the hurricane followed us inland, and we spent three nights at the Lakeside Inn in Mount Dora without electricity. The first night we huddled in our room with Duckie and Blanco, reading with flashlights, trees crashing down outside. The next two days, we walked over fallen limbs to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the Lakeside Inn’s restaurant, which luckily had a gas stove. The meal choices were simple because the hotel was running out of food, but at night the dining room was lit only by small candles and was quite dark and romantic.

  “Palm Beach is beginning to feel as empty as last September,” Dick says. “Maybe by August we’ll be the only people left here.”

  Our walk takes us by Bethesda-by-the-Sea. A parade of bagpipers comes marching out the entrance, followed by a bride and groom.

  “Our anniversary’s soon,” I say. “Want to go away for a few days?”

  “Absolutely,” Dick says. “But right now we need lunch. It’s after two.”

  We walk to Pizza al Fresco and sit outside in the courtyard. The table’s umbrella provides welcome shade. I’m thoroughly enjoying the lobster salad, which I could easily eat every day. My husband the sausage lover is working his way through a sausage pizza. A woman with a white miniature poodle cuddled
in her arm is at the table next to us. A waitress comes over and asks her what she’d like to drink.

  “A glass of chardonnay,” she says, “and a bowl of chilled Evian for my puppy.” The waitress walks off.

  “Did you hear that?” I say.

  “Look behind you,” Dick says.

  I look and see two other dogs have bowls of water. I wonder if it’s tap water or bottled, chilled or room temperature. Sometimes I think everyone in Palm Beach owns a tiny dog and they all travel in carriages and strollers and wear little bows. There’s a full-service spa here just for dogs, with a spa menu that includes mud wraps and massages.

  “I still can’t get used to seeing dogs in stores,” I say. “I’ll be in Saks, trying on shoes, and the woman next to me will have a dog in her purse or on a leash.”

  “I can’t get used to the dogs in the driver’s seats of cars,” Dick says. “Sometimes it looks like a dog is driving.”

  “Well, sometimes you’re right,” I say.

  Wednesday, June 9

  The town of Palm Beach has many regulations for contractors. Construction is monitored, and sites must be kept as acceptable-looking as possible. The other day I walked by a two-story office building, looked in a window, and was astonished to see nothing but rubble on the other side. Workmen were busy hauling it away. The building had been secretly demolished, except for the front wall, which stood like a Hollywood set.

  The next day, workmen tore down the façade and hauled it away. The day after that, a sprinkler system was installed, and workmen were laying sod and planting a four-foot hedge around the perimeter of the property. The next day it was a grassy vacant lot surrounded by a hedge. Building to grassy lot in four days.

  Saturday, June 12

  Caroline and Pete, friends of ours who live in Winter Park, Florida arrive early this morning. They’ve never been to Palm Beach and know our year is about up and want to visit. Actually, they’re golf nuts and the real reason they’re here is they want to play the Palm Beach public golf course, which they’ve told us is one of the best in the country. We don’t know. We’re cured. They drop off their stuff and continue on to the course. They return in the afternoon, and we take a walk. They can’t stop talking about their golf experience.

  “Yes, it’s a par three, but what a par three,” Pete says. “The holes are right on the ocean and the lake.”

  “They’re stunning,” Caroline says. “You guys have to start playing again. Well, maybe not here, though. Guess you move back pretty soon?”

  “That seems to be the plan,” Dick says.

  We’ve been zigzagging along tree-lined residential streets. “A lot of these houses look closed up,” Caroline says. “People don’t live here in the summer?”

  “Well, some do,” I say. “But lots of people go to Nantucket or Newport. And some of the people who own these houses only come here for February.”

  “Oh,” Caroline says. “Let’s walk to the beach. I haven’t walked on sand in a long time.”

  “It might be crowded,” I say.

  “How could it be?” Caroline says. “You said nobody lives here now.”

  “People from the mainland come over for the day,” I say.

  The four of us walk over to the beach, and it is indeed quite crowded.

  We skip the beach and walk over to Worth Avenue, where road graders and jackhammers and thick streams of water gushing out of pipes contrast oddly with the elegant window displays of Ferragamo and Neiman Marcus and Max Mara and Escada.

  “What in the hell’s going on here?” Pete says.

  “Oh, my,” Caroline says. “This isn’t what I imagined Worth Avenue to be.”

  “They’re redoing the avenue,” Dick says. “New street, new sidewalks, replacing all the palm trees, all the planting.”

  We pick our way carefully along the makeshift boards that serve as Worth Avenue’s sidewalk, but Caroline and Pete soon tire of the mud and the mess and we head home to shower and dress. Over cocktails around the pool, the golf talk takes over again and continues through our dinner at Café Boulud. We go the long way home, walking beside the now-empty beach.

  As Caroline and Pete walk out to the guest cottage, Pete says, “Great evening. Can’t wait to get back on the course tomorrow.”

  Dick and I look at each other.

  Caroline laughs. “Don’t worry, we’re not staying. We have to drive home right after we play.”

  Sunday, June 13

  Caroline, Pete, Dick and I are sitting out by the pool, reading sections of the morning papers. We’re sipping espressos and munching on apples slices and biscotti. Pete has the Shiny Sheet.

  “Dick,” Pete says. “This says they’re going to close South Ocean Boulevard, that’s the road by the beach, right?”

  “Right,” Dick says.

  “Well, they’re going to close it for a bunch of days in July and August, so two different homeowners can build tunnels to the beach. Tunnels?”

  “South Ocean cuts through some peoples’ property,” I say. “Most of the property’s on the west side of the road. That’s where they build their mansions. But some of the property’s on the east side. That’s the beachfront part. The tunnel connects the two.”

  “That must cost a fortune,” Pete says.

  “Some people like their privacy,” Dick says.

  “Sounds like conspicuous consumption to me,” Caroline says.

  “Well, inconspicuous consumption,” Dick says.

  Caroline looks at Pete. “Honey, we’ve got to go if we want to do the par-three again and get home.”

  We walk them to the car and get back to our papers.

  “Another espresso?”

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I’ll get Duckie and Blanco.”

  He takes my little cup, and after a few minutes, returns with a refill for both of us.

  “Our anniversary’s getting closer,” I say. “Any ideas?”

  “I can’t decide between beach and city,” Dick says. “I was thinking of Anguilla. Or maybe San Francisco.”

  “Gee, I’d love to go to San Francisco, stay at The Huntington,” I say. “I love walking those hills. Maybe we could get tickets to a Giants game. But Anguilla sounds good, too.”

  “So,” Dick says, “which one?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s think about it.”

  Monday, June 14

  Dick and I are working on separate projects and don’t have time to stop for lunch. We barely speak all day. Dick pokes his head into the office around six.

  “Want to go to wine night?” he says.

  “Did I just work for three days straight?” I say. “Café L’Europe’s wine night is Wednesday, not Monday.”

  “You’re right,” Dick says. “But I saw in the Shiny Sheet yesterday that Café Boulud is starting a bring-your-own-wine night on Mondays. I just looked in our wine rack. There’s a nice bottle of Brunello di Montalcino.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I say.

  We shower, change into something dressy, walk over.

  “I feel a little funny carrying a bottle of wine into Café Boulud,” I say as we walk in.

  “Well, no one else seems to,” Dick says. “Look.” Several couples ahead of us are all carrying wine bottles.

  “The restaurant’s full tonight,” I say.

  “Quite a crowd for a Monday in June,” Dick says.

  We find two seats at the little bar. Martial, the maitre d’ tonight, who we’ve heard was banned from France for breaking too many hearts, comes over and says he’ll have a table for us in about twenty minutes. Just then, a party of six with reservations arrives, and Martial turns to seat them.

  “Those people are serious wine drinkers,” Dick says. “Looks like they’ve got nine bottles of wine.” He studies their bottles. “Three whites, five reds, and a dessert wine of some kind.”

  Eventually, Martial leads us to a romantic window table. Outside, fronds glisten with light from the full moon. Mariya, the sommelier, co
mes over to the table and opens our bottle of Brunello. We order dinner.

  “We never got back to what to do for our anniversary,” Dick says.

  “No, we didn’t,” I say. “But I’ve been thinking…” I trail off.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, this is kind of crazy, but what if we spent our anniversary in Palm Beach. At The Chesterfield. We’ve done it for the past three years and had a great time. We’ll just stay the weekend, two nights.”

  Dick looks at me for a minute. “Well,” he says, “aren’t you Mrs. Brilliant? I’ve been dreading the thought of airport lines and going through security.”

  “So I’ll call The Chesterfield in the morning,” I say. “See if they have room.”

  We take the long way home to walk by the beach and end up sitting on a bench for quite a while, listening to the waves, looking at the stars, and watching several lightning shows out on the horizon.

  Tuesday, June 15

  I call The Chesterfield. They have a special two-night package, so I reserve for the weekend. As I’m hanging up, an e-mail comes into my computer. I assume it’s The Chesterfield confirming, but instead it’s from our landlords. I read it and go find Dick. “We got an e-mail from our landlords,” I say. “They’re not coming to Palm Beach this summer. We won’t see them again.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dick says. “I like them.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “Their e-mail was nice. It said if we change our minds and want to stay here longer, we’re definitely more than welcome.”

  Sunday, June 20

  For the first time ever, we walked home from an anniversary escape. Even though we were just a few blocks from our cottage, I felt as if we were miles away. And even though we went to Taboo and Renato’s and Bice and The Chesterfield, I still kind of felt like a tourist. And it was so pleasant not to end the trip with airport security lines and hours on a cramped airplane.

  We traditionally go out the night we return from a trip, so tonight we start with drinks at Taboo, which is funny to me, since we were just there last night while away on our “trip.” The bar is fairly crowded. A couple sitting next to us is chatting with Bobby, telling him they’re headed off to Paris tomorrow for their fifth wedding anniversary.