Year in Palm Beach (27 page)

“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 yellow 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.

“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?”