Year in Palm Beach (3 page)

“No, no, no, I'm doing this,” Henry says. “Besides, I want to check on our sleeping quarters. Don't think we won't be regular visitors down there.”

Michele says, “I want to come, too. I want to see the cottage, see just how crazy you guys are.”

Driving home, Dick says, “We can't let them do that.”

“I'm not sure we can stop them,” I say.

The next several weeks are a blur. Days are divided into working time and packing and planning for the move. The lease comes in the mail, and we both sign it. Because Alex is showing the house to renters, we have to keep everything neat. I pile things that we're taking by the front door, and Dick takes the stuff to the garage and packs it up.

We go to the dentist and the doctor, get haircuts, have the cockatiels clipped. We don't have these connections in Palm Beach and we suspect everything will be much more expensive there. We get up earlier to write and stay up later to pack. It's hectic, but I feel excited, like a little kid, and Dick says he does, too. One morning, Dick answers the phone, and it's the miracle call from Alex. A couple wants our house for ten months. Close enough. The days speed past.

Two days before we're destined to leave, Henry drops his truck off, and by late afternoon on the last day of August, the truck is packed. In the early evening, Henry and Michele arrive. They're going to spend the night here so we can get an early start. They want to get back tomorrow before their restaurant opens.

“Let's go to the double deck,” Dick says. He hands Henry two chilled beer mugs. “If you would fill these, I'll carry the champagne for the ladies.” He picks up the ice bucket. Henry goes to the kegerator.

“What can I do?” Michele says.

“Just get two champagne glasses,” I say. She reaches into the cupboard, and I pick up a plate of cheese and crackers. We all walk out to the end of the property and up to the second floor of our two-story open deck. It looks out over thousands of acres of wetlands.

We settle in chairs. Dick pours Michelle and me champagne, and then we all raise our glasses.

“Sim Sala Bim.”

The sun is setting. The owl that lives in one of our oak trees swoops out over the marshes in search of dinner.

“So, Henry,” Dick says, “I need another favor.”

“Uh-uh, I just helped you fill the truck. Tomorrow's drive is it,” Henry says.

“I need you to watch over my kegerator. I can't let strangers use it.”

“I guess I can do that,” Henry says. “But once I put in a Heineken keg, it's never going back to Miller Light.”

“Mmm, cold beer on tap at our house. Sounds good,” Michele says.

“We'll pick it up tomorrow, on the return trip,” Henry says.

“So, tomorrow's the day,” Michele says to me. “Are you still excited?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And scared.”

“You mean good scared, right?” Michele says.

“Yeah. It's fun to be scared like this. But we're going to miss you guys.”

“We're going to miss you. But we'll be down,” Michele says.

We're all silent for a few minutes, looking out at the view. A great blue heron takes off from the marshy grasses. We watch the bird fly up, propelled by its huge wings. The bird makes an improbable landing in a mangrove bush.

“Won't you guys miss this?” Michele says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But we'll be back.”

“And our renters can enjoy it in the meantime,” says Dick.

After an hour or so, we walk back to the house, grill dinner out by the pool, then linger at the table, talking.

“One last game of pool before you guys go,” Henry says.

“Partner, you want to risk it?” Dick says to Michele. “We're the champs.”

“No,” Henry says, “your wife and I are the champs. Pam and I always win. At least that's how I remember it.”

“I'm willing to risk it,” Michele says.

“You guys obviously are mixing things up,” I say. “But Henry and I will put our championship on the line.”

“Doesn't matter,” Dick says. “Whatever team wins tonight is the champ for the next year.”

Henry opens another bottle of wine and sets up the balls. After six games, we're tied. “This is it,” says Dick, as we start the seventh game. It's a heated battle but Dick and Michele win. Dick looks at his watch. “Good thing you guys came over so we could get an early start,” he says. “It's almost two. We're supposed to be on the road in five hours.”

Tuesday, September 1

It's eight o'clock, and although the four of us are moving slowly, we're actually ready to go. I'm closing up Henry's truck, and Pam is closing up the house. The four-year-old Audi is full, and our Corvette is stuffed from stem to stern. We aren't the Beverly Hillbillies, exactly, but pretty close. No chickens or goats in the car, but the two cockatiels, Duckie and Blanco, are in their cage wedged somewhere in the backseat of the Audi.

Henry and Michele drive the truck. I drive the overstuffed Audi, Pam the Corvette filled with file folders. The three-hour drive, usually a blip, seems to be taking forever. I'm like a kid. I want to know, “Are we there yet?” Finally, our caravan pulls off I-95 and heads east toward the island. Then, just as we're about to cross over the Intracoastal Waterway, the light turns red and the drawbridge goes up.

While we're waiting, I'm thinking the town fathers (and mothers) will have to let the Audi over the bridge, and I'm pretty sure they have to let Henry's truck over, but the Corvette? Very un-Palm Beach, very déclassé. Palm Beach is home to expensive, exotic Italian, German, and English automobiles, not two-seater drop tops made by Chevrolet.

I have visions of Pam crossing the bridge and being pulled over by the police. “Madam, please, we can't have people bringing Corvettes onto The Island. What would be next? Dodge Vipers?”

Finally, the drawbridge is back down and the light turns green. All three vehicles, even the Corvette, make it over the bridge, on to South Ocean Boulevard and to the cottage.

Henry parks the truck on the street in front, and Pam and I pull the two cars into the narrow driveway. The keys are in the mailbox as promised. The four of us have been unloading for about forty minutes when a blue and white Palm Beach police cruiser pulls up behind the truck.

“That was quick,” Henry says.

A rather large police officer unfolds himself from the driver's side. Here to impound the Corvette? Ticket the moving truck? Send us back over the bridge where we belong?

“This your truck?”

“Yes, officer. Well, actually it's his,” I say, and nod toward Henry.

The officer looks at Henry and then says to me, “You moving into this house?”

“Yes, sir, that's the plan. Is there a problem?”

He smiles and says, “No problem. It's a cool house; hope you enjoy it.” He hands me his card, says to call if we ever need him.

As he is starting to leave, he turns around and says, “Sweet looking 'Vette.”

Henry's truck is empty in about an hour, and Henry and Michele have to leave.

“We're out of here,” Henry says, “but if you can find out what drug the guy was on who painted the inside of this place, let me know. Those colors are wild. And if that giant cop gives you any trouble, don't call me.”

As they're getting into the truck, Michele says, “I see what you mean about the size. Your living room in New Smyrna is probably the same size as this whole cottage. But you guys will make it work. You're going to have fun.”

Pam and I hug and thank them, and as they are pulling away, Henry yells out the window, “We'll be back to haunt you, probably in about six weeks.”

Pam looks at me and says, “To quote Joyce, ‘Friends, like food and beauty, are essential.'” Joyce, one of Pam's closest and dearest friends, recently died, and I know Pam misses her. I do, too.

I look at my watch, and it's way past lunchtime. “I'm starving,” I say. “I'm going out to look for some food. If I'm not back in a day or two, call that cop we just met.”

Just a few blocks from the cottage I discover Sandwiches by the Sea. I want everything on the menu. They've got chili, white bean soup, homemade chicken salad, meatball subs, hot pastrami, Italian combos. I'm thinking meatball here, but remember I'm splitting it with Pam. She's not big on meatballs, so I settle on a turkey sub with Swiss and coleslaw and some white bean soup to go.

On the way back, I pass Scotti's Liquor store (nice to have neighbors) and stop in to pick up a few essentials and I meet Joe and Vinnie and John. As I'm turning into the yard, loaded down with several brown bags, Pam is by the front door.

“I'm back with soup and a sub,” I say, “and some grapefruit juice, a wedge of cheddar cheese, crackers, two sixes of beer, and a bottle of Chianti Classico, all the essentials.”

Pam comes over and takes two of the bags and gives me a kiss. “Well, maybe not all the essentials, but a good start.”

Later, as evening approaches, I remember our bed is supposed to be delivered this afternoon. We called and ordered it when we were back in New Smyrna, and the store promised it would be delivered to the cottage today. Promised. I'm about to find Pam and share the bedless bad news when the doorbell rings. Yes, it's the Bed Man.

He carries everything into our bedroom and goes to work. This is quite obviously not his first day on the job. This man knows exactly what he is doing, and it looks like he is doing it in fast forward. Bed Man bolts the frame together, lifts the mattress on to the frame, and leaves—bolts, lifts, and leaves, in about twenty minutes.

It is definitely time to put the birds to bed, shower, and have a nice night. The boxes, cartons, and mess will still be there for us in the morning.

As she is drying her hair, Pam says, “What do you want to do for our first date? We can easily walk to over ten different restaurants and ten bars.”

“Ten?” I say. “I could maybe do nine. Well, maybe six. Actually, it's been a long day. How about a drink at Taboo, dinner at Renato's, and if we're still standing, a dance at The Chesterfield?”

“Perhaps ambitious, but perfect. Taboo, Renato's, and the Chesterfield's Leopard Lounge,” Pam says.

The truth is, I'm feeling a little disoriented. The bathroom seems weird, I'm getting dressed in a bedroom I've never slept in, and Pam is drying her hair in front of a tiny mirror.

But outside, it is a breezy, summery evening, and the streets are quiet. Pam looks beautiful in a blue dress and high-heeled sandals. We walk hand in hand along Worth Avenue, and when we get to Taboo things seem normal again.

Taboo is what a bar should be. It's classy, dark, and long. It feels like you could settle in here. There's a large tank of tropical fish in the middle of the back wall. Two small, silent televisions are discreetly built in at each end, and the Yankees are up by two in the fourth. Bobby, a bartender's bartender and world traveler, is working tonight. Over the years, the three of us have shared many stories about our trips around the U.S. and various Caribbean islands.

“Dick, Pam, you guys back already?” he asks.

“Should we leave?”

He laughs. “No, but weren't you two down just last month?”

Pam recounts the story of our madcap move and warns, “You'll be sick of us in no time.”

“Never,” Bobby says.

“We'll see. It's going to be a test,” I say.

We finish our drinks, say goodbye, and walk along Worth Avenue to Renato's. The maître d', Brad, all six feet five of him, is by the door, elegant as always in a double-breasted pinstriped suit. Luciano, Renato's longtime captain, is next to him. Luciano began his life in the restaurant business at a very young age, serving cocktails to Princess Grace in Monaco. He speaks Italian, Portuguese, French, Spanish, German, and English.

“Mr. and Mrs. Myers, back so soon?” Brad says.

“You're stuck with us for a year. We've rented a cottage on the island,” I say.

“Then please allow me to buy libations to welcome Palm Beach's newest residents.”

Luciano shakes his head and says, “It may be time for me to look for a job in another city.”

At the table, Pam and I choose a Banfi Chianti Classico Riserva and Luciano describes the evening specials. While waiting for dinner, we sip our wine and talk. We're in a dark, romantic corner table, and I'm looking out at the equally romantic candlelit terrace. The setting is perfect, and as always, Luciano takes care of us like family.

Our dinner arrives, and as we're eating, Pam says, “I can't believe Renato's is so close to where we live.”

“I can't, either. We'll be fat and broke in a month.”

“Then we better finish up and go dance the night away while we can.”

We finish our espressos and walk over to The Chesterfield Hotel's Leopard Lounge. It is a quiet night. The multi-talented Adam Austin is at the piano. Lou, who (it is rumored) was banished from Boston for telling bad jokes, and Michelle, a stunning blonde, are behind the bar. We have known Adam, Michelle, and Lou for years.

The three of them give us a strange double take. Lou brings us a cocktail and, as always, an old joke. “This penguin walks into a bar and asks the bartender, ‘Have you seen my brother?' The bartender says, ‘I don't know, what does he look like?'”

After a drink and a few dances, it is time to call it a night.

I say, “Michelle, can we cash out and we'll leave you guys alone?”

“I'll just put it on your room,” she says.

“That would be fine, but we're not staying here.”

“You're not? Then where are you guys staying?”

“We moved here for a year, to a cottage.”

Michelle says, “Well, that's a surprise. Good for you.”