Year in Palm Beach (11 page)

“Rehydrating?” she asks. We look at each other, our water, back at her. “Mary said you're the one who wrote this book,” she says. She has apparently just bought
Tennis for Humans
in the pro shop.

I nod and say, “Yes.”

“Mary says you'll sign it for me,” she says. “I don't have to do what Mary says, you know.” She looks a little puzzled.

“I'm just kidding,” I say. “I'd be happy to sign your book.” She says her name is Melissa, so I sign her book: “For Melissa, good luck on and off the tennis court.”

We start talking with Melissa, who is actually very nice. “I'm just down from New York to help the housekeeper open our house for Thanksgiving. My husband Mark and our three sons are still up north,” she says.

“When are they going to join you at the house?” Pam asks. “Well, I'm not really staying at the house yet. I'm at The Brazilian Court,” she says. “I'm flying home in two days, and then we'll all fly down for Thanksgiving next Wednesday. Then home again for Christmas, and then Mark and I are here for January and February. Mark is a good player, Dick, maybe you two could play some tennis then.”

I say, “If I'm still breathing, I'd love to hit with Mark. Have him call me.”

We wish Melissa a happy Thanksgiving, walk home, and open our house, with no help from our housekeeper, in four or five seconds.

Saturday, November 21

Pam and I are sitting on a bench under the giant canopy of a banyan tree at the town docks. I say, “The twin forty-fours on that sport fisher are missing today.”

As usual, there is little activity and few people are around. In all the times we have visited these slips in the last two and a half months, I've rarely seen a boat arrive or leave. Yet there are many more yachts here today than usual. “Boats must be sneaking in at night,” Pam says. “I think the docks are more full than empty for the first time.”

“Nobody's ever around here but us,” I say. “We should have some official monitoring position with the town.” I think for a moment. “The Docks Official Protectors, Examiners, and Supervisors.”

Pam looks at me. “I see. That would make us the town DOPES.”

Returning from our dock duties, we see a large truck parked in front of a house on Australian. A moving van? Well, sort of. Two men are carefully unloading a spotless Bentley that is going into the garage of that house. The people aren't quite here yet but their toys, the boats and cars, are arriving.

Around seven o'clock, Pam says, “I think we need pizza tonight.”

“That we do,” I say. “I have a doctor's prescription for one pizza, two salads, and a bottle of wine.”

“Let's go to Pizza al Fresco,” Pam says.

At the restaurant, a young lady greets us and takes us to a table in the courtyard. “The prescription is for salads and splitting a pizza?” Pam says.

“Yes, and a bottle of Italian red. Your choice.”

“How about two Caesars, a pizza with Italian sausage and mushrooms, and a bottle of Chianti Classico?”

The setting is a small, romantically lighted courtyard with bougainvillea growing up the sides of the walls. I can't help but picture the dozens of dinners Pam and I have had in similar settings on St. Barts or St. Martin or even Virgin Gorda. For some reason, tonight is reminding me specifically of a dinner we had on our honeymoon at a little outdoor restaurant in Antigua. That night we shared a cardboard box of wine, a first.

Pam says, “Sitting here, I feel as if we have come a lot farther than five minutes from our house. Remember that box of wine we had at that place in Antigua?”

I laugh. “Exactly what I was thinking,” I say

Monday, November 23

Perhaps I should have made an appointment with Dr. Keith the other day because it took me ten minutes to get out of bed this morning. When I sneezed, it felt like my shoulder blade was exploding. Pam calls and Dr. Keith's office promises to fit me in. Pam drives me to Lake Worth. With some adjustment, some ultrasound, and some magic, Dr. Keith has me feeling almost human. I make a follow-up appointment and we're gone.

Driving back, we pass Don Victorio's, the market Bobby suggested, on Dixie Highway in West Palm Beach. Pam decides it is time for a visit and circles around the block. As we pull in the parking lot, I say, “Man, this looks like a parking lot in the islands. Cars are parked every which way.”

“Yeah, I'm going to park all the way in the back. You and your shoulder stay in the car. I'm just going to check it out,” she says.

About four songs later, she emerges and I start laughing. She looks like a New York bag lady. She's carrying so many bags I can barely see her. I reach over and pop the trunk and she unloads her haul.

She gets in the driver's side, smiling, and says, “Well I guess I did a bit more than check it out, but you should have seen it. There were bins of fresh fruit and vegetables everywhere. I got grapefruits and oranges and tomatoes, bunches of carrots and beets with the greens still attached, lettuces of all kinds, a pineapple, bananas, and apples.”

“A little more than just checking it out,” I say. “It is just like the farm store I went to as a kid,” she says, “and all this stuff cost less than twenty dollars.”

Tuesday, November 24

It is now two days before Thanksgiving, and the Shiny Sheet informs me the police were called to a north end home because of a dispute about ficus trimmings being left in a yard. A ficus trimmings dispute? I'm wondering if it could be gang-related.

Our morning walk is to Worth Avenue, which is completely closed to cars today. Workmen are repainting all the curbs and parking space lines. We weave our way through, wander about for a while, and head toward home. Turning onto our street, we almost run into a man squatting at the curb next to a bucket of bright yellow paint. He is hand-painting the no-parking curbs along our street. His companion has a bucket of white paint and is hand-painting the parking-allowed curbs. Another man on a ladder is coating the lampposts with glossy black paint.

“Pretty soon there won't be a cracked sidewalk or a faded street line or street curb in all of Palm Beach,” I say.

“It reminds me of getting a house ready to put on the market,” Pam says.

“They'd better not be selling it,” I say. “We just got here.”

Wednesday, November 25

The alarm gets us up before dawn. We dress, fill a thermos with breakfast tea, grab our beach chairs, and we're off to watch the sunrise. The street is peacefully empty. We set up the chairs at the ocean's edge. It is a bit early for animated conversation or probably any conversation at all, so we just sip our tea and be.

In the few months we have been in Palm Beach, we have seen more sunrises and moonrises and spent more time stargazing than we have in many years. I feel it's giving us a better perspective on what's important. Whatever it's doing, I like it.

The show begins. Slowly, the sun rises out of the Atlantic. Slowly, the night becomes a new day. Slowly, the sun warms the sand. We sit for a few minutes enjoying the new morning, then pick up and head home.

When lunchtime rolls around, I suggest Victor's. Walking out, Pam says, “The street is still quiet. There are no trucks today, there's no commotion. Strange.”

As we approach South County, we hear cars and even a honking horn. “I can't remember hearing a car honk in Palm Beach,” I say. “Wow, South County is crazy. Look at this traffic.”

We continue on to Worth Avenue, and Pam says, “Look at this.”

“What the hell happened to our quiet hometown street?” I say. There are people everywhere, people and dogs. People driving with dogs in their laps. People walking with dogs on leashes. People carrying dogs.

The scene could not be more different from yesterday or any day so far. It's like a B movie. I live in a quiet, empty little town, and suddenly the entire population of Greenwich, Connecticut has somehow dropped in overnight. I've sort of been waiting for this, but I'm not sure I'm going to like it.

“Victor's? Lunch? Not today,” I say.

Returning home on South County, I see Amici is busy inside and out. Maurizio is nodding his head and smiling. He gives us two thumbs up and laughs.

Thursday, November 26

Pam and I are excited. My daughter Samantha is flying down from New York for the Thanksgiving weekend. She arrives today. Her mother lives across the bridge in West Palm Beach, and her grandmother lives in Palm Beach Gardens, about twenty minutes north of us. The logistics of the weekend should work out beautifully for everyone, which has not always been the case.

Pam and I get one night and a day. And I'm hoping very much it will all be easy and hassle-free for Samantha. Well, that's what I'm hoping.

Samantha is having Thanksgiving dinner with her mother and grandmother tonight. We have a quiet cookout by our outdoor fire pit with a soft-mix playlist, walk to the beach for some stargazing, and then home for more stargazing from our front yard.

Friday, November 27

Because it is the Friday after Thanksgiving and because Samantha is here, I want everything to be absolutely perfect, so I make a dinner reservation. A first for us in Palm Beach. I pick her up at her mother's condo across the bridge and come back to the cottage.

The three of us have a glass of champagne, and Samantha wants a tour of the cottage. She seems to approve, but I can tell she thinks it's a little strange. She's okay with it, I think, because she sees we're happy. The three of us walk to the restaurant. It is packed, but our table is ready. We talk and laugh and catch up on each other's lives a bit. Samantha is getting very tired of her job and thinking about packing it in. She's been there over a decade. (How is that possible?) I sense there is a gentleman in her life, but she is a bit vague on this subject.

Meanwhile, the restaurant, or rather the diners, are getting louder. The many large tables of ten and twelve are raising the decibel level. None of this bothers Samantha, but it does bother me. I suggest dessert and coffee at our cottage.

The three of us walk over to the beach and back towards home. “I'm sorry it was so crowded and noisy tonight. It's usually much more civilized,” I say.

“Dad, I live in Manhattan,” Samantha says. “Trust me, that was not crowded and noisy. It was quite civilized.”

Pam laughs and says, “You're right, Sam. I think your dad and I are getting spoiled. Until the day before yesterday, we sort of had the town to ourselves.”

Samantha looks around. “Well, we seem to have this part of town to ourselves right now. I haven't seen anyone else since we left the restaurant,” she says. “If you're used to New York like I am, this is a little spooky.”

At home, the three of us sit by the pool, sip espressos, and talk quietly for over an hour until it is time for bed. I drive Samantha back to her mother's for the night. Driving back over to the island, I'm thinking to myself, what could be better than spending an evening sitting and talking with the two women I love?

Saturday, November 28

This morning, I pick up Samantha again, and she, Pam, and I walk to Worth Avenue for some shopping. After lunch, Samantha and I hit some tennis balls. I love hitting with her. When she was two or three, I'd bounce balls to her, and she'd swing her sawed-off racquet and blast them all over the court. Now she's hitting the balls beautifully, and I seem to be blasting them all over the court.

Dinner for her is with Granna tonight, so I take her back and drop her at her mother's building and say goodbye.

Sunday, November 29

Pam and I venture out to Amici. The Thanksgiving crowds, people and dogs, are gone. It is quiet there, and so are we. I'm always quiet after Samantha's visits. As an every-other-weekend father for much of Samantha's teenage life, I felt like she was always leaving. Whether Pam, Samantha, and I had a great weekend or a disaster, and we had our share of both, I was always sad when Samantha left. I still am.

Maurizio comes over to the table. Pam says, “We walked by here a few times. You were really slammed.”

“Thank God,” Maurizio says, “but it will be quiet again until Christmas.”

“You mean that's it?” I say. “The people were here and now they're gone again?”

“Gone for now,” Maurizio says, “but over Christmas it is just really insane.”

Monday, November 30

For reasons I cannot even begin to understand, I want to go to see the Christmas tree lighting ceremony at Bradley Park this evening. It's near Publix on Royal Poinciana Way. Pam does, too. Something seems to be happening to us. We've never been to a tree lighting together before, ever.

We drive the mile north and park. It's dusk. To make the tree lighting more dramatic, the town streetlights are turned off. A policeman stops traffic so people can cross the street to the park. Some parents with young children are standing in the grass. It's a small crowd in a large park.

After ten minutes, the dusk has turned to dark, and a brilliant full moon glows above us. Building lights across Lake Worth shimmer in the distance. A small choir of children sings Christmas carols, and then everyone joins in a simple countdown—five, four, three, two, one—and the Christmas tree lights up. A big red fire engine, blowing horns and flashing lights, arrives to drop off Santa and Mrs. Claus. All the children run toward them.

On the short ride home, Pam leans her head on my shoulder. “That got to me,” she says. “I don't know why, but it got to me.”

“You, too?” I say.

She sits up and turns to look at me. “This is weird, isn't it.”

Tuesday, December 1

At eight this morning, the temperature is already seventy-two, which is pretty warm for December, even in south Florida. Dick brews two cups of espresso, and we take these and the morning papers to a bench overlooking the beach. The sun is bright and the ocean is flat, deep blue in the distance, a pale turquoise close to shore.