Year in Palm Beach (14 page)

Wednesday, December 23

Tonight we walk around town to see if there's any possibility of having dinner out. Taboo, Amici, Renato's, and Bice are completely full. Café L'Europe is three deep at the bar, and tables are jammed with large groups of people. We stop anyway and have a drink, standing among the festive crowd.

David is playing a Christmas medley. It's from his Christmas CD, and Dick buys a copy. For a couple that doesn't do Christmas, we're acting pretty strangely, I think. We now have a tree, a wreath, ornaments, and holiday music. We walk home. After seeing all the crowds, pasta and an outdoor fire are looking good.

Thursday, December 24

All our favorite restaurants are open on Christmas Eve, but Dick and I plan to avoid the crowds, stay home, and dine in front of our tree. In the early afternoon, we stop at a French bakery for a baguette to go with dinner.

A basket of crepe paper surprise balls is on the counter. As a kid, I loved unwrapping these. On impulse, I pick up two. A tag on the basket says nineteen dollars each. I put them back.

Curiosity overweighs common sense. “Okay if I buy one?” I ask Dick.

“Sure,” he says. “You'd be a fool not to.”

We buy a surprise ball and a baguette, leave the store, and walk to the lake.

At the end of the day, Dick says, “I thought we might go out tonight, instead of staying home. Walk around, see what's going on. I know it'll be way too crowded to eat, but maybe we could stop for a drink.”

I'm a bit startled, but actually it sounds like fun. “Great idea,” I say. “It'll be fun to see the town all festive on Christmas Eve.”

“And then I was thinking of going to church,” Dick says. “Church,” I say. I am completely nonplussed. “Church?”

“There's an eleven o'clock service tonight at Bethesda-bythe-Sea. We can walk there,” Dick says.

“Church,” I say again. “Tree lightings, putting up a Christmas tree, church on Christmas Eve. Henry and Michele won't know who we are.” I laugh. “Anyway, that sounds fine,” I say. “Should we make something to eat for dinner, you know, for after we walk to a bunch of restaurants we can't actually get into, and before we go off to church?”

“I was thinking of one of our antipastos,” Dick says.

We get to work to the sounds of Peter Cetera. I boil shrimp and make cocktail sauce, cut red and yellow peppers and carrots to dip in salsa. Dick puts Dijon mustard between thin slices of ham and Swiss cheese, rolls them up, and cuts them into bite-size pieces, then makes deviled eggs, and puts a bottle of pinot grigio in the icebox.

We stop by every bar and restaurant in the neighborhood, say Merry Christmas to the people we know who are working tonight, and have a drink at the bar when there is room. The restaurants are jammed. It's fun to be part of the festivity, and nice to have the antipasto and Christmas music waiting at home.

Now the birds are in bed, the antipasto is finished, most of the pinot grigio is in the icebox for another time. We dress for church and walk toward Bethesda-by-the-Sea. The weather is warm, the ocean is calm, and the stars are out. As we approach the church, I realize just about everyone has decided on church tonight. Cars are parked in every possible space.

“Looks like we may not be able to get in,” Dick says. “That's okay. We'll walk over to the nativity scene,” I say. As we get closer, I see people standing in groups on the lawn, some around the nativity scene. Seems quite a few other residents couldn't get in the church tonight. Rod Stewart and his wife and young son are standing by the manger as well.

Friday, December 25

“Think we can have a fire?” Dick says. “The temperature's already up to sixty.”

“Well, it's a pretty chilly sixty. How about a little one?” I say. “I'll open some more windows. Want me to turn on the AC?”

It's Christmas morning. Dick builds a small fire and turns the tree lights on. We gather the birds and settle into the couch. Dick and I give presents to others at Christmas, but not to each other. This seems to be the only tradition we're sticking to this year.

We open boxes from Samantha and other family and friends. Finally, the only thing left under the tree is the surprise ball. Dick hands it to me, and I start unwinding the crepe paper. How much I loved these balls as a child. However, maybe I've glorified the experience. This expensive ball is a bust. Tied for best prize are a tiny cube of Bazooka bubble gum and a Santa tattoo. Well, not a complete bust. Duckie and Blanco have fun turning the paper into confetti.

We make lunch, dine with the birdies, and go for an afternoon walk to get a snapshot of the town on Christmas Day. The weather is sunny and warm. There's very little traffic, but couples and families are walking along the sidewalks. A lot of people are at the beach.

Now it's almost six o'clock. Dick and I are working in the kitchen. The doorbell rings, and in walk Henry and Michele, both carrying cardboard boxes. They head straight to the kitchen and put the boxes down. We all hug, everybody talking at once.

“We brought flatbread from the restaurant. For appetizers,” Michele says.

“And vast quantities of wine,” Henry says. “How's my kegerator doing?” Dick says. “Your kegerator?” Henry says. “It's my kegerator now.” He grins. “It's gotten used to Heineken. Doesn't ever want Miller Lite again.”

We all go into the living room. Michele looks around. “What's with the tree? You guys never had a tree before. And am I hearing Christmas music?” she says. David's CD is playing.

I start to explain when Henry says, “Quick, guys, where's the TV?” He looks at his watch. “We missed Boston and Orlando but the Lakers are on now. And then Phoenix.”

“We don't have a TV,” Dick says.

“Yeah, right,” says Henry. “Come on, where is it? We gotta catch these games.”

“We really don't have a TV,” Dick says.

Michele looks at me questioningly. I smile. “It's true,” I say. “Henry,” Dick says, “we can get the scores on the computer. Let's open some wine. And then we have a surprise.” We take them to the guest cottage and show them the bumper pool table.

“It's not quite a pool table,” I say. “But we can sort of have our traditional Christmas tournament.”

We settle in chairs around the pool. Henry opens a bottle of red and pours us each a glass. “Sim Sala Bim,” we say in unison, holding our glasses aloft.

We sit around the pool and talk, play bumper pool, eat the flatbread, walk to the beach, enjoy our traditional Christmas dinner of penne rigate with a vegetarian sauce, linguine with pork ragu, and a huge arugula salad. We drink superb wines, compliments of our guests.

We play more bumper pool. Henry and I, and Dick and Michele, have our classic dispute about which team is the reigning champion. Finally, quite late, we move the bumper pool table to the corner of the room, unfold the futon, and say good night.

Saturday, December 26

Everybody is moving slowly this morning, kind of like the day we moved. At least this time we could all sleep in. We go out for brunch at Taboo and then say goodbye. There are hugs all around, then Dick and I watch Henry and Michele drive away.

“That went way too quickly,” I say. “I'm glad they came.”

“Me, too,” Dick says. “I miss seeing them.”

Tuesday, December 29

I'm reading the Shiny Sheet. There's the usual article about not drinking and driving on New Year's Eve. But then I start reading out loud to Dick. “Police remind residents that officers will provide a safe ride home for those too impaired to drive. Police will help make other arrangements for those living outside of town limits.”

Dick says, “In most towns, when the police offer you a ride, it's not to your home. Here they hand out business cards, drive you home. Palm Beach is some kind of alternate universe.”

Thursday, December 31

Between Christmas and New Year's, we take time off from work and from the town. This is no time to go to restaurants or try to shop. Maurizio was right; people are everywhere. We stop in a bar once or twice, have some dances at the Leopard Lounge, but mainly stay around the house.

Now it's the last day of December. Dick and I usually avoid the crowds and stay home on New Year's Eve.

“What do you want for dinner?” Dick says. “I was thinking of making a pasta sauce with your braised pork. Maybe adding some mushrooms and cipollini onions.”

“Sounds delicious. I'll be your sous-chef,” I say. I've gotten many good ideas from Mark Bittman's cooking column in
The New York Times
and one of the best is braised pork. I cut the pork into small pieces, brown it (even though he says you don't have to), then cook it for a long time with onions, garlic, and red wine. The pork shreds, becomes exceptionally tender. I freeze this in batches, and we use it as a base for quick stews or pasta sauces, adding tomatoes or mushrooms or carrots or potatoes or cannellini beans or whatever else grabs our fancy.

“Thought we'd dine outside in front of a fire, with a bottle of Barolo,” Dick says.

“Magnificent,” I say.

Tonight, New Year's Eve, it's about seventy-five degrees. The sky is clear. We spend much of the evening outside, dining by the pool, listening to playlists Dick has made, and, between bumper pool contests, walk back and forth to the beach to moon-gaze.

It's just about midnight. We are sitting in lounge chairs, enjoying the last of the Barolo. Suddenly, there's the sound of explosions and the flicker of lights through the trees to the northwest.

“What's that?” I say.

“We must be under attack,” Dick says. The flickering lights grow bigger, and the explosions get louder.

“Must be fireworks,” I say.

“Let's walk out on the road, see if we can get a better view,” Dick says. We walk to the end of the block. Dazzling fireworks streak across the sky. The displays are huge and feel as if they are coming right at us. Fantastic colored bars of light explode out of balls of colors. Shapes drop out of shapes. As one display fades, out pops something even more spectacular, filling the entire sky.

“Do you remember seeing anything about fireworks in the paper?” Dick says.

“No,” I say. “From the direction, it could be the City of West Palm Beach, but you'd think someone would have mentioned them.”

“These can't be ordinary fireworks,” Dick says. “Can they?”

“No way. I've been watching fireworks all my life and I've never seen anything like these. They're extraordinary.”

The show goes on for thirty minutes. It's spectacular.

We watch the smoke from the last display fizzle across the sky and then head home to bed.

It feels good to be starting the new year here in Palm Beach. Despite the rough beginning, the decision to come here for a year has been the right one, at least so far.

Friday, January 1

“New Year's Day,” Pam says, “and we're reading the papers with our feet in the pool. It must be almost eighty degrees.”

“A nice way to start the year,” I say. “Those fireworks last night, the Shiny Sheet says, were donated by some guy for a party at the Flagler Museum. And by the way, they were designed by Grucci, the people who do presidential inaugurations and Olympic ceremonies. It also says the total cost for last night's show was in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. That's some neighborhood.”

I'm surprised at how fast our year in Palm Beach is going. It has already been four months. First there were the several months of the island's emptiness. Then the sudden influx at Thanksgiving, followed by another lull, and then the festive buildup to the holidays. Now Christmas and New Year's Eve have already come and gone.

Meanwhile, the crime wave is continuing. “There has been another arrest at Publix,” I tell Pam.

“That guy stealing beer again?” she says.

“Nope, this time the police arrested another guy after Publix employees saw him stuff a sandwich down his pants,” I say.

Pam smiles. “You men.”

Pam and I are now in the living room, again surrounded by boxes. The birds are helping us take down our Christmas tree. Well, actually Duckie is overseeing our work, and Blanco is wrestling with a piece of string on the coffee table. Pam's putting ornaments in cartons, and I'm grappling with lights.

“I want to have a tree again next year,” Pam says. “Then you shall.”

Having a tree this year and taking it down today are stirring memories I had almost forgotten: images of taking down Christmas trees with my brother and parents and later with Samantha and her mother. I remember Pamela's and my first Christmas tree in New York. It was about four feet high and had almost no decorations. I think it cost six dollars, and when Christmas was over we didn't really have to take it down. It was more like just pick it up and throw it away.

Monday, January 4

I'm trying to put a book away. Every bookcase in the cottage is stuffed. There are stacks of books on the floor by the bookcases. Books are piled on window sills.

“If we fill these two cartons with hard covers that we're never going to read again, we can take the books to the Four Arts library and donate them,” I say to Pam.

“Good idea,” Pam says. “It'll give us a little space, at least get them off the floor.”

“We're both book people, but why on earth did we bring all these down here?”

“I guess so we could donate them to the library,” Pam says.

In about four minutes, we have two cartons filled. I dump them in the car and head to the library. The librarians seem happy with our donation, and I'm quite happy to have made another small step toward getting rid of stuff we don't need.