Year in Palm Beach (9 page)

I find this subtlety quite a contrast to the glitzy side of Palm Beach. On one hand, Palm Beach is home to giant mansions, exotic cars, flashy jewelry. On the other, subtle Halloween decor. Sometimes I think there is actually another alternate universe hiding here, and it's a small town from the 1950s.

Wednesday, October 28

Lakeside Park, which is part of our neighborhood, fronts the Lake Worth Lagoon and the town docks. There are clusters of hedges, large lawns, and a handful of old banyan trees with immense canopies of branches. The Lakeside Trail, which runs north along the lake shore begins (or ends) here.

This morning we walk over with our newspapers and take a seat on a bench under one of the banyan trees. Lake Worth is calm, and the office buildings on the mainland reflect the morning sun.

Two men are standing near us, deep in conversation. From their discussion it appears they're real estate agents. One of them says, “So, what's happening with that house on Lake Trail? Weren't you supposed to close weeks ago?”

“You won't believe this,” the other says. “The guy put down a million-dollar deposit. Now he's in a messy divorce. So he's just walking.”

“Walking on a million?” Pause. “So who gets the money?”

“We're working on that.”

Dick says, “Did he say ‘a million'?”

“Yeah,” I say. We go back to looking at the lake.

The docks extend out into the lake, three long fingers with slips for yachts on both sides. Many of the slips are empty.

Dick says, “These slips aren't your ordinary-size slips. They're huge. It's all so in proportion I never noticed before.” He points. “See that first boat, the closest one? See how little it looks? Well, it's got to be sixty feet.”

“That boat is bigger than
Maverick
?” I say, referring to the Gulfstar 44 we lived on. “Can't be.”

“Yup,” Dick says. “I'll show you. Come, let's measure.”

I follow him over to the docks, and we walk off the length of the boat Dick is talking about. It's sixty-five feet. We walk off the lengths of some larger yachts. Eighty-five feet. One hundred thirty five feet.

I always thought
Maverick
was a pretty big boat. She'd be a tender to some of these guys here. Recently, from the beach, I've seen several yachts approaching the inlet at the north end of the island. I'm probably seeing some of them again now.

Saturday, October 31

Dick and I wend our way to Victor's for espressos and scones. We enter the courtyard, and I realize this is not just any morning in Via Gucci. Children, dogs, and adults are milling about, many in costume.

“I think we're in the middle of a costume contest,” Dick says. Three costume contests, actually: for children, for dogs, and for dogs and their owners. Sherry, owner of Sherry Frankel's Melangerie and president of the Worth Avenue Association, is the emcee.

“How do you think they tell the dogs from their owners?” Dick says.

“Shhhh,” I say.

Dogs are dressed as ballerinas, pirates, and superheroes. There's a dog dressed as Marilyn Monroe, another as Elton John, another as Lady Gaga. One tiny Chihuahua is in an elaborate bride's dress, with a long, sequined trail and a lacy veil.

This Halloween contest makes me wonder if people go trick or treating in Palm Beach, so we take an early evening walk to find out. Most streets are as empty as usual, but on those streets where we saw the decorations a small number of families are out trick or treating.

Adults and children are in costume, and everyone seems to know each other. Some of the front yards now have larger skeletons and ghosts, and some houses have elaborate, scary entry-ways. Maybe there's a special ordinance permitting larger-sized decor during trick-or-treating hours.

This is a quiet, old-fashioned Halloween. There is no worry of razors in apples here. A memory of a long-ago Halloween floats into my mind. That year my two brothers were too young to trick or treat, but my mother helped my younger sister Sophie and me into our costumes. We were both dressed as fabulous dragons. Because houses were far apart, my father drove us from neighbor to neighbor. I was thrilled that our costumes were so good not a single neighbor recognized us. Lying in bed later that evening, I remembered that all the neighbors had said, “Hi, David,” to my father, and realized I hadn't fooled anybody after all. I felt like a dope.

When Dick and I get back home, the message light is blinking on our landline. I push the button.

“Hey, guys,” a familiar male voice says. “It's Theo and Deborah. We'll be driving by your house Thursday night. Can we come for a few weeks? Just kidding. But can we spend the night?”

Dick and I look at each. Houseguests. Yikes. We love Theo and Deborah, but there's no bed in the guest cottage yet. There's no place for them to sleep.

Monday, November 2

“I just got off the phone with Deborah,” Pam says, “and they'll definitely be here Thursday.”

“Which means we have to get some kind of bed,” I say. “Comfortable, but not too comfortable.”

“The place in West Palm where we ordered our bed has futons,” Pam says. “A queen futon would work.”

I call Bed Man and ask if there is any possible way we can get a queen futon or something like that in a day or two. Bed Man puts me on hold for a minute or so. “I've got a queen-size floor sample in excellent condition that I can deliver Wednesday after six, any color you want, as long as it's beige,” he says.

“Beige is my favorite,” I say. “See you Wednesday.” It is the beginning of the third month of our adventure in Palm Beach, and we're sort of settled in now. I did think by now there would be at least a trickle of winter people arriving on the island. But this morning, out walking, I discover that White House (it resembles the one in Washington) and Cat House (no, not that kind), with its statues of playful cats on the roof, are both still empty. House after house, the ones that have been empty still are.

And sadly, the crime wave is also continuing. This morning, a woman calling from Greenwich, Connecticut, filed a police report with Palm Beach Police. She seems to be missing a bracelet she remembers having with her on a recent visit to her mother in Palm Beach. How recent? Several months, it seems.

Tuesday, November 3

Pam and I walk to the gym. Signing in, I notice almost all the blanks are filled with names. “Craig,” I say, “this list looks pretty full. You cooking the books?”

“Season's coming. They say it starts near Thanksgiving and lasts till Easter, but it's different every year.”

Our workouts finished, we walk over to the lake. It's sunny and warm. The impeccably dressed shopkeepers are out cleaning their storefront windows, polishing the brass, and sweeping the sidewalk to prepare for the day. No leaf blowers on Worth Avenue. We get to the lake and sit on one of the benches close to the docks. I'm enjoying the view.

Pam says, “You see that sport fisher over there on the left?” I say, “Well, yes, what about it? Oh.”

“Yes, that's a very healthy naked woman on the aft deck,” Pam says.

“I don't think she's naked,” I say. “She has on a bikini bottom or thong or something.”

“Probably a Palm Beach ordinance,” Pam says. “You can only be half naked on your yacht.”

“Yes, and it's probably safe for us to start back. There's little danger of her drowning even if she falls overboard. She will definitely float.”

Walking back along Peruvian Avenue, I see there are more workers' trucks than usual. I figure everyone's trying to get ready for the season, or maybe Thanksgiving. Whatever is happening, this is as busy as I've seen it.

As we cross South County Road, Barney is standing in his front yard looking like he's just stepped out of the pages of
GQ
in plaid pajamas and a tweed sport coat.

“How are the Walkers today?” he shouts.

“It's the Myers,” Pam says, thinking Barney might have finally gone over the edge.

“Nope, you are the Walkers. Everybody around here calls you two the Walkers, even the parking ticket lady,” he says.

“So be it, Barney,” I say. “We are now officially the Walkers.” He laughs. We wave and head back to work.

Wednesday, November 4

This evening, as promised, Bed Man reappears, this time with a futon. Once again he bolts the frame together, lifts the beige mattress, and leaves with a check in his hand. The guest cottage is now ready for guests even if we aren't.

Armed with a couple of glasses of pinot grigio, Pam and I hit the beach. The walk from our desks to the dunes is less than two minutes. We find a bench and settle in to watch the day turn into night, a ritual we have enjoyed together since we were in Manhattan. We stay a little longer than planned, and the stars begin to light the sky.

Walking back home, I notice all the cars and trucks and activities from today have totally disappeared. It's peaceful.

“Hear the train?” Pam says.

“Yes.” Ever since we moved to Florida, I've been able to hear the trains, always from a distance. I love the sound, and I love the hazy memories it conjures up. I remember my first train ride. When I was three years old, my grandfather brought my brother and me from Ohio to New York.

“Let's keep walking,” Pam says.

We stroll right past the cottage and continue on. “Is that a piano?” I say.

“Sounds like it,” Pam says. “Sounds like a cocktail party.”

“I don't remember seeing our invitation.”

“It's Club Colette,” Pam says. “I've seen the sign but I've never seen or heard people there. It sounds festive.”

“Well, whoever is here tonight, they're different from the people who were here during the day,” I say. “Today there were plumbers' and electricians' and carpenters' trucks, and now there're Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and Mercedes.”

It looks like the winter people are starting to trickle in.

Thursday, November 5

Today our very first houseguests, Theo and Deborah, arrive. I've known Theo since kindergarten, and we've known Deborah for over twenty years. They are both a bit crazy, and we haven't seen them in a while. We're not even fully settled in ourselves, but the futon is in the guest cottage, and we're happy to see these two characters.

They pull into our driveway around five o'clock. After some hugging and unloading of luggage, we all take a walk. In about an hour we end up at the beach. The four of us wander in and out of the surf and chat and continue to catch up on the kids, the news, and who's doing what.

Then it's back to the cottage to prepare for the evening's activities. Pam goes in to feed the birds and change their water.

“Do I need a tie?” Theo says.

“Yes,” Deborah says. She turns to me. “What does Pam wear?”

“Theo, you don't need a tie. I usually wear one, but that's me,” I say. “Deborah, Pam usually wears a skirt and heels, maybe a jacket. Wear what you want.”

After showers, we gather at the pool for cocktails. Theo says, “My brother told us to have a drink at Bice for him, so I want to do that. The rest of the evening is your choice, and it's on me.”

“Theo, I'm thinking if you're picking up the tab maybe the four of us should go to Bermuda for dinner, but how about Bice for a drink, Renato's for dinner, and then maybe a nightcap and dance at The Chesterfield Hotel. And it's on us,” I say.

“We'll arm wrestle for the check,” Theo says. “That's what I said. It's on us.”

Everyone agrees on the plan, and Deborah says, “We've got your cars blocked in with our car, so Theo'll drive everybody to Bice.”

Pam shakes her head, “You don't have to drive.”

“It will be easier. We won't have to jockey the cars around,” Deborah says.

“No. Theo doesn't have to drive. Dick doesn't have to drive. No one has to drive. We're walking,” Pam says.

Theo and Deborah both look at us. Deborah says, “We walked around town with you guys for an hour. I didn't see any restaurants or bars. Just those mansions.”

“Deborah, relax. There are a dozen bars and restaurants in a couple of short blocks. They're just in a different direction,” I say.

We take the short walk to Bice (much to Deborah's surprise) and have a drink and toast Theo's brother. Halfway through his drink, Theo starts talking wine and speaking Italian to Ronnie and Jose.

“Theo, talking about wine puts people to sleep,” I say. “And why are you speaking Italian? Ronnie was born in Sweden, Jose was born in Mexico, and you were born in Bronxville.”

We finish our drinks and walk to Renato's. Brad greets us and seats us. “I like restaurants like this,” Deborah says, “where the maitre d' wears a suit, the captains wear dinner jackets, and the customers are dressed up.”

“It was the same at Bice,” Theo says. “We're not in Kansas anymore.”

Theo insists on choosing the wine and consults with Luciano, in Italian, of course.

Two hours and two bottles of wine later, we thank Brad and Luciano and we're off to The Chesterfield. After a few dances, the four of us are standing at the bar, and I say, “Theo, remember that chicken step or chicken-walk thing you used to do? The one that got you thrown out of dancing school.”

“Remember it? I still do it,” he says. He points. “What's with this ceiling?”

Pam laughs and says, “What do you guys think it looks like?” Deborah looks up and says, “Well, it's definitely R-rated. I see some naked women, some lusty men. Actually, those are satyrs, I think.”

“I like it,” Theo says. “Everybody should paint their ceilings with stuff like that.”

“Right,” I say. “Time for one more dance. It's a school night.” Adam starts playing a fast song. “We're doing this one,” Deborah says, and leads Theo out on the floor.