Year in Palm Beach (16 page)

I actually had an old 308 GTS, and, no, it wasn't expensive. A new Miata would have cost more. I bought it from a neighbor, and Pam and I had a great deal of fun with it. From long Sunday drives to overnight trips to out-of-the-way inns, I put the Ferrari through its paces.

After two years, I sold it back to the same neighbor for about the same price. I loved looking at it, listening to it, driving it, even washing it. In those two years, Pam and I both became big Ferrari fans.

We walk to South County and see two more Ferraris parked right in front of Amici, a yellow F355 Spider and another red 308. We already have a Bentley Barometer. Maybe we'll have to institute a Ferrari Factor as well.

Friday, January 22

Pam looks up from this morning's Shiny Sheet and says, “John Pizzarelli is at The Colony Royal Room. I'd like to go see him.”

“Me, too.”

We haven't seen him since The Carlyle in New York several years ago, and we haven't been to the Royal Room since we moved. What is the matter with us? Roger Everingham and Rob Russell have created one of the best cabarets on the planet, and we haven't been in four months? I call and book for two.

At the end of the day, we turn off our computers, shower and dress, and then walk several blocks to see Mr. Pizzarelli. The Royal Room is intimate, a perfect cabaret setting. There are only about eighty seats. Tonight, dinner guests are taking most of the space. A few other show-only people are just arriving, and the hostess escorts us to a table near the stage. I order us a bottle of champagne.

The quartet consists of John on guitar and vocal, his brother Martin on bass, Larry Fuller on piano, and Tony Tedesco on drums. I feel like a guest at a private concert. I can actually watch Mr. Pizzarelli's hands zipping along his guitar. From Gershwin to James Taylor, Broadway to the Beatles, the evening is a potpourri of selections. Between songs, in typical cabaret style, Mr. Pizzarelli tells stories about the music and chats with the audience like we just dropped into his living room.

Walking back from the show, we see Maurizio in front of

Amici.

“
Buona sera
, Maurizio. What is with all the Ferraris in town all of a sudden?” I ask.

“This is Ferrari week,” he says. “It happens every January.”

“I thought that was at The Breakers.”

“Yes, yes, the Cavallino Classic is at The Breakers,” he says, “but the best show is here. Sunday night, all these amazing cars will be heading home and driving right by Amici.”

As if we needed an excuse to return to Amici. I tell him we'll be back for the show.

Saturday, January 23

More than a dozen major art galleries are located along Worth Avenue and in its connecting courtyards. Openings are held throughout the year, but there are more of them in January and February.

Tonight we have been invited to a Hunt Slonem opening at the DTR Modern Gallery. His oil paintings of birds, row after row of them, are favorites of Pam's. I have no idea why we were invited, but Pam is thrilled, and I'm interested in how gallery openings in Palm Beach will compare to those in, say, New York and San Francisco.

The gallery is crowded. Guests have dressed for the occasion. Both men and women are in one-of-a-kind outfits. One woman is dressed completely in silver, from her stiletto heels and sequined dress to her purse the size of Montana and the sparkly eyeglasses she must have stolen from Elton John.

A tall, exceedingly slender man is wearing a black suit made out of some kind of animal, a long white silk scarf, black sunglasses, and a fedora. I start looking around for the guy with the pig on a leash. This feels like his kind of crowd.

Almost no one is looking at the art. Everyone's busy drinking champagne and schmoozing and posing for photographs. Pam leans around a gentleman large enough to be a planet and mouths, “Too many people.” I nod. She squeezes by Jupiter and we're out.

Walking home on Peruvian, we notice that the Club Colette Bentley Barometer is holding steady at an even dozen.

Sunday, January 24

Pam and I are at a table on the outdoor terrace at Amici, facing South County Road. They have the outdoor heaters working tonight. Along with some Cerignola olives, a bottle of Allegrini Palazzo della Torre, a plate of linguini with shrimp, and a plate of spaghetti Bolognese, Pam and I are enjoying the sounds and sights of exotic Italian cars.

We can hear the Ferraris' exhaust notes from blocks away. If the light is green, they speed right past us. But if they catch a red light at Peruvian or Worth, we can admire them for a minute and then watch and listen as they accelerate through the gears and head out of town. Yet another dinner and floor show at Amici. No cover.

Monday, January 25

Melissa, whom we first met when she was down to open her house before Thanksgiving, is back in Palm Beach with her husband Mark for January and February. We have seen them several times at the tennis courts, and Mark and I have hit together a couple of times.

Today, as Pam and I are walking off the court, they wave us over. Mark says, “Our boat got here yesterday. We'd love it if you would come aboard and have a drink with us this evening.”

Pam says, “That's very nice. We'd love to. What can we bring?”

“Bring yourselves. Any time around six is fine. It's the blue hull at the Peruvian docks, but I'll see you coming.”

Walking home, I say, “If it took her three days and the help of a housekeeper to open the house, how long do you think it took them to open the boat?”

Pam says. “Stop. It'll be fun to see their boat, and they seem nice. They like each other.”

After work we dress, and I grab a bottle of Montrachet as a gift. As we get to the docks, Mark is walking towards us. I guess he did spot us. He welcomes us and leads us down the dock to a beautiful blue hull Cape Horn trawler that's got to be eighty feet long. Melissa is on the aft deck with drinks and hors d'oeuvres. The four of us talk tennis and boats and Palm Beach. After a few minutes, Mark says, “You guys want a tour of this tub?”

“If this is a tub, the boat we lived on was a sink,” I say. “We'd love a tour.”

Mark and Melissa lead us through sliding glass doors to the main salon, which has several seating areas and a built-in fifty-inch television. The television is tuned in to some game show, and there are two monkeys, live monkeys, sitting on one of the couches, watching.

“The crew?” Pam asks. That actually should have been my line.

“No, no,” Mark says, “that's Roberta and Hal. They live aboard. Wherever this boat is, in Palm Beach or Newport or the Caribbean, you'll find these two. They might as well be crew.”

Our host and hostess continue the tour down a wooden spiral staircase that leads to the master stateroom with a king-size bed, plush carpeting, and another huge television. While the tour is continuing, I'm thinking Roberta is probably the monkey in the yellow dress, which means Hal is the monkey wearing what looks like a diaper. What the hell are they doing here, and why doesn't Hal know he should dress for company?

We're finishing up the tour in the U-shaped galley that makes the kitchen in our cottage look like a can of Sterno and an ice bucket. I say, “Melissa, this is a magnificent yacht, but I've got to confess I'm a bit curious about Roberta and Hal. There has to be a story there.”

Melissa says, “Mark likes to say we bought the two most expensive monkeys in the world, and they just happened to come with a yacht. The truth is, the monkeys belonged to the previous owner of the boat, and when we bought it last year, they were just part of the deal. They came with the boat.”

Our final stop is the fly bridge. Drinks in hand, the four of us settle into the cushioned seats and talk and admire the glittering nighttime lights across the lake in West Palm Beach. The whole time, I'm wondering if the monkeys are actually watching that game show or if they've changed to the Nature Channel or maybe slipped in a
Planet of the Apes
DVD.

Tuesday, January 26

It is now late afternoon and we're out walking. There's a chill and the faint smell of seaweed in the air. The residential block we are on is long and empty. Parking is allowed on both sides of this street, but there isn't a car parked anywhere. However, two guys are getting ready to valet for a private party. They are setting up their chairs and a board full of hooks for car keys.

We walk past and on toward the lake. Next to one of the mansions on the water, there are dozens of trucks and even more people. Three gigantic tents are being put up, and two portable generators hum in the service road.

“This has got to be some over-the-top Palm Beach wedding,” Pam guesses.

I walk over and ask three guys unloading flat screen TVs who is getting married. No one. It turns out all this excess is being unleashed for an upcoming Super Bowl party. Of course.

Pam and I head back along the same road. As we get close to where we saw the valet parkers, we see the first car arriving. One after another, people pull up to the valet station and stop. Soon there is a line of cars, all waiting to be valeted.

Pam says, “There are twenty empty spaces on this street alone. Nobody parks their own car?”

“Probably a Palm Beach ordinance against it,” I say.

Thursday, January 28

The town is again as full as it was over the holidays. During the day, people busy themselves shopping on Worth Avenue. Everyone, it seems, is carrying shopping bags from Ferragamo and Cartier and Gucci and Valentino and Giorgio Armani.

We're strolling along Worth and it is crowded, but a crowded sidewalk here looks quite a bit emptier than a crowded sidewalk in New York.

As we're approaching Via DeMario, a woman says, “Oh, look, Via DeMario. That's Palm Beach's best Italian restaurant! William and I had the most romantic dinner there.”

I think not. This Via DeMario isn't a restaurant. It's simply the name of the Via.

Sunday, January 31

It's late for us. There are only about fifteen minutes left in the month. Pam and I are walking home from The Chesterfield after an evening of dancing. We're a block and a half from The Chesterfield when Pam says, “Wait a minute, stop please.”

I stop and turn.

“My knee really hurts,” she says. “I don't know if I can make it home.”

“Are you kidding?” I say.

Her look explains that she is not.

I say, “Take off your heels and see if that's any better.” She does and it's no better. “I'm really sorry,” she says. “Don't be stupid,” I say. “You don't have to be sorry. Give me your shoes and put your arm around me. We'll do a slow three-legged-race thing. No hurry. If it hurts too much, tell me.”

We are making awkward but (Pam assures me) fairly painless progress towards home. She starts laughing and says, “We're going to be arrested. This is so stupid. I'm so sorry.”

I say, “Pam, relax. If we're not arrested for public awkwardness, we'll be home in five or six minutes and we'll ice your knee.”

It turns out to be probably ten minutes, but soon we are home and Pam is resting in bed with ice on her knee. We'll see where, or if, we stand in the morning.

Monday, February 1

I open my eyes. Morning light is filtering through the gauzy bedroom curtains. My bedside clock reads seven thirty. Dick's side of the bed is cool, so I know he's been up for a while. I stay under the covers, hoping last night's knee incident was just a dream.

Finally, cautiously, I bend my right leg. It feels okay. I get out of bed and start to walk. Not good. I limp for a few steps, thinking maybe I can stretch it out, but the pain gets worse. I make my way into the living room.

“Doesn't look good,” Dick says.

“No, it doesn't,” I say. “I'll call Dr. Keith's office as soon as they open.”

I call and they fit me in at eleven. Dick drives me. Dr. Keith examines my knee, sends me across the hall for a laser treatment, tapes my knee, smiles. “Nothing serious,” he says. “Just ice that knee twice a day, stop the gym and the daily walking, don't do anything that makes it hurt, come in for tape and laser treatments twice a week, and you should be walking normally in maybe six or eight weeks.”

I pretend this is fine. I know I'm fortunate, the injury is temporary, and surgery won't be necessary. Secretly, I'm stunned. Walking is a major part of our life this year in Palm Beach. So is dancing. In the car going home, I silently start crying and turn my face to the window.

“You okay?” Dick says.

“I'm okay.”

He looks over. Very softly, he says, “Hey, look at me. Are you crying?”

“I'm being a baby,” I say. “I mean, I know I'm lucky it's not serious.” I wipe tears away but they keep coming. “But this is our one year in Palm Beach. We walk everywhere here. Walking is what we do here.”

“So, we haven't driven much. We like our cars. Now we have an excuse to drive,” Dick says. “And we can stay home more. It'll be fine.”

“I'll miss dancing,” I say.

“So we'll dance at home. I'll just hold you, and we won't really move.”

We're both quiet for a while.

“I'm really sorry to wreck our year like this,” I say.

“Don't be silly. You're not wrecking anything,” Dick says.

I know on the one hand he's right. This isn't a big deal. But on the other hand it's not just me who's suffering here. I may have to deal with the pain, but Dick's temporarily losing a walking and a dancing partner.

Also, walking is when we talk, when we hash out ideas, smooth out our misunderstandings, come up with revelations. Walking has always been a vehicle for managing our life together. We've figured out a lot as we walk along. For the next six or eight weeks, walking won't be a big part of our life.