Year in Palm Beach (6 page)

“Bob, I had the same promise from Benjamin a week ago. The kid doesn't know what he is doing. He's screwing up Pam's and my work schedules big time. He's screwing up our daily lives,” I say.

“Give him one more chance,” Bob says. “Everything done by next Friday, maybe Thursday.”

“Bob, I doubt it, but okay, Friday, that's it.” I hang up, feeling really beaten up. I know Benjamin is not going to have everything done. More likely he'll have nothing done.

Tonight, to escape, Pam and I walk over to the lake to watch the lights of West Palm Beach come on as day becomes night. Our plan is dinner and a Yankee game at Bice Ristorante. We haven't bothered to hook up cable yet.

I love Bice, but in recent years it sometimes makes me feel like a fossil. Pam and I first came here for a business lunch about fifteen years ago. I remember when Ronnie was a kid behind the bar, and now he's a real estate tycoon, married, and with two little kids of his own.

I remember when Jose was a waiter with no gray hair, and now he is a distinguished looking member of the management team. I remember when Jose's brother, Javier, was a busser who spoke almost no English. He is now the manager at Pizza al Fresco and speaks better English than I do. I'm so old I remember when Phillipe, who's behind the bar, was sane.

Jose welcomes us. We grab an empty bar table, have a cocktail, and share a chopped salad and a pizza. Pam and I love sharing meals. It's one of life's simple pleasures. The baseball game is not exciting, but the Yanks win it, and the evening is a welcome diversion from the chaos at the cottage.

Tuesday, September 22

This morning the electrician we waited for all day yesterday finally arrives. He can't fix the disposal, and he explains the three non-working plugs in the yellow room have no wiring going to them, but he says he can put switches on the outdoor lights by tomorrow or maybe Thursday. And with that, he is gone.

“This really sucks,” Pam says.

“What are you talking,” I say. “At this rate this place should be all fixed up by Christmas, New Year's Eve at the latest.”

“Not funny, Dick. Let's take a walk.”

After a few blocks of walking, I say to Pam, “Are you planning to rob these houses?”

She frowns and says, “What are you talking about?”

“You haven't said a word the last two blocks and you seem to be casing all the houses.”

She smiles. “I'm just trying to figure out how many of these houses are really empty. There were nineteen out of twenty-eight on that last block.”

So we both count houses on two or three more blocks and figure almost two thirds are unoccupied. As we get home, Pam says, “You know, no one lives next to us on either side, or in the house behind us, or the one across the street.”

“Maybe all these places are as screwed up as our cottage and nobody wants to live in them.”

“No, really,” Pam says, “I never thought the town would be this empty.”

Saturday, September 26

No one showed up Wednesday or Thursday or Friday. I'm going nuts. I call Bob. “This is our fourth Saturday here. This week is over and we're not even close. We're never going to be close.”

“Oh hell, Dick, don't move. Let me call Ben. I'll call you right back,” Bob says. Click. I'm counting to ten very slowly. Over and over again. Slowly.

He calls back. “Dick, I want you and Pam to be happy there. We will take care of those problems,” Bob says. “Benjamin absolutely promised me he can finish by Tuesday.”

“Stop,” I interrupt. “Here's the deal, Bob. Pam and I have book signings on the west coast. We're gone from this afternoon until Tuesday afternoon. If, when we get back, everything is not fixed, it will become a huge problem for everyone involved.”

Tuesday, September 29

Pam and I get back home this afternoon. Looks like nothing has been done. Pam is just shaking her head.

“I've got a suggestion,” I say.

“Suicide… murder… arson… sex… drugs… rock and roll?” Pam says.

“One or two of those sound okay, but my thought was a walk, a shower, and dinner and dancing at The Chesterfield. No talk of work, no talk of the cottage.”

“Ah, the ostrich approach to life,” Pam says. “I like it.”

“Sometimes, the ostrich approach can be the best approach,” I say.

And for one night it works.

Wednesday, September 30

When I wake up this morning, Pam is already up. I find her having tea by the pool. She has several of our cottage “lists” and is going through them carefully. She's listening to classical music, which means she is thinking.

“This whole thing is nuts, total insanity,” Pam says by way of greeting.

“I guess the ostrich approach has a short shelf life.”

She gets up. “I'm going in to call Bob.”

“And say what?”

“I don't know. I guess that we won't live like this.”

“Good,” I say, “because we won't.”

When she reappears, she says, “He's out of the office till Friday. I just left him a message saying we couldn't go on like this. Something has to be done, like get us a hotel room until the cottage is liveable.”

“What a mess.”

Thursday, October 1

I open my eyes to early morning light filtering through the curtains. My bedside clock reads seven thirty. I roll over and see Dick still asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, feeling very much in love. On the wall are pictures we took of each other during our honeymoon in Antigua. I had a lucky night at the craps table, and in the pictures we each have a pile of casino chips in our laps, and we're laughing. Dick looks the same to me now as he did then. Of course, he can't really, but that's the way I see him.

My mind wanders to the present. I can't believe it's the first of October and we're still dealing with house problems.

Dick rolls over, opens his eyes, and smiles. Amazingly, even after all these years, he smiles when he wakes up and sees me.

“Espresso?” he says.

“That would be nice,” I say. “I'll wake the birdies and get some biscotti and fruit.” I finally got around to making biscotti this past weekend. It's normally part of our breakfast routine. I worried it might turn out differently in the oven here, but then, it turns out a little differently each time I make it.

We settle in the yellow room with the screen door open. I love the view of the pool. It's framed by tall hedges and, at the far end, bordered by geraniums and hibiscus. Two cardinals are playing in the birdbath. I hear the gurgle of the little fountain Dick made, and the coo of doves from somewhere.

“It's sad we can't get these cottage problems taken care of,” I say. “Actually, it's ridiculous.”

“Bob's message said he's back tomorrow, right?” Dick says. “We'll see if he has a solution.” He pauses. “Although maybe he's the problem as well as Benjamin.”

“That's what I'm beginning to think,” I say.

“This all sounded so easy last August,” Dick says. “Maybe we should break the lease, get out of here.”

“That's depressing,” I say. “A month of trying to get things done, wasted. But, I guess we could be wasting more time if we stay.”

Peter Island comes into my mind. A few years after we got married, when Dick's daughter Samantha was safely in college, we quit our jobs, left New York, and took our boat to the Caribbean. We eventually went to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and tried to see if either of us could find a job. Dick found one at Peter Island Resort, and we ended up selling our boat and living and working there for five years, and became travel writers in the process.

The first year on Peter Island was tremendously stressful. We had traded Manhattan for a seven-mile-long, mountainous island that was deserted except for a forty-room private resort. There were ten full-time residents, all of us either a hotel employee or a spouse. It was a twenty-minute boat ride to the nearest grocery store. For six months, the immigration department kept finding things wrong with my papers.

One of Dick's jobs was resident tennis pro. I had just recently been an executive at a Fortune 500 company and was used to being near the top of the power chain. Suddenly, I was at rock bottom. At the Monday night cocktail parties Dick and I were required to host, I learned no guest wanted to be stuck talking to the tennis pro's wife. I learned a great deal and discovered a lot about myself on Peter Island. So did Dick. It was a wonderful adventure, in the end.

“You know,” I say. “We made Peter Island work.”

Dick looks at me. “Yeah, we did. But that took a lot of time. I'm too old to do that again.”

“Me, too,” I say. “So let's hedge our bets, look for another rental. Living in Palm Beach is supposed to be our great adventure.”

Dick laughs. “It is. It's an adventure in home repair and managing stress,” he says. “We'll look at other rentals.”

We spend the day researching rentals online, talk to several real estate agents, and visit several possible cottages. Now it's seven o'clock, and we're both still at our computers, searching.

“I'm done,” Dick says. “Let's get out of here, find a saloon.”

We change clothes and head out. Not a single car is parked along our block, and we're the only people on the sidewalk. The air is filled with the scent of jasmine. Waves break in the distance. Our house problems slip away.

In a few blocks we come to Amici and go in for a drink. Beth is behind the bar.

“A Miller Lite and a Prosecco?” she asks.

“That would be perfect,” Dick says, “but you guys don't carry Miller Lite.”

“We do now. Maurizio heard you asking for it the other night,” she says.

Just then Maurizio, the restaurant owner, emerges from the kitchen and comes towards us. Medium height. Brown eyes. Five o'clock shadow. Fabulous smile.

“
Buona sera
,” he says. “Welcome back to Amici.”

Dick thanks him for getting Miller Lite. We stay for a dinner of salad and pasta at a candlelit table on the terrace. The wind picks up a bit, the surf gets a little louder, and distant thunder and lightning again provide a nighttime show. For the rest of the evening, house troubles are forgotten.

Friday, October 2

First thing this morning, my cell rings. It's Bob. He's back. Got my message.

“Look,” I say, “Dick and I are through. We're breaking the lease.”

Bob says, “Wait, wait, wait. Calm down. I've got a solution.”

“Too late.”

“No, no,” he says. “I was stupid. Benjamin's the son of a friend. I gave the kid too many chances. This is my fault. I've got you a new property manager. His name's Eduardo. He's reliable. He'll be at your place in half an hour. I promise things will get better.”

“Okay,” I say. “But this is your last chance.”

In twenty minutes, Eduardo arrives at the door. Tall. Very thin. Dark-haired. A trim moustache. Notepad in hand, he looks at the leaky toilet, the faulty water heater, the clogged gas jets, and everything else that isn't functioning properly. He writes it all down. “This stuff was patched, not fixed,” he says. “It's easy stuff. Just have to do it right.”

He makes sure one of us can be here Monday and Tuesday, goes outside to use his cell phone, returns with the news that everything will be fixed by Tuesday afternoon, guaranteed. A gang of workers will start Monday morning.

Eduardo seems knowledgeable and efficient, but I can't help feeling skeptical. This isn't the first time promises have been made.

Saturday, October 3

The weather is still summery. We take the morning papers and Duckie and Blanco in their cage and go out by the pool. So far life in Palm Beach away from the cottage is a pleasure. I'm not sure exactly what Dick and I expected, but it definitely was not the small-town feeling we're experiencing. This is a community where the morning's Shiny Sheet reports, “Police are investigating the theft of a pair of sunglasses.”

In New York City, years ago, my car was stolen. I called the police. They told me to come in and fill out some paperwork; I'd never see that car again. Dick and I laugh at the silliness of some of the police reports here, but the truth is, serious crimes are rare in this town. The police force is wonderful, helpful, polite. I feel very safe.

We spend the day outside doing chores. Now the evening sky is a blend of pale blues and pinks, the air is soft and warm, and the family of doves is lined up along the guest cottage roof.

“Dinner at home?” Dick says.

“Sounds great,” I say. “Maybe those grilled chicken breasts you make, with ham and Swiss on top?”

“And ‘Pam's potatoes'?”

“And an arugula salad?”

“And a bottle of Barolo?”

We go into the kitchen. Dick sets the iPod to Peter Cetera and we get to work. Dick pounds chicken breasts, mashes garlic and mustard for a marinade, and makes a salad. I peel and quarter small potatoes, thinly slice mushrooms and brown them on both sides, then sauté garlic and onions in a cast-iron baking dish. The kitchen fills with the aroma of garlic. I add kalamata olives, then the mushrooms and potatoes, and put the casserole in the oven, covered, to cook for an hour. The potatoes will sponge up the flavors of the other ingredients and become intense.

The space we are working in is tiny compared to our kitchen in New Smyrna, but Dick and I are adapting. It's easier to stay in one place, so there's a lot of “could you hand me” this or that and an occasional “I'm behind you.” In a funny way, I find it pleasantly cozy.

Prep work done, we go outside. Dick lights the wood in the fire pit, starts the charcoal, sets the iPod to Elton John. Eventually, the coals are ready, and Dick grills the chicken. I bring out the potatoes and salad. We linger over dinner, watch the fire burn into embers, then walk to the beach.