Year in Palm Beach (7 page)

The ocean is black ink, the night cloudless, the sky glittery with stars. To the north, two stars grow larger, turn into headlights. An airplane is making its way south, following the coastline. It passes us, out over the water and fairly high in the sky, then makes a sweeping curve toward the West Palm Beach International Airport, just ten minutes away by car on the mainland. I have always loved planes, and this beach is a good place to watch them, day and night.

Soon another set of headlights materializes and repeats the sequence. A third set of headlights, these much smaller, comes straight out of the east. A tiny plane appears, probably from somewhere in the Bahamas, seventy or eighty miles away.

Suddenly, Dick says, “What's that? Something's in that first wave.”

I peer into the darkness. “I see it,” I say. “It's coming onto the beach.”

“It's the Loch Ness monster,” Dick says.

“Whatever it is, it looks weird.”

“Maybe divers?” Dick says.

Now it does look like several people wearing diving equipment, silhouetted against the black sky. They follow the path from the beach, trudge past us, and climb wetly into a parked van.

“We never see anyone at the beach at night,” Dick says. “Now people are walking out of the ocean?”

Sunday, October 4

We're sitting on a bench in the gardens at The Society of the Four Arts. Statues and sculptures are set between colorful flower beds and under leafy trees. Brilliant purple and red bougainvillea blossoms hang over wooden trellises. It is an oasis of peacefulness and such a contrast to the cottage.

“Shall we say hello to the statesmen before we head home?” Dick says.

We walk over to admire the almost life-size sculpture of Winston Churchill and FDR sitting on a bench chatting, FDR with his cigarette holder and Mr. Churchill with cigar in hand.

Then we walk out past the two miniature bronze giraffes, zigzag our way south along the empty streets toward the beach, and then on to the cottage.

Back on our block, I check on The Invisible Man's House, so named because we've never see a person there, though we do see a grey Volvo parked in many different positions in the driveway. Sure enough, the Volvo is there this afternoon, but not parked where it was earlier today. So far, the car is the only sign of life at the house.

This evening Dick says, “I was thinking of going to Café L'Europe for dinner.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I mostly still like to just wander and end up somewhere, but this Sunday Café L'Europe feels like a good choice.

I choose a dress in a blue peacock print, decorated with sparkles. It makes me feel feminine. And blue high-heeled sandals. I have always adored high heels. Dick puts on a navy blue linen suit. He's had it for years, but it's still beautiful.

It's close to nine, and although people are dining, the bar is fairly empty. Dick and I settle into bar stools, order cocktails, and listen to David's piano fill the room. After a quiet dinner, we walk home along the beach. No Loch Ness monsters tonight. Instead, a single spectacular shooting star streaks across the sky.

Monday, October 5

It's eight o'clock in the morning, and I hear a knock at the door (the doorbell still isn't working). Could this be progress?

Tuesday, October 6

Yesterday's eight o'clock knock was just the beginning. By eight thirty, the house was full of people, and by nine it was a real mess, with workers and tools everywhere. It stayed that way until late this afternoon. Even though we put down tarps, the white floors now look like they have chocolate as well as vanilla fudge ice cream smeared all over them.

The good news is that by five o'clock, everything is fixed. Every faulty valve, pipe, knob, and vent. Over five weeks to get a two-day job done. But the cottage is finally functional. Eduardo is a real property manager. Maybe now Dick and I can finally divide our time between getting our work back on schedule and enjoying life in Palm Beach.

We still haven't gotten around to hooking up the television. I think both of us just want to get workmen out of the house and get on with our lives. I'm also interested to see what life is like without that connection.

Thursday, October 8

I'm at my computer, finishing up an assignment. Duckie's on the floor, playing tug-of-war with the rug fringe. Blanco's on my knee, preening.

Dick comes into the office. “We've got a CD at SunTrust Bank that matures today,” he says. “I looked in the Yellow Pages. There's a branch across the bridge.”

“I think we've walked by a SunTrust,” I say. “It's just a few blocks from here.”

Dick collects our documents, and we walk to where I remember seeing the SunTrust sign. The sign is actually quite small and there is no obvious entrance. Several paths lead to dead ends. At last I spot a door, and in we go.

“This doesn't look like a bank,” Dick says. “There aren't any tellers.”

“It looks like a living room,” I say, taking in the arrangements of chairs and coffee tables on several large Oriental rugs. I see a woman at an antique-looking desk at the far end of the room. She smiles and waves us over.

“Please, have a seat,” she says. “How may I help you on this beautiful morning?”

Dick says, “We have a CD that's matured, but maybe we're in the wrong place.”

The woman smiles. “This isn't one of our regular branches,” she says. “But I can roll over a CD for you.”

“Are you sure?” Dick says. I realize he's slightly embarrassed. “Yes, yes,” the woman says. She reaches for our paperwork, finds us on her computer. We sign papers, she hands us the new CD.

Dick thanks her, and we walk out. “I don't think we're in the right tax bracket for that particular branch,” Dick says.

“Sorry I dragged you in there,” I say.

Friday, October 9

Now that the cottage problems are behind us, Dick and I are able to really explore the neighborhood, and I have a much better understanding of where we live.

Our cottage is “in town,” as the locals say, on the widest part of the island, which stretches about a half mile from the beach and Atlantic Ocean to the Lake Worth Lagoon, an estuary separating Palm Beach from mainland Florida.

The center of our part of Palm Beach is Worth Avenue, which is a few blocks south of our cottage and runs from the ocean beach to the lake.

It's one of the world's most famous shopping streets, wide and lined with palm trees, flower beds, and mostly one- or two-story buildings. Arched walkways, locally called “vias,” lead from the avenue to charming courtyard shops and cafes.

In many ways, Worth Avenue resembles an old-fashioned Main Street from the 1950s, except that instead of apothecaries and hardware stores and barber shops, there are luxury boutiques selling designer clothing and linens and handbags and jewelry. And rather than DeSotos, Studebakers, and Packards lining the sidewalk, there are Mercedes and BMWs, and the occasional Rolls-Royce.

The streets just north of Worth are mostly residential, with a real estate office or a restaurant or a dry cleaner here and there, plus The Chesterfield Hotel and The Brazilian Court Hotel.

Just south of Worth Avenue is also residential, with the exception of the exclusive Everglades Club and The Colony hotel. Near the center of town, a handful of five- or six-story condominiums border the lake and the ocean, but the rest of the area is made up mostly of one- or two-story houses.

Although our walking routes are random, Dick and I mostly stay within a rectangle that extends from the Breakers resort south to Hammon, and from the ocean beach to the lake.

There are little cottages like ours here and there, but most of the houses range from about 3,000 to 10,000 square feet, though some are much larger, and virtually all the houses facing the lake or the ocean are immense.

Most houses have at least one guesthouse and a pool and are frequently hidden by twenty- or thirty-foot tall hedges. Wrought iron gates open to driveways of coquina or brick.

Many are Spanish Mediterranean in style, with barrel-tile roofs, balconies, and loggias. Others are Italian Renaissance, or Bermuda-style, or even New England clapboard. All are immaculate. Many were created in the 1920s and 1930s by a handful of influential architects, including Addison Mizner and Maurice Fatio. The town has a dizzying set of strictly enforced renovation and new construction rules. No garish McMansions allowed.

To the west, from certain vantage points, skyscrapers are visible in the distance. These are on the far side of the Lake Worth Lagoon, in the city of West Palm Beach.

Saturday, October 10

We take our morning papers over to Victor's Café, in the Gucci courtyard off Worth Avenue. It has a tiny dining room and alfresco tables set among flowers. As we approach, a delicious aroma mingles with the scent of tropical flowers. Victor stands at the entrance, dressed in his signature Bermuda shorts and golf shirt.

“Victor, what smells so good?” Dick asks.

“Scones,” he replies. “Blueberry ones are baking right now.” He looks at his watch. “They'll be ready in one minute.”

Dick orders one for us to split, plus two espressos, and we settle at an outdoor table. I break open the scone. It's warm, slightly crusty, soft inside, with lots of blueberries. Dick reaches for
The Wall Street Journal
so I take
The New York Times
, but instead of reading, I look around the courtyard.

Brilliant bougainvillea blossoms cover some walls. There's a little sculpture garden with enchanting life-size sculptures of children playing, picking apples, and climbing trees. Several small birds swoop down from a tall, slender cypress tree and land at my feet, hoping for a crumb. Other birds are perched on a tree branch, singing.

It feels far away from our house and our computers and could almost pass for somewhere near the Mediterranean except, of course, we didn't have to go to various airports and stand in lines and take off our shoes and belts and jackets.

Dick looks up from the Shiny Sheet. “It says here, ‘A Palm Beach business owner contacted the police to report harassing phone calls he has been receiving for a year.' A year?” he says. “I might have reported this a bit sooner.”

Sunday, October 11

Today we discover several blocks not far from us where most of the houses seem to be lived in, apparently by families with school-age children. Although there aren't any people around, simple toys and tricycles and basketballs and even a couple of pogo sticks are on the porches and in the yards. Cars are parked in the driveways. Street signs along these family blocks read, “Children at Play.”

This reminds me of the way life was when I was a child, before kids were being snatched right and left, before video games kept children inside all day, before toys became complex and computerized.

These kids can safely walk to school or the beach or the soccer field or the tennis courts. Probably, for these families, Palm Beach is like a small, safe, old-fashioned town. In this day and age, I think, what a privilege to grow up in a place like this.

Monday, October 12

Dick and I have made dinner and set the table, but we feel like having cocktails out. We walk to Taboo, check on the aquarium fish, and settle into seats next to two thirty-something women. Bobby comes over and we order drinks.

The woman sitting next to me reaches into a little shopping bag, takes out a small box, and shows her friend the diamond bracelet she just bought.

“It cost forty thousand dollars,” she says. “He'll never know.” I take a discreet peek at the bracelet. It's dazzling.

The woman glances toward Taboo's entrance. “Oh my God, my husband just walked in! I can't let him see this!”

She puts the bracelet back in the box, stuffs the box in the bag, and turns to Bobby.

“Quick, hide this behind the bar!” she says as she hands him a little Tiffany shopping bag.

Forty thousand dollars worth of jewelry, tucked between the olives, the onions, and the Bloody Mary mix.

Tuesday, October 13

Duckie and Blanco need their nails and wings clipped. Naturally there's no place to get this done on the island, so I check the
West Palm Beach Yellow Pages
for pet stores, find Birds off Broadway, and talk to Jay, the owner, who tells me our birds can't be clipped until they've had their annual exam by a veterinarian. Our cockatiels have lived nine years without annual exams.

“Annual exams,” I say, “for birds?”

“Before you can bring them here for clipping, they need a physical exam, and they must be tested for …” and he rattles off a bunch of Latin-sounding words. “Just call this doctor; she'll know what you need,” he says, giving me a number. I call and, to my surprise, can make an appointment for this afternoon.

After lunch, Dick and I put Duckie and Blanco in their traveling cage and get in the Audi. The doctor is a good half hour away over unfamiliar roads, but with the help of directions magically beamed to my cell, we get there on time.