Year in Palm Beach (19 page)

“Well, that Ferrari has some dirt on its right front wheel.” Almost all the cars I am looking at can go about 200 miles an hour. They do zero to sixty in three or four seconds. Just what one needs on an island where the top speed limit is thirty miles an hour. Whenever I read about a brand-new model of an expensive or exotic car, I invariably spot one soon after on the streets of Palm Beach. No wonder there are so many exotic car dealerships just across the bridge.

“Your knee okay to walk over to the lake?” Dick says.

“It seems fine,” I say, and we continue on to the lake.

“Let's find a bench,” he says. “We've been remiss in our duties as DOPES.”

We settle onto a bench under one of the banyan trees. The town docks are as full as can be, with mega yacht after mega yacht.

As I gaze out at the bridge to the mainland, which is just north of the docks, the bells sound and the drawbridge goes up.

I flash back to all the times we drove over that bridge for our Palm Beach escapes. The feeling of getting off I-95 and then getting onto the bridge was something. I could feel the real world slip from my shoulders and get left behind on the mainland.

But I knew it was always a brief escape, could never be where we really lived. In fact, I was sure we would never even want to be here for more than a few days. Sometimes we know so little about ourselves, I think. I'm glad we still have more than six months ahead of us here.

Tuesday, February 23

February is supposed to be the busiest month of the year in Palm Beach, and so far this holds true. The stores, streets, and restaurants are full and the town feels crowded to me, which is bizarre.

When we lived in New York, crowded meant twenty women in line for a dressing room at Bloomingdale's, or a movie queue snaking around the corner and up the next block. Going to a Knicks game involved jostling with thousands of people fighting for space on the escalators in Madison Square Garden. Somehow I've gotten so re-adjusted that if four other women are in the shoe department at Saks, it feels busy to me.

The restaurants are so full this time of year it's impossible to get in without a reservation on weekends. We've learned that Monday and Tuesday after nine are the best nights to be spontaneous. Tonight we stop by Café L'Europe late, and they have a table for us.

“Lots and lots of people, night after night,” Dick says.

“I know the restaurants need the business, but I'd sort of like these crowds to go away,” I say.

“It's funny,” Dick says. “It wasn't long ago we were looking forward to the season. Now we want it to be over.”

“You know what's even funnier?” I say. “You and I were here before these people arrived and we'll be here after they leave. We've already been here almost six months. Many of the seasonal people only see Palm Beach for six or seven weeks, or maybe even less. It's starting to feel like the on-season people are the visitors, not us.”

We finish dinner close to eleven and walk the block to the beach. The evening's so beautiful we walk along the ocean for several blocks and turn east onto Worth Avenue. My knee is getting better and I walk more, but still slowly. As we pass Saks, the door opens and Terri, who works there, walks out.

Dick says, “Terri, you lose your watch? Saks closes at six.”

“Not tonight,” she says. “Not for me, anyway. I just spent two hours with a private shopper whose name you would certainly know if I could mention it. I can't.”

“So Saks opens the entire store just for this one shopper?”

“Exactly. And it is well worth it for the store. And for me.” She smiles.

Thursday, February 25

I drive to my first art class today, where I hope to learn how to paint with acrylics. The instructor e-mailed his students a list of necessary supplies, and I have everything with me, I hope. I haven't been to a class of any kind in many years and feel excited and a little scared.

The classroom is big and high-ceilinged and full of paint-splattered easels. I love how it looks. The teacher is a young guy. There are seven other students besides me, all adults and all different ages. He asks us to introduce ourselves, and I learn there are several other true beginners like me.

The teacher talks to us about types of brushes, shows us how to mix primary paints to make a whole range of colors, then suggests we try to paint a still life he has set up. The class is three hours long but goes by quickly.

“So, how was it?” Dick says when I walk in the door.

“I really liked it,” I say.

Dick smiles. “I knew you would.”

Tonight Dick and I are walking slowly toward The Chesterfield. I'm encouraged by the progress of my knee, but life is still not quite normal for us.

We hope to dance tonight, but it won't be to “Hungry Like the Wolf” or “Shout,” one of my all-time favorite dancing songs. It'll be more like “Lady in Red” and “Second Time Around.” As we pass The Invisible Man's House, I see the telltale glow of a television.

“Dick,” I say. “Look in that upstairs window. He could be in there watching TV.”

We walk a little further, and I hear a cacophony of squawking. It's above me somewhere, coming closer.

“What's that noise?” I say.

“I have no idea,” Dick says.

Dozens and dozens of bright green birds appear overhead. They land on the phone wires and on the palm fronds directly above us.

“Those look like parrots,” I say. “But they can't be. Isn't it way too cold here for parrots? Don't they live in South America or something?”

There must be at least sixty birds now perched above us. They are beautiful. We watch them for a while, then walk on to The Chesterfield, take a seat at the bar. Michelle, John, and Lou are working this evening.

“Michelle,” I say, “Dick and I just saw a flock of birds that look like parrots. They landed on the telephone wires. Have you ever seen them?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I've seen them. Aren't they noisy? They're parrots, green-cheeked Amazon parrots, to be exact. I think it began with pet parrots that escaped, but now there's a huge colony of them.”

John, who is listening, adds, “They're protected. The entire island of Palm Beach is a designated bird sanctuary. And some people say a designated nut sanctuary, as well.”

Adam plays a slow song, and we dance. After a minute or so, another couple gets up to dance. They are doing a
Dancing with the Stars
thing, with kicks, and twists, and spins, and dips. They look like professionals.

The music stops and we go back to our stools. Lou, John, and Michelle are standing there, expressionless.

“No jokes tonight?” Dick says.

“No jokes,” Lou says, “but some of us here do have a serious question: Were you two dancing to the same music as that other couple?”

Sunday, February 28

The tomato plants are sprouting, but it is annoying to have them cluttering up our living room. This morning the weather is warm enough that I take them outside, repot them, and line the little plants alongside our pool.

Now Dick and I are curled up on the couch with books. Dick is reading
Gone Tomorrow
, a Jack Reacher I just finished. I'm reading
Lifeguard
by James Patterson. Part of the book takes place in Palm Beach, and some of the characters are actually our favorite Taboo bartenders.

“Dick,” I say, “I'm reading about people at the Taboo bar. Cindy and Bobby. And those two guys who used to work there, Andy and Michael.” I hand Dick the book, open to the page. “See, they've been written into the story.”

“Nice,” Dick says. “So we'll go ask Bobby about it tomorrow night.”

Monday, March 1

“So you were a star in one of James Patterson's novels,” Pam says as we take a seat at Taboo's bar.

Bobby laughs. “Yeah, that's when Michael and Andy were still here. You saw he mentions those two as well as Cindy and me. He has lunch here a lot.”

“How did you find out you were in it?” I ask.

“He just came in one day with four signed copies of the book, one for each of us. He's a really nice guy,” Bobby says.

“Well, if we decide to do a book about Palm Beach, you'll be in it,” Pam says.

Bobby laughs. “Okay, just be sure you spell my name right.”

Tuesday, March 2

Spring has definitely sprung. Daytime temperatures for the next several days are forecast to reach the high seventies. It is hard for me to believe we had all those second thoughts about moving down here. I love living here. I read in the Shiny Sheet the police have cited a man in town for “illegal spearfishing.” Illegal spearfishing two blocks from Neiman Marcus and Saks.

Well, the town is still jumping even if some of the fish apparently are not. When Pam and I are on our walks, Worth Avenue is still crowded and restaurants are full. There are plenty of February people still in town. Don't they know it's March?

This morning, the Shiny Sheet has even more photographs of people than usual at balls and parties and various charity events.

I'm looking at all these people and I say to Pam, “This is scary. I've seen some of these faces so many times, I'm beginning to recognize them.”

“I think that may be the point,” Pam says.

I'm so obtuse. Of course that's what these people are doing. It's a different kind of Facebook. And along with the Shiny Sheet, you can see these same faces in
Palm Beach Today
,
Palm Beach Illustrated
,
Palm Beach Life
,
Palm Beach
,
Palm Beach Society
,
Palm Beach Young Society
, and, although it may be hard to believe,
Palm Beach Pet Society
.

It's funny, if we didn't get the Shiny Sheet or pick up one of these magazines, we would never know any of these faces or that these events had even taken place. I don't think I've seen any of these faces other than on the printed page.

Wednesday, March 3

We're surviving quite well without television. In fact, we are outside more at night, we read more, talk more, and probably think more. We caught some World Series games at Bice and Taboo last fall. Otherwise, Pam and I have been TV-free.

But this month may pose a problem. “March Madness,” the NCAA basketball tournament, is coming up. Tonight I want to try and catch the second half of an ACC Tournament game at Taboo or Bice. Pam says she's going to check the score on her computer before we head over.

A minute or so later, she comes out and says, “The game's on in the office.”

“What game is on in the office?” I say.

“The Duke game.”

“What are you talking? The game is on what?”

“My computer,” Pam says.

I follow her into the office. I have no idea what she is talking about. The game is on her computer live and in color with announcers and everything. I can't believe it. “How is this happening?” I ask.

“I'm not sure, but we can watch the game here if you want.”

“If this magic can work on my laptop, we can watch it out by the pool,” I say.

So, we take my laptop out by the pool and watch the second half. Who needs TV?

Thursday, March 4

I start to take an espresso outside by the pool but stop at the screen door because there is an animal on the guesthouse roof. This animal does not look friendly or familiar to me. I close the door rather quickly. I'm standing safely inside looking out when Carmen, the lady who helps us tame the chaos in the cottage each week, comes over and says matter-of-factly, “It's just a fox.”

Of course, a fox, why didn't I expect that? Iguanas, pigs, foxes. Palm Beach the wildlife sanctuary.

It's now lunchtime and I'm at Sandwiches by the Sea picking up some soup and a sub for our lunch. Maybe a chef salad for the fox. A man and a woman come in. They are discussing what to order when the woman sees my soup on the counter. She turns to me and asks, “Is the soup any good here?”

“The soups are homemade and all very, very good here,” I say.

She looks at me for a second and says, “You mean for a place like this, in Florida.”

I look at her for several seconds. “No, ma'am, that is not what I mean.” Goat Breath. “What I mean is the soups here are very, very good. Period.” Have a nice day.

As it happens, about a week ago, I almost bumped into America's Mayor, Rudy Giuliani, as he was coming out of Sandwiches by the Sea with a couple of bags of subs. You know if a New Yorker like Rudy gets his lunch there, the place has to be good.

Friday, March 5

As lunchtime approaches, Pam says, “You want to take a ride in the car? My knee's been keeping us inside too much, and it's a beautiful day.”

“The car? Do we still have a car?”

“Yes, let's play hooky for a few hours, drive to Delray,” Pam says. “We'll have lunch. And I can pick up some art supplies I need at Hand's.”

I like the part about lunch.

I drop the top of the Corvette, and we head south on A1A. It is a lovely, leisurely drive. The speed limit is thirty-five miles an hour. Not exactly a workout for the Corvette, but a fine speed for us to be able to talk with the top down and enjoy the scenery. The drive runs south with the ocean on one side and beautifully landscaped mansions on the other. Occasionally, we cruise under canopies of trees or through a public park. No one takes this route if they're in a hurry.

After about thirty minutes, I turn onto Atlantic Avenue, Delray's main drag. “Quite a change from Worth,” Pam says.

“A lot more casual and a lot more crowded, you mean.”

“But plenty of restaurants. Your choice.”

I pull in and park in the lot behind Hand's. “Let's do Cubano,” I say. “Nothing like that in Palm Beach.” We walk over and ask the hostess for a booth inside, away from the crowds. Pam orders portobello and shitake mushrooms drenched in garlic sauce with warm pressed Cuban bread, and I pick the picadillo, a Cuban stew of ground beef, tomatoes, peppers, olives, and lots of garlic. We will have no problems with vampires today.