Year in Palm Beach (22 page)

“Help me here,” I say. “Isn't it March? It can't be Halloween. What's going on?”

What is going on is the annual Worth Avenue Pet Parade and Contest. Sherry, President of the Worth Avenue Association, is again the emcee.

Once again, we see dogs in pink tutus and in blue sequin dresses and dogs with nail polish to match the color of their outfits. One dog is dressed as Michael Jackson, another as the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
. The courtyard is overflowing with people and pets in costume.

“I think once a year is enough,” I say. “Actually, once a year is more than enough.”

“I agree,” Pam says. “Let's go home for an espresso.”

Wednesday, March 31

March is almost over, the winter people are mostly gone, and the spring breakers are back in class. The island has gone quiet again. We are sitting at the edge of our pool, dangling our feet in the water and talking.

Dinner tonight is a simple cookout by the pool with Kenny Chesney. Afterwards, dishes in the sink, we sit in our front yard, looking at the night sky. No one is around, just the stars and clouds and the distant sound of the waves and, occasionally, a passing train.

“I think Samantha and Jason are in love,” Pam says.

“So do I.”

“You and I are still in love,” Pam says.

“Yes we are. It's amazing,” I say. “Just the two of us here, two old lovebirds sitting together in the yard.”

“Yes, this is wonderful,” Pam says. “But don't forget we have houseguests coming tomorrow.”

“That's tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight we have us.”

Pam and I have written books on Florida's many romantic escapes. We've stayed at dozens and dozens of supremely romantic resorts and inns all over the world. Tonight, I can't imagine a more romantic escape anywhere than the front yard of our little cottage in Palm Beach.

Thursday, April 1

I rush home from my art class. I'm working on two paintings, a bird and some flowers. Tony and Karen, friends from Connecticut, are arriving this afternoon. Dick has known them most of his adult life. I met them soon after I met Dick. They've spent the last three days and nights wining and dining clients at the Four Seasons and warned us they do not want to see a restaurant or any people other than us before heading back north tomorrow.

A taxi arrives at our house in the late afternoon, and Tony and Karen roll out looking exhausted. Dick and I take them and their luggage to the guest cottage.

“Laze around the pool or go for a walk?” Dick says.

“A walk sounds wonderful,” Karen says. The four of us head west along residential streets, catching up on news of kids and families and friends. My appointments with Dr. Keith are over, although I still have some pain and wear a brace for long walks.

“That's Cat House over there,” I say.

“What?” Karen says.

I point. “See those cats on the roof? We named it Cat House. We've named lots of houses.”

“Names? You've named the houses? Why on earth would you do that?” Karen says.

“I don't know. We just have,” I say.

Tony seems distracted and I wonder if he's worrying about work. Suddenly he says, “These parking signs are absurd. For the last three blocks, the rules change every couple of spaces.”

He points to the sign we are passing. “See, ‘No parking nine a.m. to six p.m. except weekends.' That next one,” he points, “just one space away, says, ‘No parking without a permit.' The one over there says, ‘No parking nine a.m. to midnight except Sundays.'”

Karen picks up the thread as we keep walking. “This one says, ‘No parking without a permit eight a.m. to five p.m.,'” she says. “That one, ‘No parking without a permit except Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays.' Parking poetry.”

“Palm Beach haiku,” I say.

We follow a beach path down to the sand and walk south. The waves are gentle today, but the weather is cool and the beach almost deserted. Our guests roll up their pants and test the water, saying that they never got anywhere near the ocean during the business part of the trip.

By the time the four of us get back to the cottage, Tony and Karen look a little more relaxed. We have champagne and chilled shrimp by the pool. The doves sit in a row on the cottage roof, observing us.

“Karen, what music do you want with dinner?” Dick says.

“Well, Enya would be nice.”

Dick sets up the iPod and lights the grill. I bring out a salad, a dish of roasted vegetables, and marinated filets and chicken breasts. Dick opens a bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva, and the four of us spend the evening dining under the stars. It gets a bit smoky, so Dick relates the tale of the visit by the fire department. I see Karen eyeing the smoke and worrying about a return visit, but the smoke goes away, and we're safe for tonight.

“Bumper pool, anyone?” Dick says.

“And maybe an Irish Coffee,” Tony says.

“Of course,” Dick says. “The only beverage with the four essential food groups: alcohol, caffeine, sugar, and fat.”

After a heated match, we take a last walk to the beach, and then agree it's time to call it a night.

Friday, April 2

As I come back inside with the morning papers, I hear Dick making espresso. I go get Duckie and Blanco and the four of us settle in the living room. Tony and Karen are still among the missing. Duck seems quiet and is moving slowly. I study her for a few minutes.

“Think Duck's okay?” I ask Dick.

Dick watches her.

“She seems okay,” Dick says. “Maybe the Duck and Tony stayed up for a few after the rest of us went to bed.”

Tony and Karen walk into the living room.

“You guys sleep okay?” Dick says.

“Yes,” says Karen. “The futon was a surprise. It's quite comfortable. But, you know, the water pressure in that cottage is not good.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

Dick says, “We'll have a plumber install an auxiliary pump before your next visit.”

I say, “How about a walk to breakfast?” I put the birds back in the cage, and we walk toward Victor's. As we turn onto Worth, Karen says, “Saks Fifth Avenue and Ferragamo? Yesterday, we were on quiet streets and the beach. I would never have believed town was so close.”

As we approach Victor's, Karen looks at me skeptically. “This is the restaurant? It doesn't look like much. It's really okay?”

I look at her and nod my head. “Trust me.”

As everyone is finishing up omelets and fresh fruit and espressos, Karen says, “Sorry I questioned this place. Best breakfast we've had since we got to Florida.” She looks around the courtyard. “And what a setting. That wall of purple bougainvillea is dazzling. Tony and I also have to apologize for thinking you guys were crazy to move here for a year. I mean what couple could be less Palm Beachy? But we get it now.”

“No apology necessary,” Dick says.

Tony looks at his watch. “We'd better go,” he says.

Karen looks at me. “Is there an Armani store here?” she says.

“Yes, it's very close,” I say. Tony frowns.

We walk to the Armani store, and Karen finds a black silk T-shirt she wants.

The salesman asks if she would mind coming back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Karen looks around the store, sees no other customers, says, “Why?”

“A gentleman just called and ordered seventy-five shirts,” the salesman says, “twenty-five for each of his three houses, and we've already started ringing up the sale. It's going to be a little while before the computer's free.”

“Karen, I don't want you guys to miss your plane. I'll come back later, send it up to you,” I say.

We walk home and drive Karen and Tony to the airport. When we get back, I go in to let the birds out. Duck is on the floor of the cage, barely able to stand. She looks terrible.

“Dick,” I say, “something's really wrong with Duck.”

Dick comes in, picks Duckie up. She looks like a limp pile of feathers.

“I'll call that vet we went to last fall,” I say. I call, only to find out the doctor is leaving soon.

“We gotta go right now,” I say to Dick. “We'd better take both birds, just in case.”

We get in the car, hit every red light, but somehow get there in time. The doctor examines Duckie, takes her to be x-rayed, returns with bad news. Duckie has swallowed a tiny piece of metal that is now poisoning her. There is an antidote, the bird could pass the metal, but the odds are not good. The doctor thinks Duckie might die.

“How could she swallow metal?” I ask.

“The piece is very tiny,” the doctor says. “It was probably on the floor, came in on a shoe, you know how cockatiels peck at everything. It happens.” The doctor says Duckie should stay there, the staff will give her food and medicine. We leave Blanco as company for Duckie. Dick and I are quiet driving home.

“Duck's a strong bird,” I say. “She survived in the woods when she was a baby, before she found us.”

“Yes, but this is a little different. We'll have to wait and see.”

We go back to being silent. I'd never had a pet as an adult until Duckie flew into our lives. I didn't want a pet, but then Duckie won my heart, we got Blanco, and both birds became part of our daily lives. I had no idea birds could be so entertaining and affectionate. I'm shocked I might not see Duckie again.

Saturday, April 3

It's nine in the morning. I call the doctor. She tells me Duckie's not doing well, needs to stay there a few days. I give Dick the news.

“The house is so quiet without those guys,” I say. “I'm just not prepared. I thought Duckie would die of old age, later, not now. I know she's just a bird, but still, I feel so upset.”

“Dogs, cats, birds. Pets are pets,” Dick says. “You love them.” He's quiet for a moment. “Let's go play tennis, take our minds off all this.”

We change into tennis clothes. I put on my knee brace. I play tennis more carefully now.

We zigzag north. There's a public athletic field near the courts, and we often see a soccer game or a softball game in progress when we walk to tennis. Today it's crowded with young children.

“Something's going on,” I say.

“Looks like an Easter egg hunt,” Dick says. “A day early.”

We stop and watch. A lot of the kids look to be quite young, some barely walking. The oldest children are ten, maybe eleven. Other people stop to watch. I ask the man next to me what's going on.

“It's the town's annual Easter egg hunt. This year they hid four thousand eggs,” he says. “There's another one going on now at the Flagler Museum. They have a six-foot-tall Easter Bunny over there.”

The hunt starts. Parents guide the younger children. Kids run around and find eggs. It's a simple event, everyone seems happy. It's like another snapshot from an earlier era. Finally Dick says, “It's getting close to lunchtime, still want to play tennis?”

“I forgot all about tennis,” I say. “No, let's go home.”

We walk home slowly. “This town is so curious,” I say. “The holiday events here are so simple, there's almost no pomp and circumstance. Yet in other ways there's so much in Palm Beach that is extravagant and showy.”

“You mean like the ornate mansions and the expensive cars and the flashy diamonds.”

“Exactly,” I say. “It's almost like it's simultaneously two different places. Sometimes I think I'm living in a small town in the nineteen fifties. Then a couple of brand new Ferraris zoom by.”

We both go quiet for a while and walk on. “Did you and Cam have Easter baskets when you guys were little?” I say.

“Yeah, of course. The Easter Bunny brought them,” Dick says. “We'd wake up to a trail of jelly beans that led to a basket with candies and a present or two. I remember I got my first tennis racquet one Easter.”

“I got my first bra from the Easter Bunny. I was ten and wanted a bra so badly. Not that I had anything to put in it. I even wore that bra to bed, I was so happy to have it.”

“I didn't get my first bra till I was twelve,” Dick says.

“You mean you didn't get into your first bra till then,” I say.

We continue walking. I see three young girls up ahead. They're maybe six or seven, in pastel dresses with full skirts, bows tied at the back. They've drawn a hopscotch court onto the sidewalk with pink, blue, and yellow chalk. The squares are uneven and the lines a bit irregular. The girls throw their beanbags onto the squares, hopping and squealing with laughter.

“Boy, talk about things being out of another era,” I say. “See how funny this town is?”

Sunday, April 4

The weather these early April days is lovely. Nights are in the high fifties. Days are in the mid-seventies and occasionally higher. So far it has been sunny and clear, and it is a joy to keep all the windows open. I hear the sounds of the ocean waves, the cooing of our family of doves, the humming of tree frogs in the early evening.

It's Easter Sunday, almost noon. We're sitting outside with the papers. The tomato seeds I planted are now vines propped up with stakes, heavy with tiny green tomatoes. Two cardinals are splashing in the birdbath.

“I keep thinking about Duckie,” I say.

“We can call tomorrow morning,” Dick says, “see how the Duckster's doing.”

Dick is trying to cheer me up with tidbits from the Shiny Sheet. “They arrested a man on charges of burglary. The police found him asleep in his car with all of the stolen stuff right next to him on the front seat.” He looks up. “Burgling must be exhausting work.” He puts down the section, and I pick it up.

“Did you see this?” I say.

“What?” Dick says.

“They're renovating Worth,” I say. “I don't know how we missed this. It's a big deal. They're going to rip up the entire avenue, replace all the trees, the planting, completely redo the entire street and all the sidewalks.”