Year in Palm Beach Read online

  BOOKS BY

  PAMELA ACHESON AND RICHARD B. MYERS

  THE BEST ROMANTIC ESCAPES IN FLORIDA, VOLUME ONE

  THE BEST ROMANTIC ESCAPES IN FLORIDA, VOLUME TWO

  VISITING THE VIRGIN ISLANDS WITH THE KIDS

  THE BEST OF THE BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

  THE BEST OF ST. THOMAS AND ST. JOHN, U.S. VIRGIN ISLANDS

  BOOKS BY

  RICHARD B. MYERS

  TENNIS FOR HUMANS: WINNING HINTS, TIPS, AND STRATEGIES

  FOR THE COMPETITIVE CLUB LEVEL PLAYER

  Copyright © 2011 by Pamela Acheson and Richard B. Myers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All the places in this book are real. Some names and locations have been disguised for privacy, and license has been taken with dates and chronology.

  Page 7: Excerpt from “The Country Life”

  © 2007, 2010 Peter Cincotti and SonyATV Music Publishing, Inc.

  Used with permission.

  Permission given to authors to change the words “country life” to “Palm Beach life.”

  Page 315: Excerpt from “One More Moment”

  Music by Johnny Rodgers, Lyrics by Johnny Rodgers and Lina Koutrakos.

  © Melody Thread Music (ASCAP)/Plynerpublishing (ASCAP). Used by permission.

  Two Thousand Three Associates

  4180 Saxon Drive, New Smyrna Beach, FL 32169

  www.twothousandthree.com

  www.ayearinpalmbeach.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress

  ISBN: 978-1-892285-15-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition: August 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A YEAR IN PALM BEACH

  LIFE IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

  “Let’s go back and find

  The simple world we knew

  ‘cause I still wanna live again

  The Palm Beach life with you

  Don’t let it be another thing

  We always meant to do

  Just let me live again

  The Palm Beach life with you”

  –Adapted from “Country Life”

  by Peter Cincotti

  CONTENTS

  A Word about Palm Beach

  “How Did Yesterday Get So Far Away from Today?”

  “You Guys Are in for an Adventure.”

  “We’ll Be Fat and Broke in a Month.”

  “Perhaps We Could Hunt Benjamin Down and Beat Him with a Stick.”

  “What Are You Guys, Hillbillies?”

  “I See, That Would Make Us the Town DOPES.”

  “What’s That? We Must Be Under Attack.”

  “I Feel Like Tony Soprano When the Ducks Left.”

  “They’ve Ordered Piggy Pie Freckles to Leave.”

  “I’m Looking Around for a Wood Chipper.”

  “Maybe It’s Time to Start Throwing Paint Around.”

  “You Don’t Have the Bulge.”

  “Chardonnay, and a Bowl of Chilled Evian for My Puppy, Please.”

  “We Finally Just Stopped Counting at Ninety-Six.”

  “It’s a Perfect Example of the Law of Unintended Consequences.”

  Epilogue

  A WORD ABOUT PALM BEACH

  The Town of Palm Beach occupies a barrier island that is sixteen miles long and about a half-mile wide, just off the east coast of Florida. The quiet, well-manicured town has a population of about 10,000 that expands to 30,000 or more during the winter months. Arguably more millionaires and billionaires own residences in this town than in any other town in the country. More than two dozen of the Forbes top 400 billionaires own homes here. That is billionaires with a “b.”

  Palm Beach is known for its magnificent mansions, its exclusive and expensive clubs, grand hotels and resorts, world-class dining, and dozens and dozens of high-profile charity balls. Palm Beach is also known for Worth Avenue shopping. The three blocks of galleries and shops are among the most expensive and exclusive in the world. It would not be at all unusual to find a $60,000 lady’s handbag or a $600,000 man’s watch, or to discover that many of the cars parked along the avenue cost more than the average American house.

  Lake Worth separates the island Town of Palm Beach from its decidedly different mainland neighbor, the City of West Palm Beach, with a population of 130,000. It only takes about thirty seconds to drive across the bridge from the mainland to the island, but the two are light-years apart. Palm Beach is truly an alternate universe.

  one

  “HOW DID YESTERDAY GET SO FAR AWAY

  FROM TODAY?”

  We are very, very wet. Our oversize, supposedly windproof umbrella is no match for this melee of wind and rain. Water is dripping from our hair, and our clothes are glued to our bodies.

  What was once a street is now a shallow rushing river, and our shoes are soaked. Streaks of lightning rake across the eerily dark afternoon sky, silhouetting palm trees bending in the wind. Deafening thunder shakes the ground. Conversation is difficult.

  We get the car door open and slip into the back seat of this stranger’s Mercedes. “It’s nothing to worry about, just a typical August thunderstorm,” Bob the real estate agent assures us. He’s about as wet as we are, his tailored suit and expensive-looking shoes trashed, but he appears unperturbed.

  We apologize for getting the leather seats of his car so wet, but Bob just smiles. “There’s one more house, then we’ll stop for the day,” he says, handing us some paper towels.

  We make feeble attempts to mop ourselves off.

  How can we walk into this next house when we are so wet? And even more worrisome, how did yesterday get so far away from today?

  Yesterday we left our New Smyrna Beach, Florida home and drove three hours south to The Chesterfield Hotel in Palm Beach for a brief romantic escape. We’ve been doing this several times a year for ten years. Each trip, we window-shop, take a whirlwind tour of our favorite bars and restaurants, dance the nights away, and then head happily back home.

  But last night, walking back to our hotel for a dance or two after a romantic dinner, we started playfully imagining what fun it would be to live in Palm Beach. Walking along these beautiful, quiet streets. Eating at elegant restaurants. Dancing every night. A fantasy of indulgence quickly forgotten once we got on the dance floor.

  Then this morning, out walking, we laughed at our silliness, our imagining we could live in Palm Beach. The trips are an escape, not real life. We couldn’t afford to live here, anyway. Palm Beach property’s way too expensive.

  We found ourselves in front of a real estate office and looked at the pictures posted in the window. A mansion for $8 million. A bigger one for $10.7 million. An even bigger one for $33 million. Right. Not for us.

  At the bottom of the window was an ad for rentals. On a lark, we went in to check them out. The real estate agent said he had some little cottages available as annual rentals. Cottages? On the exclusive, ritzy island of Palm Beach? We couldn’t imagine what he was talking about but, mildly curious, we asked to see some. It sounded like a pleasant, harmless way to spend an hour or two.

  That was back when the sun was shining, six houses ago. Now we’re drenched and bedraggled, and the properties have blurred together in our minds. But there is no doubt we’re hooked. This has gone from a few hours of idle fun to an intense scrutiny of possible living spaces.

  Some of the places we saw were houses, not cottages, and way too big and way too expensive. But others were small and actually affordabl
e to rent, although we could never afford to buy one.

  In each house, we found ourselves refining what we could and couldn’t live without. Definitely would like a fireplace. Winter nights can be in the forties, even this far south. One bathroom is not enough. Need at least three bedrooms, even if two are really tiny, so we can each have an office. Must have a pool.

  As we approach the seventh and last house, the rain lets up and the skies lighten. This turns out to be a cottage, the best one so far. The kitchen is tiny, the third bedroom is minuscule, and the walls are painted wild colors. But the little yard is private, and there’s a charming pool.

  “So, what do you think?” Bob asks.

  “We need to go back to The Chesterfield, we don’t know what we think, a year might be too long, we could be crazy,” we say, all in a jumble.

  Bob drives us to our hotel. We promise to call him in the morning, rush up to our room, pull off our wet clothes, wrap ourselves in hotel robes, and raid the minibar.

  Settled now with health food (two cold beers, cashews, and a can of Pringles), it’s time to talk. How did we move from an idle afternoon’s amusement to seriously considering renting a Palm Beach cottage for a year? How did we make such a gigantic leap?

  The day before yesterday, staying where we were was definitely our plan. After all, we just planted rows of tomatoes and English peas and red peppers. It seems alarming that we could so easily switch gears.

  We remind ourselves we’re writers and can live almost anywhere. We’ve lived in big cities, small towns, Caribbean islands, and even on a boat. It’s got to be easier to write in Palm Beach than it was on that boat.

  We talk about our house in New Smyrna. We love it. Why would we leave it? But then, time is passing. We’re getting older. Alex, our real estate agent, is always telling us our house would rent in an instant. And moving to Palm Beach would be an adventure.

  For a decade, we could never consider leaving New Smyrna for more than a week or two because we were responsible for a relative whom we loved dearly. But she recently passed away. For the first time in ten years, we’re actually free to come and go as we please.

  But still. Changing plans this radically in just a few hours seems more than a bit hasty. What about the practical aspects, such as seeing if we actually can rent our New Smyrna house? Shouldn’t we go back home and think about all this?

  Our heads are bursting. We decide to shower, go out on the town, and forget all this nonsense, at least for the night.

  But this is not to be. We talk all evening. We go over the pros and cons. The idea is exciting. We must do it. What fun to rent and let other people take care of the problems.

  We go over the details of the various cottages but get everything mixed up. “Was that the cottage on Hibiscus with no closets?” “Was it the place on Australian with the bizarre wallpaper?” “Do you think we could really live in that tiny one with no driveway?”

  We sleep badly, give up, get up at dawn, and restlessly pace until a decent hour when we can call Bob. We go over the properties on the phone, ask to see two of them again.

  He meets us in the hotel lobby, and we head out for a second inspection. Both cottages have pluses and minuses, but there is no question the small cottage right in town, the wildly colorful one, is our choice.

  We discuss the specifics of the lease, agree to terms, and write a check for the deposit. The lease will begin in three weeks, on September 1. Bob will mail it to us.

  It’s noon and we’re ready to go for it, a year in Palm Beach. We’ll figure out the details later. We have no idea what an effect this whimsical decision will have on the rest of our lives.

  two

  “YOU GUYS ARE IN FOR AN

  ADVENTURE.”

  Bob drives us back to The Chesterfield and we quickly pack up.

  “My clothes are still wet from yesterday,” Dick says.

  “Mine, too,” I say. I look in a drawer and find a plastic laundry bag. “Here, we can put the wet stuff in this.” I collect our soggy shoes and put them in a second bag. They look ruined.

  We check out, get in the car. Dick’s behind the wheel. In just a few minutes, we’re driving over the bridge to the mainland.

  I think of how symbolic this bridge is for me. Driving down from New Smyrna, crossing this bridge always means we’re really here, the escape’s beginning. Going home, it’s the passage back to real life. Yet I don’t know if we’re going back to real life this time. It seems unreal that the next time we drive over this bridge, we’ll be moving here.

  Soon, Dick pulls onto I-95 and we begin our way north. We’re both quiet for a long time.

  Finally, Dick says, “Well, that was an interesting two days.”

  “You mean Friday morning we hadn’t thought of moving anywhere, and now it’s Sunday afternoon and we have a cottage in Palm Beach? It’s bizarre.” We both laugh. “I can’t quite get my head around what we did,” I say. “It seems normal one minute, and the next minute I think I must have dreamed it.”

  We both go quiet again. I watch the mile markers whiz by. I think back over our life together.

  When I met Dick, I was working in New York and grieving over a loss. He was grieving over a lost marriage. I was living in a small apartment, trying to remake my life. He was living in his office, doing the same, and painfully adjusting to life as an every-other-weekend dad. He has a daughter, Samantha, grown now and living and working in New York. I never had a child.

  When Dick and I met, I had no interest in getting into a relationship. Neither did he. But apparently our lack of interest was irrelevant. Though we both fought it in the beginning, we fell in love, spent our first month mostly outside of time, doing things like meeting for lunch at noon and finding ourselves at the same table in the same restaurant at eight at night, still talking nonstop.

  Since then, we’ve had our ups and downs and crossed a lot of bridges, but our life together, at least for me, has been a wonderful adventure. We’ve moved many times, and every move has been exciting. I thought we’d never move again and I feel giddy at this change of plan.

  We reach our exit and drive over another bridge, this one leading to New Smyrna, a barrier island like Palm Beach, but different in all other ways. New Smyrna’s a laid-back T-shirt-andsurfboard beach town. Driving over this bridge always means we’re home. I wonder if I’ll miss it.

  We coast down our driveway, pull up in front of the house, get out of the car. Our house is in the middle of two acres of oak and palm trees. We’ve planted flower gardens here and there. The only sounds I hear are birds singing. Two red cardinals frolic in the birdbath.

  “I can’t believe we’ve decided to leave this place,” Dick says, looking around.

  “Crazy, huh? Wonder what’ll happen to the vegetable garden we just planted.”

  “The rabbits will be happy.”

  We take our overnight bags and wet clothes into the house. Our cockatiels, Duckie and Blanco, greet us, chirping wildly. I go let them out of their cage. They climb to the top, and Blanco hops on my shoulder. “You guys are in for an adventure,” I tell them.

  Dick and I unpack, go through the mail, water the plants around the pool, and generally busy ourselves with returning-home rituals. Palm Beach fades away as the evening arrives.

  Around seven o’clock, Dick asks, “How about pasta tonight?”

  “Sounds delicious,” I say. “I’ll make a salad.”

  We go into the kitchen. Dick puts the iPod in a dock and sets it to Peter Cetera who, years ago, for reasons unknown, became our standard background music for cooking together. I like to cook. My mom taught me early, and by the time I was nine I knew how to fry an egg over easy, make béchamel sauce and vinaigrette dressing, and stuff a turkey. I think Dick likes to cook even more than I do, and although we prepare dinner together, he usually creates the main course.

  I designed this kitchen just for us. Everything has a place and there’s plenty of counter space. Tonight, Dick scrambles some sau
sage, adds onion and garlic, chops up some tomatoes, and gets a sauce going.

  I cut up vegetables and wash some arugula; make a dressing of mustard, garlic, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil; then go set the table out by the pool.

  Dick comes to the door, holding a bottle of wine. “How about an Amarone, to celebrate?” he says.

  We dine outside, savor the Amarone, and have a brief swim after dinner.

  “I’m exhausted,” Dick says.

  “Me, too.” We carry the dishes in, put them in the sink to soak, and fall into bed.

  But I don’t fall asleep right away. Instead, my thoughts turn to Aunt Jane. She was my father’s older sister, one of five children, the last to die. I got to know her well when I moved to an apartment near hers in Manhattan soon after college. We’d been close ever since. In her later years, she asked me to take care of her, and moved into a nursing home near our house when she could no longer live in New York alone.

  That was over ten years ago. For a decade I saw her, or Dick did, almost every day. Earlier this year she turned one hundred, still happy and healthy. She recently died peacefully in her sleep. Even though she was a hundred years old, it was a shock to have her go. I miss her a great deal. But now Dick and I are completely free to go just about anywhere, for as long as we want. The freedom feels good. I drift off to sleep.

  An unsettling dream wakes me, but I can’t remember it. The room is dark. My bedside clock tells me it’s five, way too early to get up. I turn over, pull the covers around me. As I close my eyes, the memory of renting a Palm Beach cottage jolts me awake. Yikes! What have we done? Anxiety replaces yesterday’s thrill. What if we can’t rent this house? Do we want strangers living here? Can we just pick up and leave? Palm Beach is fine for a vacation, but for a year? What if we hate living there? I start to sit up, and Dick says, “You awake, too?”

  “Yeah. I feel kind of panicked.”

  Dick laughs. “You mean because strangers are going to live in this house? And we won’t like living in Palm Beach? And we don’t want to go anywhere for a whole year? That kind of thing?”