Year in Palm Beach by Pamela Acheson, Richard B. Myers

certain section of sidewalk.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Pam says.
    I sort of nod my head towards the sidewalk.
    â€œDick, why are you stopping?”
    â€œLook down.”
    She looks down and sees the heart with our initials. She laughs and puts her arms around me. “When did you do that?” she says. I just smile.
    We walk on to Amici and take a seat at the bar. Two men next to us cash out and leave. As they hit the sidewalk, Beth, the bartender, comes over with her wonderful smile. “Do you guys know who you were sitting next to?” We look at each other. “That was Jimmy Buffett,” she says.
    Pam says, “We had no clue. None. And actually Dick and I are big fans of Mr. Buffet and his music.”
    His songs were the sound track for our escape from Manhattan to the Caribbean several decades ago. I can still see Pam dancing crazily by herself to “Cheeseburger in Paradise” on the aft deck of
Maverick
, the boat we were living on then.
    â€œWell, it could have been Warren Buffet next to us for all I knew,” I say. “Jimmy got by us this time. Won’t happen again.”
    Tuesday, November 17
    This morning the Shiny Sheet informs me that a lady in Palm Beach has notified the police that her flatware is missing. She last saw it in May. What’s with these people?
    Our cottage problems are a thing of the past. I’m even adjusting to the Lilliputian doors and ceilings. But the longer we live here, the more the lack of storage space becomes an issue. My clothes closet is packed so tight I can’t even get a jacket off the rack. The cabinet under the sink is so full it takes me five minutes to find the Windex.
    I’m in the kitchen, thinking, why don’t we just turn this little room and tiny bathroom off the kitchen into a closet? Get a clothes rack, a few shelves, whatever will make it work. There are two other bathrooms in the house and one in the guest cottage.
    I tell my plan to Pamela, and after work we head out for supplies. By the end of the evening, Pam and I have put shelves in the shower, a rolling clothes rack in the utility room, file holders on the walls.
    â€œSeems like a great solution,” I say “At least for a while,” Pam says.
    Thursday November 19
    We walk over to the tennis courts. It is now mid-November, and trucks fill every available parking space: air conditioning repairers, security system installers, plumbers, painters, electricians, and wallpaper hangers. People are actually going to be coming to Palm Beach. It looks like all the houses will soon be full.
    Pam and I have hit tennis balls for almost an hour and are now sitting by the courts, sharing a bottle of water. A woman who seems about our age (which means she is ten to fifteen years younger) is on a rapid and direct approach to where we are sitting.
    â€œRehydrating?” she asks. We look at each other, our water, back at her. “Mary said you’re the one who wrote this book,” she says. She has apparently just bought
Tennis for Humans
in the pro shop.
    I nod and say, “Yes.”
    â€œMary says you’ll sign it for me,” she says. “I don’t have to do what Mary says, you know.” She looks a little puzzled.
    â€œI’m just kidding,” I say. “I’d be happy to sign your book.” She says her name is Melissa, so I sign her book: “For Melissa, good luck on and off the tennis court.”
    We start talking with Melissa, who is actually very nice. “I’m just down from New York to help the housekeeper open our house for Thanksgiving. My husband Mark and our three sons are still up north,” she says.
    â€œWhen are they going to join you at the house?” Pam asks. “Well, I’m not really staying at the house yet. I’m at The Brazilian Court,” she says. “I’m flying home in two days, and then we’ll all fly down for Thanksgiving next Wednesday. Then home again