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

for Christmas, and then Mark and I are here for January and February. Mark is a good player, Dick, maybe you two could play some tennis then.”
    I say, “If I’m still breathing, I’d love to hit with Mark. Have him call me.”
    We wish Melissa a happy Thanksgiving, walk home, and open our house, with no help from our housekeeper, in four or five seconds.
    Saturday, November 21
    Pam and I are sitting on a bench under the giant canopy of a banyan tree at the town docks. I say, “The twin forty-fours on that sport fisher are missing today.”
    As usual, there is little activity and few people are around. In all the times we have visited these slips in the last two and a half months, I’ve rarely seen a boat arrive or leave. Yet there are many more yachts here today than usual. “Boats must be sneaking in at night,” Pam says. “I think the docks are more full than empty for the first time.”
    â€œNobody’s ever around here but us,” I say. “We should have some official monitoring position with the town.” I think for a moment. “The Docks Official Protectors, Examiners, and Supervisors.”
    Pam looks at me. “I see. That would make us the town DOPES.”
    Returning from our dock duties, we see a large truck parked in front of a house on Australian. A moving van? Well, sort of. Two men are carefully unloading a spotless Bentley that is going into the garage of that house. The people aren’t quite here yet but their toys, the boats and cars, are arriving.
    Around seven o’clock, Pam says, “I think we need pizza tonight.”
    â€œThat we do,” I say. “I have a doctor’s prescription for one pizza, two salads, and a bottle of wine.”
    â€œLet’s go to Pizza al Fresco,” Pam says.
    At the restaurant, a young lady greets us and takes us to a table in the courtyard. “The prescription is for salads and splitting a pizza?” Pam says.
    â€œYes, and a bottle of Italian red. Your choice.”
    â€œHow about two Caesars, a pizza with Italian sausage and mushrooms, and a bottle of Chianti Classico?”
    The setting is a small, romantically lighted courtyard with bougainvillea growing up the sides of the walls. I can’t help but picture the dozens of dinners Pam and I have had in similar settings on St. Barts or St. Martin or even Virgin Gorda. For some reason, tonight is reminding me specifically of a dinner we had on our honeymoon at a little outdoor restaurant in Antigua. That night we shared a cardboard box of wine, a first.
    Pam says, “Sitting here, I feel as if we have come a lot farther than five minutes from our house. Remember that box of wine we had at that place in Antigua?”
    I laugh. “Exactly what I was thinking,” I say
    Monday, November 23
    Perhaps I should have made an appointment with Dr. Keith the other day because it took me ten minutes to get out of bed this morning. When I sneezed, it felt like my shoulder blade was exploding. Pam calls and Dr. Keith’s office promises to fit me in. Pam drives me to Lake Worth. With some adjustment, some ultrasound, and some magic, Dr. Keith has me feeling almost human. I make a follow-up appointment and we’re gone.
    Driving back, we pass Don Victorio’s, the market Bobby suggested, on Dixie Highway in West Palm Beach. Pam decides it is time for a visit and circles around the block. As we pull in the parking lot, I say, “Man, this looks like a parking lot in the islands. Cars are parked every which way.”
    â€œYeah, I’m going to park all the way in the back. You and your shoulder stay in the car. I’m just going to check it out,” she says.
    About four songs later, she emerges and I start laughing. She looks like a New York bag lady. She’s carrying so many bags I can barely see her. I reach over and pop the trunk and she unloads her haul.
    She gets in the driver’s side, smiling, and