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

children, for dogs, and for dogs and their owners. Sherry, owner of Sherry Frankel’s Melangerie and president of the Worth Avenue Association, is the emcee.
    â€œHow do you think they tell the dogs from their owners?” Dick says.
    â€œShhhh,” I say.
    Dogs are dressed as ballerinas, pirates, and superheroes. There’s a dog dressed as Marilyn Monroe, another as Elton John, another as Lady Gaga. One tiny Chihuahua is in an elaborate bride’s dress, with a long, sequined trail and a lacy veil.
    This Halloween contest makes me wonder if people go trick or treating in Palm Beach, so we take an early evening walk to find out. Most streets are as empty as usual, but on those streets where we saw the decorations a small number of families are out trick or treating.
    Adults and children are in costume, and everyone seems to know each other. Some of the front yards now have larger skeletons and ghosts, and some houses have elaborate, scary entry-ways. Maybe there’s a special ordinance permitting larger-sized decor during trick-or-treating hours.
    This is a quiet, old-fashioned Halloween. There is no worry of razors in apples here. A memory of a long-ago Halloween floats into my mind. That year my two brothers were too young to trick or treat, but my mother helped my younger sister Sophie and me into our costumes. We were both dressed as fabulous dragons. Because houses were far apart, my father drove us from neighbor to neighbor. I was thrilled that our costumes were so good not a single neighbor recognized us. Lying in bed later that evening, I remembered that all the neighbors had said, “Hi, David,” to my father, and realized I hadn’t fooled anybody after all. I felt like a dope.
    When Dick and I get back home, the message light is blinking on our landline. I push the button.
    â€œHey, guys,” a familiar male voice says. “It’s Theo and Deborah. We’ll be driving by your house Thursday night. Can we come for a few weeks? Just kidding. But can we spend the night?”
    Dick and I look at each. Houseguests. Yikes. We love Theo and Deborah, but there’s no bed in the guest cottage yet. There’s no place for them to sleep.

six
“I SEE, THAT WOULD MAKE US
THE TOWN DOPES.”
    Monday, November 2
    â€œI just got off the phone with Deborah,” Pam says, “and they’ll definitely be here Thursday.”
    â€œWhich means we have to get some kind of bed,” I say. “Comfortable, but not too comfortable.”
    â€œThe place in West Palm where we ordered our bed has futons,” Pam says. “A queen futon would work.”
    I call Bed Man and ask if there is any possible way we can get a queen futon or something like that in a day or two. Bed Man puts me on hold for a minute or so. “I’ve got a queen-size floor sample in excellent condition that I can deliver Wednesday after six, any color you want, as long as it’s beige,” he says.
    â€œBeige is my favorite,” I say. “See you Wednesday.” It is the beginning of the third month of our adventure in Palm Beach, and we’re sort of settled in now. I did think by now there would be at least a trickle of winter people arriving on the island. But this morning, out walking, I discover that White House (it resembles the one in Washington) and Cat House (no, not that kind), with its statues of playful cats on the roof, are both still empty. House after house, the ones that have been empty still are.
    And sadly, the crime wave is also continuing. This morning, a woman calling from Greenwich, Connecticut, filed a police report with Palm Beach Police. She seems to be missing a bracelet she remembers having with her on a recent visit to her mother in Palm Beach. How recent? Several months, it seems.
    Tuesday, November 3
    Pam and I walk to the gym. Signing in, I notice almost all the blanks are filled with names. “Craig,” I say, “this list looks pretty