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

full. You cooking the books?”
    â€œSeason’s coming. They say it starts near Thanksgiving and lasts till Easter, but it’s different every year.”
    Our workouts finished, we walk over to the lake. It’s sunny and warm. The impeccably dressed shopkeepers are out cleaning their storefront windows, polishing the brass, and sweeping the sidewalk to prepare for the day. No leaf blowers on Worth Avenue. We get to the lake and sit on one of the benches close to the docks. I’m enjoying the view.
    Pam says, “You see that sport fisher over there on the left?” I say, “Well, yes, what about it? Oh.”
    â€œYes, that’s a very healthy naked woman on the aft deck,” Pam says.
    â€œI don’t think she’s naked,” I say. “She has on a bikini bottom or thong or something.”
    â€œProbably a Palm Beach ordinance,” Pam says. “You can only be half naked on your yacht.”
    â€œYes, and it’s probably safe for us to start back. There’s little danger of her drowning even if she falls overboard. She will definitely float.”
    Walking back along Peruvian Avenue, I see there are more workers’ trucks than usual. I figure everyone’s trying to get ready for the season, or maybe Thanksgiving. Whatever is happening, this is as busy as I’ve seen it.
    As we cross South County Road, Barney is standing in his front yard looking like he’s just stepped out of the pages of
GQ
in plaid pajamas and a tweed sport coat.
    â€œHow are the Walkers today?” he shouts.
    â€œIt’s the Myers,” Pam says, thinking Barney might have finally gone over the edge.
    â€œNope, you are the Walkers. Everybody around here calls you two the Walkers, even the parking ticket lady,” he says.
    â€œSo be it, Barney,” I say. “We are now officially the Walkers.” He laughs. We wave and head back to work.
    Wednesday, November 4
    This evening, as promised, Bed Man reappears, this time with a futon. Once again he bolts the frame together, lifts the beige mattress, and leaves with a check in his hand. The guest cottage is now ready for guests even if we aren’t.
    Armed with a couple of glasses of pinot grigio, Pam and I hit the beach. The walk from our desks to the dunes is less than two minutes. We find a bench and settle in to watch the day turn into night, a ritual we have enjoyed together since we were in Manhattan. We stay a little longer than planned, and the stars begin to light the sky.
    Walking back home, I notice all the cars and trucks and activities from today have totally disappeared. It’s peaceful.
    â€œHear the train?” Pam says.
    â€œYes.” Ever since we moved to Florida, I’ve been able to hear the trains, always from a distance. I love the sound, and I love the hazy memories it conjures up. I remember my first train ride. When I was three years old, my grandfather brought my brother and me from Ohio to New York.
    â€œLet’s keep walking,” Pam says.
    We stroll right past the cottage and continue on. “Is that a piano?” I say.
    â€œSounds like it,” Pam says. “Sounds like a cocktail party.”
    â€œI don’t remember seeing our invitation.”
    â€œIt’s Club Colette,” Pam says. “I’ve seen the sign but I’ve never seen or heard people there. It sounds festive.”
    â€œWell, whoever is here tonight, they’re different from the people who were here during the day,” I say. “Today there were plumbers’ and electricians’ and carpenters’ trucks, and now there’re Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and Mercedes.”
    It looks like the winter people are starting to trickle in.
    Thursday, November 5
    Today our very first houseguests, Theo and Deborah, arrive. I’ve known Theo since kindergarten, and we’ve known Deborah for over twenty years. They are both a bit crazy, and we haven’t seen them in a