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

asks.
    â€œThat would be perfect,” Dick says, “but you guys don’t carry Miller Lite.”
    â€œWe do now. Maurizio heard you asking for it the other night,” she says.
    Just then Maurizio, the restaurant owner, emerges from the kitchen and comes towards us. Medium height. Brown eyes. Five o’clock shadow. Fabulous smile.
    â€œ
Buona sera
,” he says. “Welcome back to Amici.”
    Dick thanks him for getting Miller Lite. We stay for a dinner of salad and pasta at a candlelit table on the terrace. The wind picks up a bit, the surf gets a little louder, and distant thunder and lightning again provide a nighttime show. For the rest of the evening, house troubles are forgotten.
    Friday, October 2
    First thing this morning, my cell rings. It’s Bob. He’s back. Got my message.
    â€œLook,” I say, “Dick and I are through. We’re breaking the lease.”
    Bob says, “Wait, wait, wait. Calm down. I’ve got a solution.”
    â€œToo late.”
    â€œNo, no,” he says. “I was stupid. Benjamin’s the son of a friend. I gave the kid too many chances. This is my fault. I’ve got you a new property manager. His name’s Eduardo. He’s reliable. He’ll be at your place in half an hour. I promise things will get better.”
    â€œOkay,” I say. “But this is your last chance.”
    In twenty minutes, Eduardo arrives at the door. Tall. Very thin. Dark-haired. A trim moustache. Notepad in hand, he looks at the leaky toilet, the faulty water heater, the clogged gas jets, and everything else that isn’t functioning properly. He writes it all down. “This stuff was patched, not fixed,” he says. “It’s easy stuff. Just have to do it right.”
    He makes sure one of us can be here Monday and Tuesday, goes outside to use his cell phone, returns with the news that everything will be fixed by Tuesday afternoon, guaranteed. A gang of workers will start Monday morning.
    Eduardo seems knowledgeable and efficient, but I can’t help feeling skeptical. This isn’t the first time promises have been made.
    Saturday, October 3
    The weather is still summery. We take the morning papers and Duckie and Blanco in their cage and go out by the pool. So far life in Palm Beach away from the cottage is a pleasure. I’m not sure exactly what Dick and I expected, but it definitely was not the small-town feeling we’re experiencing. This is a community where the morning’s Shiny Sheet reports, “Police are investigating the theft of a pair of sunglasses.”
    In New York City, years ago, my car was stolen. I called the police. They told me to come in and fill out some paperwork; I’d never see that car again. Dick and I laugh at the silliness of some of the police reports here, but the truth is, serious crimes are rare in this town. The police force is wonderful, helpful, polite. I feel very safe.
    We spend the day outside doing chores. Now the evening sky is a blend of pale blues and pinks, the air is soft and warm, and the family of doves is lined up along the guest cottage roof.
    â€œDinner at home?” Dick says.
    â€œSounds great,” I say. “Maybe those grilled chicken breasts you make, with ham and Swiss on top?”
    â€œAnd ‘Pam’s potatoes’?”
    â€œAnd an arugula salad?”
    â€œAnd a bottle of Barolo?”
    We go into the kitchen. Dick sets the iPod to Peter Cetera and we get to work. Dick pounds chicken breasts, mashes garlic and mustard for a marinade, and makes a salad. I peel and quarter small potatoes, thinly slice mushrooms and brown them on both sides, then sauté garlic and onions in a cast-iron baking dish. The kitchen fills with the aroma of garlic. I add kalamata olives, then the mushrooms and potatoes, and put the casserole in the oven, covered, to cook for an hour. The potatoes will sponge up the flavors of the other ingredients and become