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

intense.
    The space we are working in is tiny compared to our kitchen in New Smyrna, but Dick and I are adapting. It’s easier to stay in one place, so there’s a lot of “could you hand me” this or that and an occasional “I’m behind you.” In a funny way, I find it pleasantly cozy.
    Prep work done, we go outside. Dick lights the wood in the fire pit, starts the charcoal, sets the iPod to Elton John. Eventually, the coals are ready, and Dick grills the chicken. I bring out the potatoes and salad. We linger over dinner, watch the fire burn into embers, then walk to the beach.
    The ocean is black ink, the night cloudless, the sky glittery with stars. To the north, two stars grow larger, turn into headlights. An airplane is making its way south, following the coastline. It passes us, out over the water and fairly high in the sky, then makes a sweeping curve toward the West Palm Beach International Airport, just ten minutes away by car on the mainland. I have always loved planes, and this beach is a good place to watch them, day and night.
    Soon another set of headlights materializes and repeats the sequence. A third set of headlights, these much smaller, comes straight out of the east. A tiny plane appears, probably from somewhere in the Bahamas, seventy or eighty miles away.
    Suddenly, Dick says, “What’s that? Something’s in that first wave.”
    I peer into the darkness. “I see it,” I say. “It’s coming onto the beach.”
    â€œIt’s the Loch Ness monster,” Dick says.
    â€œWhatever it is, it looks weird.”
    â€œMaybe divers?” Dick says.
    Now it does look like several people wearing diving equipment, silhouetted against the black sky. They follow the path from the beach, trudge past us, and climb wetly into a parked van.
    â€œWe never see anyone at the beach at night,” Dick says. “Now people are walking out of the ocean?”
    Sunday, October 4
    We’re sitting on a bench in the gardens at The Society of the Four Arts. Statues and sculptures are set between colorful flower beds and under leafy trees. Brilliant purple and red bougainvillea blossoms hang over wooden trellises. It is an oasis of peacefulness and such a contrast to the cottage.
    â€œShall we say hello to the statesmen before we head home?” Dick says.
    We walk over to admire the almost life-size sculpture of Winston Churchill and FDR sitting on a bench chatting, FDR with his cigarette holder and Mr. Churchill with cigar in hand.
    Then we walk out past the two miniature bronze giraffes, zigzag our way south along the empty streets toward the beach, and then on to the cottage.
    Back on our block, I check on The Invisible Man’s House, so named because we’ve never see a person there, though we do see a grey Volvo parked in many different positions in the driveway. Sure enough, the Volvo is there this afternoon, but not parked where it was earlier today. So far, the car is the only sign of life at the house.
    This evening Dick says, “I was thinking of going to Café L’Europe for dinner.”
    â€œSounds good,” I say. I mostly still like to just wander and end up somewhere, but this Sunday Café L’Europe feels like a good choice.
    I choose a dress in a blue peacock print, decorated with sparkles. It makes me feel feminine. And blue high-heeled sandals. I have always adored high heels. Dick puts on a navy blue linen suit. He’s had it for years, but it’s still beautiful.
    It’s close to nine, and although people are dining, the bar is fairly empty. Dick and I settle into bar stools, order cocktails, and listen to David’s piano fill the room. After a quiet dinner, we walk home along the beach. No Loch Ness monsters tonight. Instead, a single spectacular shooting star streaks across the sky.
    Monday, October 5
    It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I hear a knock at the door (the doorbell still