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

isn’t working). Could this be progress?
    Tuesday, October 6
    Yesterday’s eight o’clock knock was just the beginning. By eight thirty, the house was full of people, and by nine it was a real mess, with workers and tools everywhere. It stayed that way until late this afternoon. Even though we put down tarps, the white floors now look like they have chocolate as well as vanilla fudge ice cream smeared all over them.
    The good news is that by five o’clock, everything is fixed. Every faulty valve, pipe, knob, and vent. Over five weeks to get a two-day job done. But the cottage is finally functional. Eduardo is a real property manager. Maybe now Dick and I can finally divide our time between getting our work back on schedule and enjoying life in Palm Beach.
    We still haven’t gotten around to hooking up the television. I think both of us just want to get workmen out of the house and get on with our lives. I’m also interested to see what life is like without that connection.
    Thursday, October 8
    I’m at my computer, finishing up an assignment. Duckie’s on the floor, playing tug-of-war with the rug fringe. Blanco’s on my knee, preening.
    Dick comes into the office. “We’ve got a CD at SunTrust Bank that matures today,” he says. “I looked in the Yellow Pages. There’s a branch across the bridge.”
    â€œI think we’ve walked by a SunTrust,” I say. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”
    Dick collects our documents, and we walk to where I remember seeing the SunTrust sign. The sign is actually quite small and there is no obvious entrance. Several paths lead to dead ends. At last I spot a door, and in we go.
    â€œThis doesn’t look like a bank,” Dick says. “There aren’t any tellers.”
    â€œIt looks like a living room,” I say, taking in the arrangements of chairs and coffee tables on several large Oriental rugs. I see a woman at an antique-looking desk at the far end of the room. She smiles and waves us over.
    â€œPlease, have a seat,” she says. “How may I help you on this beautiful morning?”
    Dick says, “We have a CD that’s matured, but maybe we’re in the wrong place.”
    The woman smiles. “This isn’t one of our regular branches,” she says. “But I can roll over a CD for you.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Dick says. I realize he’s slightly embarrassed. “Yes, yes,” the woman says. She reaches for our paperwork, finds us on her computer. We sign papers, she hands us the new CD.
    Dick thanks her, and we walk out. “I don’t think we’re in the right tax bracket for that particular branch,” Dick says.
    â€œSorry I dragged you in there,” I say.
    Friday, October 9
    Now that the cottage problems are behind us, Dick and I are able to really explore the neighborhood, and I have a much better understanding of where we live.
    Our cottage is “in town,” as the locals say, on the widest part of the island, which stretches about a half mile from the beach and Atlantic Ocean to the Lake Worth Lagoon, an estuary separating Palm Beach from mainland Florida.
    The center of our part of Palm Beach is Worth Avenue, which is a few blocks south of our cottage and runs from the ocean beach to the lake.
    It’s one of the world’s most famous shopping streets, wide and lined with palm trees, flower beds, and mostly one- or two-story buildings. Arched walkways, locally called “vias,” lead from the avenue to charming courtyard shops and cafes.
    In many ways, Worth Avenue resembles an old-fashioned Main Street from the 1950s, except that instead of apothecaries and hardware stores and barber shops, there are luxury boutiques selling designer clothing and linens and handbags and jewelry. And rather than DeSotos, Studebakers, and Packards lining the sidewalk, there are Mercedes and BMWs, and the occasional Rolls-Royce.
    The