Read Year in Palm Beach for Free Online

knowledgeable and amusingly crazy sommelier. He is tall, thin, and boyishly handsome. On our last visit here, he mentioned a new lady friend, so Pam gave him a book we had written on romantic Florida escapes.
    As he is opening our champagne, Pam says, “Rainer, you won’t remember—”
    Rainer says, “I remember you two. You are the romantic people. I love your book. Got rid of the woman.”
    Pam and I laugh, I taste the champagne, we talk to Rainer for a minute or two. We order, and after dinner, we finish the last of our champagne while listening to David play his
West Side Story
medley.
    Full and happy and forgetting our cottage problems, we stroll home along the Atlantic. The waves are sounding on the shore, there are warm ocean breezes, and the moon is lighting up the night sky. “This is wonderful,” Pam says.
    â€œI couldn’t agree more,” I say. And I couldn’t.
    Friday, September 11
    I find Pam in the kitchen this morning cutting up vegetables. “I just thought I’d roast some stuff to have in the icebox,” she says. Pam and I may be the last two people on the planet who still say icebox.
    â€œWhy don’t you just give me the vegetables? I’m going to put some stuff in the dryer, and if I leave the vegetables anywhere near it, they’ll cook in no time.”
    â€œVery funny,” Pam says.
    The phone rings, and I pick up.
    â€œBenjamin,” I say, “I told you never to call me here.”
    There is a long pause.
    â€œBenjamin, I’m just kidding. Where the hell have you been?”
    Old Ben explains there have been problems, but that a plumber will be over today to look at the revolving toilets, the dryer vent, and the disposal. “The plumber will be there definitely no later than four,” Benjamin assures me.
    We work and wait until almost six. No plumber. I call Benjamin. Get his machine. “Let’s get out of the house, walk to the beach or something,” Pam says.
    â€œOr we could hunt Benjamin down and beat him with a large stick,” I suggest.
    â€œThe beach is a better idea, I think,” Pam says.
    The sky is clear. Large waves are breaking against the sand, and the water looks turquoise and tropical, almost like Caribbean water.
    â€œThe cottage is not without its problems,” Pam says.
    I laugh. “Who are you tonight, the Mistress of Understatement? The cottage is driving us crazy. It really sucks.”
    â€œRemember when we said what fun it would be to rent? Any problems, we’d just pick up the phone and someone else fixes them,” Pam says. “It’s been almost two weeks; I’m just about done.”
    â€œI am too. It’s really stupid, but let’s sleep on it. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call Benjamin, scream at him a little, and try to set up a reasonable, but specific, schedule. He said Saturday is a good day to get him. We’ll see.”
    As Pam and I reach our front door, there is a note from the plumber, that’s the plumber who was to be here no later than four o’clock but still wasn’t here at six. The note says simply: “Sorry to have missed you.”
    Sunday, September 13
    The hot water heater, which we thought was fixed, has stopped working again. That and many other inside problems have driven Pam and me outside, where we are decked out in gardening clothes, working in the little front yard. I’m planting hibiscus and Pam is spreading mulch. “Don’t look now,” Pam says. “An angry-looking man is marching towards us on the sidewalk.”
    The neighborhood garden patrol, I wonder. Although he has a black shoe polish dye job, this chap has to be in his eighties. He does not look at all happy with us.
    Pam and I glance at each other. “What now?” Pam whispers.
    I’m thinking red mulch may be illegal. Maybe we can’t work outside on Sundays or we need a gardening license.
    He stops