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about four inches from me and almost steps on my foot. “What do you two think you’re doing?” the old guy says. “I’m going to have to lodge a complaint.”
    I am about to answer when he laughs and adds, “You two are making the place look too damn good.”
    He introduces himself as Barney. We chat and he invites us to visit him for a cocktail sometime, explains which house is his, and marches on his way around the corner.
    Monday, September 14
    Today, the deluge. Two guys from the gas company come to check the water heater, followed by a plumber and an air conditioner guy. Progress is being made, I think, but our cottage is getting trashed. The entire afternoon we spent cleaning was a waste of time. The white wood floors look like someone hurled vanilla fudge ice cream all over them.
    Pam is close to losing it. Actually, so am I, but we have an unspoken rule that only one of us can lose it at a time. So I am pretending to be a patient, understanding adult.
    It’s almost seven o’clock. “I think we should go to The Chesterfield for a drink, or maybe three, and some dancing, perhaps dinner at the bar,” I say.
    â€œSounds good to me.”
    We shower and change. As we walk out the door, Pam says, “Yikes, it’s raining. Actually, it’s pouring. We’ll get soaked if we walk all the way to The Chesterfield.”
    â€œWell, we’ve got to get away from this cottage. We’ll go to Amici. It’s much closer,” I say. I grab an umbrella. “Hold my hand, it’s really slippery.”
    We walk into Amici, a bit wet but laughing because we made it through the rain. It is lobster night so we order grilled lobsters. I’m not a big lobster eater, but once a year or so, either at a restaurant or at home, Pam and I have a lobster dinner together.
    Early in our relationship, we took a five-day trip to Anguilla with some friends. Six of us stayed in an island shack with no hot water and no real kitchen, so we ate lunch and dinner out all five days, ten meals.
    Pam had lobster all ten times: cold lobster, grilled lobster, lobster salad, you name it. About the third night, the Jimmy Buffett lyrics about eating her own weight up in crab meat started echoing in my head. Only with Pamela it was lobster, not crab. To commemorate that first trip and give ourselves an excuse to reminisce, we’re doing our lobster dinner tonight.
    Later, after finishing our lobsters, we’re having an espresso and listening to beautiful live guitar music. The rain has let up a bit, and now it is falling softly on the awning above us. Occasionally, there is the sound of distant thunder, and lightning brightens the night sky.
    â€œThis is some setting,” Pam says. “What a simple, relaxing, romantic night. I could sit here with you until dawn.”
    â€œI agree. Our nights in Palm Beach seem magical,” I say, “even if the days are still a bit of a pain in the ass.”
    Wednesday, September 16
    I love the hedge in front of our house for many reasons. I like looking out at it. I like that people can’t look in. I like that I can sneak out in my boxers to get today’s papers.
    This morning our first copy of the
Palm Beach Daily News
, known affectionately on the island as the Shiny Sheet, has arrived in our driveway. We have subscribed for the year. The newspaper covers only the island of Palm Beach, and it’s called the Shiny Sheet because it’s printed on coated paper: the ink will not smudge the fingers, white gloves, or cashmere robes of its readers. Or in my case, boxer shorts.
    After enjoying our new paper along with
The New York Times
and
The Wall Street Journal
, we settle in at our desks, a bird on each of us. No one is scheduled to come to the cottage today, which should give us one of the few uninterrupted workdays since we moved. At about ten thirty, the birds start chirping. I look out the office window and see three men