Year in Palm Beach by Pamela Acheson, Richard B. Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

over, opens his eyes, and smiles. Amazingly, even after all these years, he smiles when he wakes up and sees me.
    â€œEspresso?” he says.
    â€œThat would be nice,” I say. “I’ll wake the birdies and get some biscotti and fruit.” I finally got around to making biscotti this past weekend. It’s normally part of our breakfast routine. I worried it might turn out differently in the oven here, but then, it turns out a little differently each time I make it.
    We settle in the yellow room with the screen door open. I love the view of the pool. It’s framed by tall hedges and, at the far end, bordered by geraniums and hibiscus. Two cardinals are playing in the birdbath. I hear the gurgle of the little fountain Dick made, and the coo of doves from somewhere.
    â€œIt’s sad we can’t get these cottage problems taken care of,” I say. “Actually, it’s ridiculous.”
    â€œBob’s message said he’s back tomorrow, right?” Dick says. “We’ll see if he has a solution.” He pauses. “Although maybe he’s the problem as well as Benjamin.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m beginning to think,” I say.
    â€œThis all sounded so easy last August,” Dick says. “Maybe we should break the lease, get out of here.”
    â€œThat’s depressing,” I say. “A month of trying to get things done, wasted. But, I guess we could be wasting more time if we stay.”
    Peter Island comes into my mind. A few years after we got married, when Dick’s daughter Samantha was safely in college, we quit our jobs, left New York, and took our boat to the Caribbean. We eventually went to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and tried to see if either of us could find a job. Dick found one at Peter Island Resort, and we ended up selling our boat and living and working there for five years, and became travel writers in the process.
    The first year on Peter Island was tremendously stressful. We had traded Manhattan for a seven-mile-long, mountainous island that was deserted except for a forty-room private resort. There were ten full-time residents, all of us either a hotel employee or a spouse. It was a twenty-minute boat ride to the nearest grocery store. For six months, the immigration department kept finding things wrong with my papers.
    One of Dick’s jobs was resident tennis pro. I had just recently been an executive at a Fortune 500 company and was used to being near the top of the power chain. Suddenly, I was at rock bottom. At the Monday night cocktail parties Dick and I were required to host, I learned no guest wanted to be stuck talking to the tennis pro’s wife. I learned a great deal and discovered a lot about myself on Peter Island. So did Dick. It was a wonderful adventure, in the end.
    â€œYou know,” I say. “We made Peter Island work.”
    Dick looks at me. “Yeah, we did. But that took a lot of time. I’m too old to do that again.”
    â€œMe, too,” I say. “So let’s hedge our bets, look for another rental. Living in Palm Beach is supposed to be our great adventure.”
    Dick laughs. “It is. It’s an adventure in home repair and managing stress,” he says. “We’ll look at other rentals.”
    We spend the day researching rentals online, talk to several real estate agents, and visit several possible cottages. Now it’s seven o’clock, and we’re both still at our computers, searching.
    â€œI’m done,” Dick says. “Let’s get out of here, find a saloon.”
    We change clothes and head out. Not a single car is parked along our block, and we’re the only people on the sidewalk. The air is filled with the scent of jasmine. Waves break in the distance. Our house problems slip away.
    In a few blocks we come to Amici and go in for a drink. Beth is behind the bar.
    â€œA Miller Lite and a Prosecco?” she