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

has performed around the world for many famous people, including President Clinton, Lady Bird Johnson, Walter Cronkite, James Taylor, Billy Joel, and Rose Kennedy on her 100th birthday. He tells us about a restaurant in Martha’s Vineyard, David’s Island House, which he owned for twenty years. And we learn that his dog, Walker, was named (by a previous owner) after Johnny Walker Black Label.
    David returns to work his magic at the piano, filling the room with music, whimsically switching from Beethoven to Cole Porter to Billy Joel. We linger over dinner, stay until David stops for the evening. We take the long way home and walk along the beach. The night sky is studded with stars. What a lovely birthday.
    Monday, October 19
    In New Smyrna, Duckie and Blanco lived in my office, but now they live in the room where we are sharing an office. The birds are happy. Cockatiels are social and want people around. They like to have all four of us in the same room.
    I’m less happy than the birds with this arrangement. It’s actually a big pain. Dick and I each have a triangle-shaped corner desk with a computer on it and not much empty surface. Dick has the ability to just push stray paper out of the way and go on working. I need to know what is where and tend to make piles. Soon I have paper piles lined across the couch and sometimes the floor.
    Dick is trying to accommodate my tendency to take over the room, but I can tell he finds it stressful. Somehow we managed to work on a boat, with much less space, but for some reason this office is an unexpectedly big challenge. Each of our offices in New Smyrna, the ones our renters are using, are bigger than the room we are in now, and quite perfect. This present office situation is not.
    This morning I’m working to meet a deadline. Dick gets tired of the paper and decides to walk over to the Seaview Tennis Center, the town’s public courts. We are tennis players and have wanted to find out where to play ever since we arrived in Palm Beach.
    Dick returns, walks into the office.
    â€œThe courts are excellent,” he says. “There’re seven courts, all Har-Tru, with an underground irrigation system and lighted at night. A woman named Mary is in charge; she took me around. And I met a pro, Todd, and set up a weekly hitting schedule with him.”
    â€œDid you have to join anything?”
    Dick laughs. “We can join or pay as we play. Either way, it’s reasonable. There’s no country club attached. No social obligations. No politics.”
    Friday, October 23
    â€œThere’s an Oktoberfest celebration tonight,” Dick says this morning, looking up from the Shiny Sheet.
    â€œAcross the lake at Citiplace?” I say.
    â€œNo,” Dick says, “it’s actually in Palm Beach. You’ll never guess where.”
    I’m at a complete loss. A Palm Beach Oktoberfest sounds like an oxymoron.
    â€œWell, it’s gotta be outside,” I say. “Worth Avenue? No, that wouldn’t work. Pan’s Garden?”
    â€œNo, but close,” Dick says. “The Society of the Four Arts, the Sculpture Garden.”
    â€œYou’re kidding. An Oktoberfest there?”
    â€œHard to imagine,” Dick says. “Drunks spilling beer on Churchill and FDR, dropping wursts in the flowerbeds.”
    â€œNow I’m curious,” I say. “Want to go?”
    Dick smiles and says, “Why would I want to do that? There’s going to be lots of beer and food.” He calls and makes reservations.
    The Oktoberfest begins tonight at five thirty. The weather is cool, the skies clear, there’s a soft breeze, and it will be light for another hour. We walk over. I don’t know what to expect, but if I’d lived in Palm Beach longer, surely I could have guessed.
    There are a fair number of people, but it’s not a crowd. No one is rowdy. A beer expert explains the origins and describes the ingredients of various