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

brews. There are several wines and thirty-five different ales, stouts, and lagers. Dick and I stop tasting at twenty-eight. I think.
    We walk home, carrying our souvenir glasses.
    â€œWhat a funny Oktoberfest,” I say, “but cool. Let’s go again next year.”
    â€œGood idea,” says Dick. “It’ll be a much longer walk, though.
    Monday, October 26
    October is coming to a close, and the weather is still summer-like. Today’s walk takes us through the family blocks. Here and there I see hints of Halloween. A string of tiny, ghost-shaped lanterns wrap around a hibiscus bush. A gauzy witch rides a broom across a front door. Little tarantulas lurk among the leaves of a ficus hedge. Miniature pumpkins, each carved with a fanciful face, line the railing of a front porch.
    These decorations are understated. Articles in the Shiny Sheet often refer to Palm Beach’s many ordinances. I vaguely wonder if the town has one limiting pumpkin dimensions, another describing the proper size for a ghost, another, the number of tarantulas allowed.
    I find this subtlety quite a contrast to the glitzy side of Palm Beach. On one hand, Palm Beach is home to giant mansions, exotic cars, flashy jewelry. On the other, subtle Halloween decor. Sometimes I think there is actually another alternate universe hiding here, and it’s a small town from the 1950s.
    Wednesday, October 28
    Lakeside Park, which is part of our neighborhood, fronts the Lake Worth Lagoon and the town docks. There are clusters of hedges, large lawns, and a handful of old banyan trees with immense canopies of branches. The Lakeside Trail, which runs north along the lake shore begins (or ends) here.
    This morning we walk over with our newspapers and take a seat on a bench under one of the banyan trees. Lake Worth is calm, and the office buildings on the mainland reflect the morning sun.
    Two men are standing near us, deep in conversation. From their discussion it appears they’re real estate agents. One of them says, “So, what’s happening with that house on Lake Trail? Weren’t you supposed to close weeks ago?”
    â€œYou won’t believe this,” the other says. “The guy put down a million-dollar deposit. Now he’s in a messy divorce. So he’s just walking.”
    â€œWalking on a million?” Pause. “So who gets the money?”
    â€œWe’re working on that.”
    Dick says, “Did he say ‘a million’?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. We go back to looking at the lake.
    The docks extend out into the lake, three long fingers with slips for yachts on both sides. Many of the slips are empty.
    Dick says, “These slips aren’t your ordinary-size slips. They’re huge. It’s all so in proportion I never noticed before.” He points. “See that first boat, the closest one? See how little it looks? Well, it’s got to be sixty feet.”
    â€œThat boat is bigger than
Maverick
?” I say, referring to the Gulfstar 44 we lived on. “Can’t be.”
    â€œYup,” Dick says. “I’ll show you. Come, let’s measure.”
    I follow him over to the docks, and we walk off the length of the boat Dick is talking about. It’s sixty-five feet. We walk off the lengths of some larger yachts. Eighty-five feet. One hundred thirty five feet.
    I always thought
Maverick
was a pretty big boat. She’d be a tender to some of these guys here. Recently, from the beach, I’ve seen several yachts approaching the inlet at the north end of the island. I’m probably seeing some of them again now.
    Saturday, October 31
    Dick and I wend our way to Victor’s for espressos and scones. We enter the courtyard, and I realize this is not just any morning in Via Gucci. Children, dogs, and adults are milling about, many in costume.
    â€œI think we’re in the middle of a costume contest,” Dick says. Three costume contests, actually: for