No longer living in a ratty efficiency in West Palm Beach, Brownie had moved into a one-bedroom apartment in the massive Palm Beach Towers, a largely Jewish condominium on the very grounds where the Royal Poinciana Hotel had stood. One of the men who had been Brownie’s escorts, the late Philip Rauch, gave her the apartment as a life estate. In recent years, Brownie has learned that she cannot always romp with the most spirited and upscale of crews, and tonight she was stuck with a relatively motley group, though they never guessed that she had taken their measure. She found the whole idea of dressing little better than farmers—given the ball’s Western-style dress code—terribly outré, and she was counting the minutes until she could politely leave. A country music band was playing Hank Williams’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” and scores of Palm Beachers were dancing to music that was as peculiar to them as Gregorian chants. Out on the dance floor, all eyes focused on one handsome couple in perfectly matched outfits.
What do You think about Madness Under The Royal Palms?
