“Well, a few weeks back, some hotshot reporter came sniffing around,” Louise said. “He’d heard there were some maintenance issues at the hotel. Now, with the racetrack nearby, some of the more crotchety guests are complaining about a manure smell, but with the potpourri we put in every room, you really can’t even smell it. And then last winter our generator failed—remember that huge storm in February?—and anyway, you get the idea. Well, this article made it seem like we were having financial problems and couldn’t keep the Golden afloat. Of course, they tied it to Daddy’s passing. Everyone knows he was the brains, not Amos.”
“Go on,” Aimee said to her mother. When Louise got hysterical, it was critical to throw in the occasional “And then what happened?” or “Really?” because otherwise she might accuse you of not listening.
“Well, within three days of the article coming out, Brian got called by some operators of a casino. You know those dreadful places off the interstate? They want to buy the Golden and turn it into a cheap card trick parlor with slot machines. It’ll bring lowlifes to the area. But . . . they are offering real money.”
“What do you think?” Aimee asked, pondering just how little emotional space and time she had to deal with this.
“I think it’s a real offer, and we need to consider it,” Louise said. “It’s not only up to me, though. You know that. The place isn’t the same without your father. I could never imagine letting it go while he was still alive, but now . . . Anyway, I’m just so grateful that I can always count on you. I swear, if you had problems, I simply wouldn’t . . .”
Aimee’s stomach lurched.
“Darling, are you there?” Louise asked. “Can you imagine selling the Golden?”
Aimee pictured the peeling wallpaper and the aging waiters, thought of the bedbugs that had ravaged the place a few summers earlier, and exhaled. Her father wasn’t the only thing missing from the hotel. Robust management that spread the weight of responsibility across more than just one person’s shoulders, a complete reno, a younger staff and clientele: Those were also among the key ingredients missing. Still, it had never occurred to her that the hotel wouldn’t remain part of her family forever. The thought was so startling, she wasn’t sure if it filled her with sadness, nostalgia, or relief.
“Brian has called for an emergency meeting,” Louise said. “Starting this Sunday. I’d really like you to be here. I don’t want the Weingolds to bulldoze me now that I don’t have your father by my side.” Louise had always been suspicious of the Weingolds skimming, particularly Amos. Her theory was that, with Benny schmoozing the crowds, warming up the audience before entertainers took the stage, joking with the waiters and the bellmen and slapping backs all around, he wouldn’t have felt it if his pocket got picked by Amos in broad daylight. She brooded about this to Aimee regularly.
“What does Brian say?” Aimee asked. Brian Weingold was running the place day-to-day. If anyone needed the lights to stay on at the Golden, it was him.
“He’s just asked us all to meet at the hotel,” Louise said. “I don’t know his position.”
They both fell silent for a moment. Aimee fished in her bag for a bottle of water. She was terribly parched. Anxiety did that to her, made sandpaper of her throat.
“I really can’t get away, Maman,” she said after a long swig. “You go up without me, but send me any documents you want me to review. But it’s just a terrible time right now. I mean terribly busy, not terrible in general.” Aimee bit her bottom lip to stop rambling. She wanted to unburden herself, to say out loud that her life was like a ball of yarn unraveling down a staircase. That inside her chest, she felt a balloon inflating. But she couldn’t, especially not to her mother. Not now, with Louise counting on perfect Aimee staying that way. Louise had never been fully on board the Roger train. She had had bigger dreams for her daughter (“Look, there’s Senator Javits’s grandson on the tennis court,” she would say, and shove Aimee in the bucktoothed, prematurely bald man’s direction). Aimee typically delighted in showing Louise just how well Roger had done over the years. Louise could no longer throw a Just an internist? jab at Aimee after they’d bought their six-thousand-square-foot home in the nicest part of Westchester, with bathrooms where the marble climbed all the way up the walls and a basement finished in polished oak. All three children skied with private instructors out west, and Aimee’s upgraded engagement ring could take someone’s eye out.
Louise was quiet. Her mother’s silence could slay her more swiftly than a harsh word. Aimee felt terribly squeezed. Being in the sandwich generation, having to weigh her parents’ needs against her children’s, had her feeling like jelly spread too thin, leaving both slices of bread forlorn. But in the competition for the scarce resources that Aimee Goldman-Glasser had to offer, her offspring came first. And if there was ever a time her kids needed her full attention, it was now. She had a sudden image of pulling into a prison parking lot, carrying a see-through purse, her children shuffling behind her looking mortified. Having seen every season of Orange Is the New Black, Aimee was something of a prison expert. God, would she bribe prison officers to get cigarettes to Roger, putting coke bags up her you-know-what? Aimee shook her head back to reality. Roger didn’t even smoke! Or maybe he did. There were clearly things about him she didn’t know. She checked herself again with a pinch to her thigh. This had to be what losing it felt like.
“I’m really sorry, Maman. But I gotta go,” Aimee said, and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat.
She drove home without seeing the streets or the cars in front of her. It was a miracle she didn’t crash. Selling the Golden? It was strange that Aimee had never considered the possibility before. The family camp thing in the mountains was a tough sell to teenagers who depended on super-speedy Wi-Fi for their existence. Certainly her children did, even begrudging the annual family pilgrimage for Labor Day weekend to close out the season. So many of their competitors had shuttered—Kutsher’s, the Raleigh, the Concord, Brown’s in a devastating fire—why had Aimee assumed the hotel would remain in her family forever, going on and on like the Energizer bunny? Or at least preserved like a treasured heirloom, though it was a lot harder to mind a hotel than a ring in a vault. When she turned onto her street, Aimee pushed the hotel into the compartment of her brain labeled Deal with Later.
In her driveway, she saw a police cruiser and a black SUV parked one behind the other. Zacky! She felt her heart leap out of her chest and crash to the ground. If she was breathing, she couldn’t tell.
“Zach!” she screamed, the house key still wobbling in the keyhole as she pushed her way inside.
“He’s fine,” came Roger’s voice.
“What the—” Aimee said, looking around at the state of their home. Her collection of first-edition books, scattered on the ground. Her watercolors, tossed carelessly off the walls. The contents of the desk in their living room, spilled everywhere, pages torn and crumpled. The glass from a framed wedding photo on the mantle was shattered. Shaggy, their golden retriever, barked furiously from under the piano bench.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said a uniformed police officer, appearing behind Roger. “But we have a search warrant.”
Roger looked down at the floor. Things were clearly even worse than he’d told her.
Zach appeared at the top of the stairs, crying. When was the last time she’d seen her boy shed tears? The youngest Glasser would fall off his skateboard, skin split like a banana peel and requiring twenty stitches, and still remain composed. She wanted to strangle Roger. It was only the presence of the police that stopped her. The children didn’t need two parents in prison.
“What’s going on, Mom? They broke some of my stuff. I’m really freaking out.” Zach wiped his cheek with his ratty T-shirt.
The long, elm-lined driveway of her family’s hotel flashed before her eyes so strongly, it was like she was having a stroke. She summoned strength she didn’t
know she had and looked at her boy.
“Honey, everything is fine. Pack a bag with a week’s worth of clothing. Bathing suits, sneakers. Don’t forget something to sleep in. We’re going on a vacation. Today.”
“We are?” Roger asked, finally meeting her gaze.
“You’re not. The kids and I are. If you need us, we’ll be at the Golden.”
To: [email protected]; [email protected];
[email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Subject: POTENTIAL SALE OF GOLDEN
To All Concerned Parties:
I regret that I cannot join everyone in Windsor to discuss the potential sale of the Golden Hotel (hereinafter, the “hotel”) and meet with the prospective buyers. I will be sending Michael in my place to represent the Peter Weingold interests. Phoebe will accompany him. Michael has just completed his sophomore year at Harvard and is an economics major, as I believe you all know. As such, I think he will be a genuine asset to any future negotiations. I know that I have the most business experience in this group. Thus, I expect to be in touch with you during the week to answer any questions and provide counsel. I URGE everyone to remember how special the hotel is when exploring offers. I tasked a junior associate with pulling some comparables (“comps”) and we are the ONLY waterfront parcel of 1,000+ acreage within twenty miles. Futterman’s, which I suspect will be used by the buyers as another buyout target, is in FAR MORE DISREPAIR and has had three citations from the alcohol and tobacco board for violations. I also want to remind everyone that Windsor, far from being a sleepy town away from the city, is now becoming a rather hip destination with many boutique day spas and roadside motels opening.
Best of luck this week and please avail yourselves of Michael’s business acumen.
Yours,
Peter
PS: Greta regrets that she can’t accompany the children but she will be undergoing a minor medical procedure. She sends her love.
To: Mom Weingold; Dad Weingold; Brian Weingold
CC: [email protected]
Subject: IMPORTANT
Once again, I apologize that I can’t get up to the hotel this week. The promotion to managing partner has been more taxing than anticipated, but it is rewarding. I write separately to you because I do not want Louise Goldman to make you feel sorry for her, playing the desperate widow card. While the hotel is likely the main asset that Benny left her, Louise’s (née Frankfurter) parents surely left her a comfortable sum when they passed. Will Aimee be in attendance? She is usually a voice of reason and I think will be a productive member of the team, though hopefully Roger will stay out of things. I have found him to be something of a blowhard.
Love,
Peter
Chapter Three
Zach
Mom, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on eventually,” Zach said, chewing feverishly on his fingernail. “The police tore our house apart, and you think I’m not gonna ask questions?”
“I told you, it’s nothing you need to worry about. It’s just a misunderstanding,” Aimee said, crouching on the front steps of their house and fighting with a stubborn suitcase zipper. “And please lower your voice. I don’t want to worry your sister.”
Maddie had arrived early that morning. Their father was ashen, as he had been since the police had come, so the cover story of his stomach ailment was easily corroborated by his complexion. Maddie needed no convincing to stay away, even as she quipped, I’m just one stomach flu away from my goal weight, from The Devil Wears Prada.
Zach looked toward the car, where his sister was already in the back seat, FaceTiming. Probably with her dipshit boyfriend, Andrew Hoff. Zach had met him last month at his University of Vermont graduation. He’d been seething when Andrew had said that the University of Vermont seemed like a cool place, but that he’d only considered Yale because he was a third-generation legacy (and then had mumbled “Go Bulldogs” under his breath). Zach didn’t even get why Andrew had been at the graduation—even his own brother had missed it because he had finals. Zach’s parents rolled out the red carpet for Maddie’s boyfriend in a way they never had for his significant others. Sure, Sarah, his freshman-year girlfriend, had lifted a few pieces of silver and uncorked his father’s 1987 Château Lafite without permission. But the others were nice. They were “quality,” to borrow a word his mother would use.
“Maddie’s not listening, trust me. But seriously, please tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
His mother stood up suddenly and swiveled around to face him squarely.
“First of all, you will always be a kid to me.” She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his forehead. It reminded him of the time his mother had spontaneously wept at the pediatrician’s office when Dr. Layhem announced he was five feet five, making him officially a half-inch taller than his mother. “But this is between me and your father.”
“How can it be a private thing between you and Dad and also a big misunderstanding? If it’s a misunderstanding, you can just tell me.” He knew his prodding wouldn’t get him anywhere. When his parents made up their minds that a matter didn’t concern their children, no amount of nagging made any difference.
Predictably, his mother didn’t bother answering. She hoisted a duffel in the air and motioned for him to take the rest.
“Be careful with the orange bag. And Zacky, not a word of this to Maddie or Scott. Please. I’m begging you.” Fat raindrops fell unexpectedly from the sky, as if the universe was helping his mother avoid his questions.
“Let’s hurry,” Aimee said, and they hustled into the car. As they pulled away, Zach looked back at their house. His father was staring at them from the window in his office, expressionless. Zach faced forward again, slipping on his Beats.
“Mom, I cannot sit next to Zach for another minute. I can hear his music so loudly,” Maddie said, shooting him a daggered look. They had been on the road for five minutes.
“You’re chewing like a cow,” Zach shot back, and felt gratified when, after Maddie stuck her tongue out at him, she slipped her wad of Trident into a tissue.
“Andrew said Dad should drink ginger tea,” Maddie said.
Zach cued up his most obvious eye roll in response. What kind of know-it-all gives a doctor medical advice? The guy dressed like a Vineyard Vines model, had an IQ in the range of a bad bowling score, and tied sweaters over his shoulders unironically. And he could never just say he was from Florida. He had to make sure everyone knew he was from Palm Beach. Zach wasn’t thrilled with the last-minute redirect to the Golden, but he was happy to avoid a weekend with Andrew.
“Mom, just so you know, Maddie has been texting Andrew the entire ride that you’re acting batshit crazy,” Zach said.
“Don’t look at my phone,” Maddie snapped.
“Don’t call me gross,” Zach said.
“Mom, how much longer—”
“The next person to start a sentence with ‘Mom’ is walking the rest of the way,” Aimee said, her tone sharper than normal. “And seriously, for people so desperate to be treated like adults, I can honestly say you sound exactly the same as when you were both in the back seat in elementary school.”
“I’m sorry,” Zach said quietly.
And he was. His mother had been catering to him since he’d moved back home, making his favorite enchiladas twice a week and cleaning his room on Marcia’s days off. He couldn’t understand why all his friends were in such a rush to get places of their own. He was a forty-minute drive to Manhattan and could see his buddies if he felt like it. In the meantime, he had a comfortable free room and three meals a day, and he never had to change out of his pajamas. Did he really want to share some dirty walk-up apartment and fight over the PlayStation remote?
“Can you plea
se turn up the AC back here? It’s stifling. And does Shaggy really need to sit in the front?” Maddie asked, dramatically peeling off her sweatshirt. Zach snuck another glance at her phone while she did so. She had texted a Bitmoji of herself with a single teardrop and written to Andrew, “Off to the Golden. Wish I was with you instead.” Andrew had responded, “Watch out for the bedbugs,” and inserted a vomit emoji.
At hearing his name, Shaggy barked and poked his head out the open window.
The golden retriever was the latest addition to the Glasser household. Bucking the trainer’s advice, their mother had cradled Shaggy like a newborn for the first six months of his life.
“You know he can’t sit in the back. Shaggy gets carsick, don’t you, boy?” Their mother nuzzled the soft reddish fur on the back of the dog’s neck. Zach saw her hand shaking as she looped a finger through Shaggy’s collar. Whatever was going on between his parents, it was rattling his mother to the point that Zach hadn’t seen her eat since the police had left their house the day before, and yet there had been an empty wine bottle in the trash this morning.
After the cops had departed, his father had straightened up, returning books to their shelves and collecting scattered papers. Meanwhile, his mother had called Maddie to tell her about an offer to buy the hotel and the need to change the Father’s Day plans so they could discuss it with the Weingolds. It was the first Zach had heard of any such offer. “Best if Andrew spends the weekend with his own family. I don’t think the Weingolds will want a stranger around while we talk business,” she’d said.
That comment had led to a fight between his sister and his mother about how anyone dared call Andrew a stranger. By the time the call had ended, Zach couldn’t ever remember seeing his mother look quite so exhausted. He’d wanted to ask her if they had pizza in the freezer—she’d forgotten to make dinner—but instead backed away quietly to his room, where he resumed a fruitless Google quest to figure out what the hell might be going on.
Last Summer at the Golden Hotel Page 5