Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  The voice mail from Howard asked that he call back immediately. Damn. He hadn’t even had coffee yet.

  “Brian, the dillydallying about our offer’s gotta come to an end,” Howard said by way of greeting. His Southern drawl made it sound like their negotiations would end with a saloon duel. “We’ve located another property nearby that will suit our purposes just fine. Now, we like the history of y’all’s place. And I gotta say, there’s something real nice about turning gold into a diamond, but y’all gotta be ready to play. This other site is mighty nice. Same acreage. And we don’t need to bulldoze any structures.”

  “Bulldoze.” Did Howard need to choose such a visceral word? How about “renovate” or “remodel,” to soft-pedal it? It almost made Brian want to tell him to take the offer and shove it up his cowboy hat, but it wasn’t his decision to make alone, not once he’d let the cat out of the bag.

  “So what does that mean, exactly?” Brian asked. “You know I said we have a complicated ownership structure and would need time to discuss. You said we could have the summer to think things over. I said by Labor Day—”

  “I’m a man of my word, Bri. But the situation has changed. Y’all have five days to decide. I’ll need an answer by Friday or we’re going to buy the other property,” Howard said.

  Brian was left holding the phone in shock. He had to tell everyone that a decision would need to be reached in five days. The fate of sixty years of history condensed into a five-day discussion. It was unthinkable, and yet it was reality. Brian had thought that even if they decided together to sell at the end of this week, a successful season could unseal the decision. If the reservations picked up, if Brian could get Seinfeld back, if, if, if . . . So many ifs, and with every one came a glimmer of hope. Now it was futile to even consider a turnaround. Friday. Damn, that was soon.

  He climbed out of bed and reached for his wrinkled button-down from the night before, wishing he’d had the foresight to keep a clean set of clothes at Angela’s. Not that he needed to dress up for the meeting. The Golden wasn’t run like a fancy corporation, operating documents housed in a corporate glass tower like where his brother worked. Ownership was simple, despite what he’d told Howard. The hotel had been owned fifty-fifty by Benny and Amos. When Benny had died, his stake had passed to Louise, with the understanding it would pass to Aimee eventually. There was the matter of the board, though. About ten years ago, a lawyer who was a frequent guest had caught wind of how informally the hotel was run and insisted he’d help set up a corporate governance structure. Under the terms created, a sale would need a sixty-six percent vote. All family members had been given board seats. Because Louise had inherited Benny’s shares, she had two votes. Everyone else had one, including the grandkids. Brian prayed the decision would be reached via amiable discussion, though he could easily picture them lobbying for votes, forming alliances like contestants on Survivor. They’d had minor scrapes along the way, but the two families had coexisted without a single lawsuit. Even the July Fourth dustup from years back had been swept under the rug out of respect for the deep friendship between Benny and Amos. With Benny gone, the balance of power was at its most fragile.

  Their last “reunion” had been at Benny’s funeral. After the burial, both families had settled in the cocktail lounge and reminisced for hours. Each Benny story begat another, and it had been nearly sunrise when they’d parted ways. This gathering had a different character. For one thing, Peter wasn’t there. His niece and nephew appeared uninterested (maybe he shouldn’t have fixed the Wi-Fi), Louise was tense, and Aimee seemed distracted, bordering on distraught.

  What was wrong with Aimee Goldman that she was chewing furiously on a hangnail and her knee was shaking so hard that she’d rattled the dinner table the night before? A flush had filled her cheeks every time he’d spoken to her. It was the same reaction he remembered from their childhood. A young Aimee had tried to hide her crush on him, very deliberately looking between him and Peter in even increments, making sure she alternated whom she sat next to, but it was obvious nonetheless.

  Was she still reeling from her father’s death? Worried about her kids? Maybe it was the potential loss of the hotel. The three of them, Peter, Aimee, and himself, had been the princes and princess of the empire back in the day. They’d always believed themselves to be special.

  More likely, with her lavish lifestyle, Aimee considered the hotel a waste of her efforts. Why bother with the shabby inn beyond hope?

  No matter which way she was leaning, it was still surreal. Each time a peer hotel was leveled, it was like learning an acquaintance had cancer. You paused, you took notice, you expressed pity, but you never thought for more than a fleeting second that it could have anything to do with you.

  But how could they fool themselves into invincibility when the reviews told a very different story?

  COMMENT CARD—JULY 6, 1967

  Dear Benny, Amos, Louise, and Fanny:

  We cannot thank you enough for a most marvelous stay! From the 4th of July fireworks, the comedy evening (that one about the rabbi and the monk . . . still cracking up!), the show tunes evening, the sumptuous meals (must get Chef Joe to give up his brisket recipe!), to the campfire sing-a-long, we couldn’t have asked for a more special time for our family. We love the new billiard lounge and card room. There’s no place like the Golden in our book! We’ll be back to close out the season. Harvey and I are getting in shape for the Gold Rush, though we know we don’t stand a chance! Another superb vacation for the Heller clan.

  Fondly,

  Harvey, Barbara, Jenny, and Sammy Heller

  P.S.—Fan, see you at the Temple Beth Am canasta tournament!

  COMMENT CARD—AUGUST 1, 1983

  Dear Weingolds and Goldmans,

  What a lovely stay we had at the hotel. This is our tenth summer, as you surely know. The food was bountiful as always. We are returning home in elastic pants. The father-son tennis tournament was a lot of fun and our daughter really enjoyed the mah-jongg for teens evening. As we love the Golden dearly, we thought it might be worthwhile to pass on a few (minor!) suggestions. Consider some lighter options in the dining room. The rooms would also benefit from a refresher. Our kids would have loved more offerings on the television than the five local channels and the bathtub was a tad grimier than we would have liked. See you next summer! Unless Barry wins salesman of the year—then we’re headed to Costa Rica all expenses paid!

  Fondly,

  The Millers

  www.tripcritic.com

  August 22, 2020

  THE GOLDEN HOTEL, Windsor, NY (6,902 reviews)

  Service:

  Property:

  Overall Experience:

  How likely are you to recommend this Golden on a scale of 1-10? 3

  We were truly disappointed with our stay at this hotel. Upon arrival, we found the bellman asleep on a luggage cart and had to lug our own bags. Our reservation couldn’t be found because the computer system was down. The “concierge” handed us an activity sheet at least two decades old. The water pressure in our shower was barely a drizzle and the sheets gave our youngest child a rash. The website advertises an ice-skating rink and ten har-tru tennis courts, but we found both closed with dubious “under renovation” signs on them. Our families have spent many summers at the Golden Hotel and we were excited to return after a ten-year hiatus, but this has been a real letdown.

  The Stein-Waltmans

  Chapter Eight

  Louise

  In their Central Park West apartment, Louise and Benny had slept in different bedrooms since the day Aimee had moved out. Benny snored loudly, which was the prime reason Louise suggested he take over the guest room, but there was more to it. On the surface, they were the perfect couple, the host and hostess with the mostest. But they had their share of issues.

  When she and Benny needed to have it out, which was far more often than their publ
ic faces let on, they told Aimee they were going for a walk. Their daughter was sensitive and a worrier—it came with being artistic. And Louise was acutely aware that Aimee didn’t have a sibling to turn to, the way she did with her brothers when their parents fought. In their building’s back alley, shielded by the ambient noise of the city, they would brawl. Louise knew about the women who threw themselves at Benny; she was less sure how tough his resolve was. She didn’t like the way the color girl in the salon looked at him, fingering his grays and encouraging him to stop by for a “touch-up.” These flirtations were among the top sources of their fights, and Louise might have pushed harder if she didn’t have secrets of her own.

  Sleeping apart from Benny was never necessary at the Golden, even after Aimee became Mrs. Roger Glasser and moved her things to a permanent suite in the main building. Louise chalked it up to the mountain air. The breeze cascading through the open windows and the crispness that could only be found in the Catskills lulled her into a stupor that Benny’s orchestral blasts couldn’t shatter. But even if Benny had sounded like a trumpet all night and she couldn’t sleep a wink, she wouldn’t have slept apart from him at the Golden, where rumors swirled like honey in tea.

  Louise’s generation cared about keeping up appearances. Nowadays, women were running around in yoga pants and no makeup—and they were deemed “brave” for it. Couples were sharing bedroom problems with their friends. Social media made privacy a relic. She didn’t understand the need to break down these barriers, and she never would, no matter how many times the grandchildren tried to convince her otherwise. “Get Facebook, Gram,” they would badger her. Why? So she could look up all the women who used to throw themselves at Benny? So she could feel bad about the way her sagging chin looked in photographs? No thank you.

  Unfortunately, the mountain air had not worked its usual magic last night. She’d kept reaching for Benny in the dark, her hand meeting only emptiness and cool, dry sheets. She had been forced to dip into her emergency stash of Klonopin in order to rest. She felt her husband’s absence the most acutely when she was at the hotel. He was like a ghost that haunted every inch of the place, and she had stayed away since the funeral.

  A Canada warbler beat its wing against her windowsill. Louise studied its beautiful body. It was a common sighting in their neck of the mountains, but the bird always made Louise smile. Benny had once said its feathery coat reminded him of her. Its top half, the backside, was a beautiful gray, but the bird had a stunning bright yellow color stretched across its belly. Under its neck were a series of spots resembling a necklace of pearls. “Like you, Weezee.” He’d sometimes called her that. “Elegant fur coat on the outside, bright dress underneath. And jewelry.” She watched mournfully as the bird flew away.

  Louise couldn’t believe she’d accepted a date with Walter Cole a few days earlier. She was in no state to entertain suitors. Walter was a widower who lived three floors below her in the San Remo, and she’d caught his desiring eye the moment Benny had arrived back from the hospital with a full-time attendant at his side. While once Louise had criticized the widows and widowers who swarmed like flies at a shiva, she had more empathy after Benny’s passing. Loneliness was a shadow. Sometimes it loomed large, other times small, but it was impossible to shed entirely unless you submitted to total darkness. But being back in the hotel solidified for her that she wasn’t ready. She had to call Walter and put off the date. He probably didn’t even like her. Just wanted a nurse with a purse, like all the other geezers.

  She stood in front of her closet and pondered what to wear to the morning meeting. It was Sunday, Father’s Day, and while they would be meeting in the boardroom, she knew she ought to sweep through the main dining room and wish her best to the families that were still choosing the Golden to celebrate holidays and special occasions. She selected an ivory linen dress and topped it with a thick coral necklace. She had a matching lipstick that would complement it perfectly and beige wedge heels that were forgiving of her bunions. Louise believed firmly that the minute she refused to wear heels, it was all over. She might as well check herself into an old-age home and eat dinner at 4:30 p.m. To think Aimee flitted through life in flats. She wasn’t even tall, and her calves could use elongating. And what about Maddie? She was in sneakers. Sparkly, ridiculous-looking high-tops in the main dining room last night. Louise hoped Aimee had the sense to make sure Maddie never appeared so casual and sloppy in front of her future in-laws. She remembered fondly searching for the perfect ribbons for Aimee’s every outfit and combing her hair until it shone.

  When Maddie was born, Louise had been so happy the baby was a girl. “There’s nothing like a daughter,” she’d whispered to Aimee, holding her granddaughter in her arms for the first time. Aimee, in the fog of anesthesia, had said, “Yes. But I’m definitely having more kids. Would hate if she had to be an only child.” The comment sliced Louise regularly.

  She went to the mirror to apply her makeup, checking the time on the thin gold watch that Benny had given her on the thirtieth anniversary of the hotel’s opening. It was a sign of how much he’d cared about the place that they’d tended to celebrate the hotel’s milestones before their own. A common joke, one that had sometimes hit too close to home, was that Benny had been having an affair—with the Golden. If he’d bought his “girlfriend” something special, like a new roof over the sports pavilion, then he’d have to buy something even nicer for Louise to assuage his guilt. That was what accounted for the bulk of her jewelry collection, every gemstone and link of precious metal correlating to another facilities improvement.

  She applied the last of her face, trying not to dwell on how long it took her to be presentable. Each decade was good for another ten minutes in front of the mirror, another millimeter of pancake. If she made it to ninety, she might as well not plan anything before lunchtime. She had thought by now she’d relax her aesthetic standards, maybe take a page from Fanny’s book; Fanny rarely bothered with more than lipstick, even at special events. But even as Louise’s liver spots multiplied and her veins bloomed to the surface, she refused to leave the house without rouge and her hair set in its signature waves. She rejected the platters of dessert ordered “for the table” and stuck to berries. If she could maintain dignity with cosmetic products and a lean diet, Louise considered herself one of the lucky ones.

  Content with her appearance, she stepped outside into the sunshine and set out on the path toward the main building. She did her best to record the dilapidation, to study the ways the Golden had lost its luster. But it was true what they said—it was hard to see your own hunchback. The hotel was so bound up in her conscience, and her memories of summers there so vivid, that she simply couldn’t see the changes. Sure, she saw that the guest book on the check-in counter was only a quarter full, but somehow it didn’t register past the superficial part of her brain. The part of her brain where feelings were stored could still see a guest book torn at the seams from overuse, overflowing with “best place on earth” messages.

  Aimee, though. She would rely on her daughter to be her eyes. Aimee, who was attached to the hotel, but not with the same fierceness. She could see its flaws. The grandchildren, too, but Louise wasn’t particularly interested in their criticism. Zach was wearing a T-shirt with Che Guevara on it, though Louise doubted he knew who he was. Or at least she hoped he didn’t; not that she intended to get into a political debate with the boy who’d needed an extra year to complete a geography degree and who probably couldn’t find Cuba on a map. Though he had given them all a shock when he’d inquired about the business terms of the offer. That was more than Maddie had had to offer. She had blathered on about mothballs for most of the evening.

  “Sweetheart, I was just thinking about you,” Louise said when she bumped into her daughter in the corridor leading to the boardroom. To her surprise, Aimee had traded last night’s flats for a kitten heel, and she looked rosy for the morning summit. Was that bronzer on her cheekbones
? Bravo, Louise wanted to say. Aimee’s dress was a black cotton with a small daisy design, belted at the waist, a modern take on an older silhouette. She was happy to see a return in fashion to celebrating feminine curves. Those androgynous outfits some women wore . . . they made Louise shudder. Imagine, a woman wearing a tuxedo to the Oscars and all the critics cheering her on! Unthinkable, truly. Andy the Blouse Man, who came to the hotel on Tuesdays, was the person who had first taught Louise the importance of cinching at the waist. He taught many of the women at the hotel about a heck of a lot more than just fit. When his trailer door was shut, it signaled a “private showing” to a good customer.

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?” Aimee asked. She looked over her shoulder as if checking for a trail of toilet paper.

  “Nothing,” Louise said. “You look lovely.”

  Aimee seemed distrustful. “Oh, um, thank you. So do you.”

  Why did her daughter automatically assume she was being critical? If she studied Aimee’s appearance for a beat too long, analyzing her hair color, pondering her chin cleft, well, she had her reasons. And they weren’t close to what Aimee thought they were. Historically, Aimee had whined that Louise could only find her faults. They had had one particularly brutal blowout at one of Aimee’s art shows. She’d been exhibiting her paintings at the 92nd Street Y, and Louise had been horrified to see that Aimee hadn’t brushed her hair for the event. Louise had yanked Aimee into the bathroom and done the best she could with the pocket comb she carried everywhere, all while Aimee sobbed that she was hurting her. It had taken weeks for the two of them to move past that incident. But was it not a mother’s job to help a child look their best? She’d paid for the fancy private school so that Aimee could get the finest education. She’d researched tennis instructors and found the best speech therapist so that Aimee didn’t choke on her L’s, so why was helping with her appearance off-limits? Nobody else would tell Aimee if she had lipstick on her teeth or if her bra straps were showing. People were jealous of them. They were the Goldmans. If they didn’t look out for one another, no one would.