“And it’s off to a solid start. The Insta account has three thousand followers in the first twenty-four hours.” Phoebe shrugged. “I know, I would have liked to hit 5k, too. I’ll do a bikini shot at the pool and get us there.”
A knock came at the door, and Otto poked his head in.
“Pardon the interruption,” he said, folding himself into an awkward bow that nearly knocked the visor off his head. “Guests are lining up for the Father’s Day brunch, and everyone is asking for the owners.”
“Why don’t we call it quits for now?” Amos said, standing.
“Actually, there’s one more thing,” Brian said. “I received a call from Howard Williams this morning. Diamond Enterprises is considering another property—a piece of land not far from here, probably part of the Ratzigers’ farm. We have until Friday to make our decision.”
“What?” Louise felt her chest tighten. “We need the summer to think this over. That’s unreasonable.”
Amos slapped his hand down on the table so hard, the water glasses shook.
“We’re not just a piece of land. We have eighty thousand square feet of hotel property, spread out over ten buildings. We have tennis courts, a pool, ballrooms, a kitchen that can feed a thousand people at once. How can they compare us to a piece of land?”
Brian hated to have to say this to his father, the man who had designed every inch of this place, breaking his back bent over blueprints. He had gone hat in hand to bank after bank for construction loans and visited at least fifty other hotels to learn the business. He’d weathered lawsuits from slip-and-falls, suffered through two recession cycles, survived scandals that might have sunk another hotel, and still come out with a pulse.
“Dad, that’s all we are to them. A piece of land. They’re going to raze everything.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. Even Phoebe put her phone down.
“Listen, I’m as sorry about this as anyone. But we now have only five days to decide the future of the Golden Hotel.”
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Chapter Nine
Aimee
Aimee was searching for Zach and Maddie. After the meeting had broken up, she’d spent a couple of minutes talking to her mother, and when she’d turned her back, her children had vanished. She’d checked the recreation room, the pool, the golf clubhouse, the tennis courts, the half basketball court, even the library. There was no sign of either of her children, and the clock was ticking.
If the Glassers had been in Scarsdale for Father’s Day, as planned, Aimee would be pulling a twice-baked French toast casserole out of the oven and stirring homemade lemonade. Roger would be whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner” or “America the Beautiful” in his armchair, an annoying habit of his that she’d ignore in deference to Father’s Day, and the kids would be spread across the leather sofa watching Master Chef or its television programming opposite, The Biggest Loser. Their household would hum with merriment, laughter, and a few spats to keep them humble. The comforting smell of cinnamon swirled with vanilla would throw a warm cast over it all. She would have that tingly feeling she got when all five of them were under one roof. Instead, she was in the Catskills, with two-thirds of her children. Aimee suspected none of them had even remembered to call their father, even with the yellowed happy father’s day banner hanging over their heads in the lobby. She was still waiting for the self-centeredness of her children to reach its tipping point. Not that she hadn’t helped them get there, making sure Marcia ironed Zach’s boxers and shipping home-cooked meals packaged in dry ice to Scott once a month.
During the meeting, she’d made up her mind that she would remind the children to call Roger. No matter what, he was still their father. She’d believed him when he’d said he’d done what he’d done to make their family life better. What was impossible to reconcile was that he’d chosen to destroy other people’s lives in order to better their own. She didn’t want to accept that she’d married someone who could be that selfish or have the capacity for such egregious tunnel vision. Part of her attraction to Roger had been that he was a doctor, and not for the reasons that made the yentas at the Golden push their daughters toward the medical students working as waiters and bellboys. It was because he said things to her on dates like, “I’ve just always wanted to help people.” When she’d inquired why he’d chosen internal medicine as a specialty, he’d said, “Because I want to treat the whole person.” Roger had an answer for everything, and it was usually a confident one that made Aimee respect his self-assurance—not unlike the way Maddie looked at Andrew, she thought now, alarmingly.
Call your father, she texted the kids, and sank into a leather chair in the lobby that reminded her of the furniture in Roger’s first medical office.
She recalled the day he’d signed the lease. The office in the town center hadn’t been anything special, just a simple waiting room with dated furniture in 1960s orange and an exam room that barely fit a doctor, a nurse, and a patient at the same time. Roger would sometimes have bruises on his back from knocking into the medical scale. His first nurse, Caroline, was one of those pint-sized, perky women whom men adored. Button-nosed, naturally blond, and always with a tooth-bearing smile.
But Aimee had never genuinely worried about them getting into trouble together, even though Louise had had a fit when she’d gone to see Roger about a rash and met the pretty nurse. “I know my husband, Maman. He’s not the type,” Aimee had reassured Louise. “If you saw everything I’ve seen at the Golden, you might not be so sure,” Louise had retorted. Aimee didn’t know Roger at all, it turned out. Maybe it was impossible ever to know someone else, which made watching her daughter contemplate binding up her life with another person terrifying.
She and Roger had set up the office together, and when it was complete and they were exhausted and sweaty and dreaming of a cold glass of white wine as a reward, her husband had turned to her and said, “It’s missing something.” She’d immediately gone into caretaker mode, running through the mental checklist of what they’d thought he’d need: pens, paper, printer, computer, files, file cabinet, magazines, magazine rack. Check, check, check. It was all there.
“What?” She must have looked nervous, because Roger said, “Relax. It’s nothing like that. I just feel like the walls could use something. Would you paint something that I can frame?”
“Oh, Roger, I’d love to. But I’m not a real artist,” she’d said. “We can get you a photograph or something from a gallery that will look much better. I know a woman who can give us a good price on—”
He’d put his index finger to her lips. “I want something you make. You’re talented. And even if you weren’t, I want to see an Aimee Goldman-Glasser original every time I come into the office. Like at the Golden.”
Behind the registration desk at the hotel hung one of her first paintings. It was a watercolor picture of the Golden’s front lawn, the tree swing in the foreground. Roger loved it. Everyone who came to the hotel did. She had been about eight when she’d painted it, and had signed her name in bubble letters. “Paint the hotel again,” Roger had requested, and he’d hung her much-improved version of the lawn in his waiting room. It was the first time she’d picked up a paintbrush in years, and she’d been surprised to find the strokes were familiar. Emerald green mixed with a dash of white had given her the exact color of the leaves she would pull from the trees; brown with traces of yellow had rendered the shade of the swing.
Goddamn you, Roger. He had so many good parts. He wasn’t a straightforward villain like the bad guys in the superhero movies the boys had dragged her to when they were younger—the ones that had given them nightmares but still they’d insisted on seeing. But what he’d done was
unforgivable. She couldn’t stay with him. Could she? Maybe spouses overlooked all sorts of bad behavior. Her mother certainly alluded to plenty of antics in the Catskills that weren’t aboveboard. The problem was that family secrets, the really bad ones, were kept under lock and key, and so it was impossible to measure just how bad hers was.
In private moments when she had time for more than a minute’s reflection, she blamed herself for being in this predicament. If she hadn’t fallen into the path of merry housewife and made her entire world about her husband and family, this would be less crushing. If she had pursued art meaningfully, or worked at the hotel more diligently, certainly she would feel more confident that she could navigate life without Roger. She hadn’t really understood the working moms who came to school plays in high heels and were constantly checking BlackBerrys and dashing off. Now she envied their sense of self. These women were like earthworms. If you cut them in half, they would regrow the necessary parts to stay vital.
Aimee stood up and was walking toward the elevators when she heard Maddie’s voice around the corridor.
“I feel like Andrew is upset with me that we’re not together this weekend,” her daughter was saying. “I mean, we do live together, but he has to go to Palm Beach a lot for work, so we’re apart more than we’d like to be. But, like, Andrew really isn’t into the Catskills. It’s nothing personal. He just gets carsick easily. And when I told him that we wouldn’t be seeing my dad this weekend, he said he really ought to go see his father. Mr. Hoff is getting honored by the hospital anyway Tuesday evening. I feel like I should be there. What do you think, Grand-mère?”
Grand-mère? Maddie turned on the French when she wanted Louise’s approval. Since when were they so chummy? If Maddie was that put out about coming to the Golden, she could have just said so to Aimee directly.
“Of course, my love,” came Louise’s voice, gravelly with age but still strong enough that it carried clearly around the bend. “If you feel you need to be with Andrew, then go.”
“But what about Mom? She said she really wants us here this week to help make the decision. It’s about the future generations, blah blah blah. But, like, Phoebe had some smart things to say, much as it shocked me. And Zacky’s here. I know he’s not exactly a brain trust, but he does represent our interests. And apparently has taken a business class. Who knew?”
“I’ll deal with your mother,” Louise said. “You’re going to be building a life with this young man. He has to be your priority. Pack your things, and I’ll have Larry get you a car service back to the city. Then you can get down to Florida easily. Trust me, what happens to the Golden will mean nothing if you’re not happily married. You need the stability that finding the right man can provide.”
Maddie squealed as Aimee cringed. She held on to the wall for support.
“You’re the best, Grandma! I’m going to get my things.” A smooch sounded.
“You need the security that only a marriage can provide?” Aimee hissed at her mother, once she was sure she’d heard the elevator snap shut with her daughter inside. “Did I accidentally stumble into a time warp?”
“Mon Dieu, Aimee! Where did you come from?” Louise asked. “You’re all flushed. I share your sentiment; this morning’s meeting was startling. Five days—”
“I’m not flushed because of the—”
“I mean, Phoebe and her goats. Brian suggesting cutting back on food. I feel like I don’t even know this place anymore, and I am sure your father is rolling in his grave. Anyway, I’m glad Brian cut the meeting when he did, because I have to get to the beauty parlor before my roots get any worse. My regular girl is gone, and I know I’m going to have to explain everything to the new gal.”
Aimee inhaled sharply. Three counts in; four counts out. That’s what the website she’d Googled had said to do when a panic attack was coming on.
“Maman, before we start talking about whether you should stick to Ravishing Red or experiment with Glamorous Ginger, I’d like to discuss you giving my daughter permission to leave the hotel to go see her boyfriend in Florida without even checking with me.”
Louise’s eyes bubbled with tears unexpectedly. This wasn’t what Aimee wanted at all. She was spoiling for a row, but tears, no thank you.
Her mother dabbed at her eyes with one of her signature white linen handkerchiefs. Kleenex were gauche, along with paper cups and toothpicks. Roger had a touch of that old-school in him, too. It was one of the things about him of which Louise approved. He’d make the kids transfer Chinese takeout onto china plates. He never saw patients without his white coat, unlike the “newfangled” doctors that treated Aimee’s parents from time to time, who went to work in jeans. “I don’t know if we can trust him,” Louise had said of Benny’s cardiologist. “He was in dungarees.”
“I’m sorry if I crossed the line. You seem so absentminded since you’ve gotten here, I thought you might appreciate if I helped you out. Besides, I thought you trusted my judgment.”
She did trust her mother. What niggled Aimee wasn’t so much Louise acting in loco parentis, but the antiquated garbage she was feeding Maddie. It was one thing to call a suitcase a valise and refuse to use a to-go coffee cup; it was quite another to teach a twenty-nine-year-old woman she needed a man to be happy. Of course, Aimee was particularly sensitive on this point now.
“I just didn’t love all that stuff you were saying about Maddie needing a man and having to run to be at Andrew’s side.”
“Oh, goodness, is that it?” Louise paused to check her makeup in her compact, smacked her lips together after applying a fresh coat of lipstick. It was like she was trying to emphasize that there was nothing wrong with being old-fashioned. “I believe Maddie will be happier when she’s settled. You’ve said yourself that she’s always been a girl with a plan. And surely you want the same kind of security you have with Roger for your own children.”
Oh, God. They couldn’t discuss this. Not now.
“Think the beauty parlor has room for me, too?” Aimee asked, smiling at her own diversionary tactic. A salon stop was a good idea anyway. That waitress she’d seen Brian acting chummy with had the kind of hair that looked its best natural and windswept. Aimee was not so lucky. A blow-dry would go a long way toward feeling some semblance of control over her life. She heard the commercial playing in her head: Can’t tame your children or husband? Tame your curls instead.
“Of course. We’ll kick someone else out of a chair if necessary.” Louise looked giddy about the mother-daughter beauty excursion.
Once upon a time, Roberta’s, the in-house salon, had been the most bustling spot at the Golden. Wash-and-sets had been booked weeks in advance. Women had fought over appointments with Maria, the best of the nail technicians, known to whittle cuticles into nonexistence and lacquer nails that wouldn’t chip for a full week. It was also the best place to collect gossip. There was an unwritten rule that anything could be said from under a hair dryer dome. Engagements had been busted up during dye jobs, reputations destroyed during bang trims.
“By the way,” Louise said, looping an arm through Aimee’s and steering her toward Roberta’s. “Before I ran into Maddie, I called over to Roger’s office to make my appointment for the shingles vaccine. You know he’s the only one I trust to give me my shots. The girl who answered said she doesn’t know when he’ll be back in the office.”
Aimee froze. Of course her mother would figure out something was up eventually. She had eyes in the back of her head, in Westchester, in the Weingolds’ living room, and all over the hotel. If the woman had a network of spies reporting to her, Aimee wouldn’t be surprised.
“His stomach thing is getting worse. I just didn’t want to worry you,” Aimee said. She didn’t have to fake her panicked expression. “I guess he doesn’t know when he’ll be well enough to work.”
“And you’re sure you don’t need to be with him? I hope I didn’t pr
essure you too much to be here with me while we negotiate against the Weingolds.”
“No, no. I’m sure. I’m staying,” Aimee said. She didn’t bother nitpicking her mother’s phrasing. Against . . . like they were getting divorced from the Weingolds. “Let’s get beautiful. Larry said there’s a good comic tonight doing the late show. We can get dressed up.”
Suddenly Aimee didn’t really give a damn anymore if the kids called Roger. She wanted her hair done and a stiff drink.
Chapter Ten
Zach
Zach desperately needed weed.
His mother had rushed them out of the house so quickly on Saturday, he hadn’t had time to grab his stash. He’d also forgotten underwear, but he was more upset about the bag of sativa he’d left behind. There was surely a hookup to be had in the Catskills. Woodstock was only an hour’s drive away. And the guy behind the counter at the gas station in town had definitely been high on something, though that could have been fumes. He’d return to the Shell station if he got desperate enough. First, he figured he’d try his buddy Wally from college. That guy could locate marijuana on a deserted island.
After the family meeting had broken up, Zach had texted Wally and gone outside for air. He’d thought about asking Maddie to play bocce, but she’d disappeared the minute Brian had ended the meeting. He’d found a group of guys about his age on the outdoor basketball court, and they’d played three-on-three for a good hour. When he’d asked if they were staying at the hotel, they’d laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard until one of them said, “No, man, we just sneak in to play ball and steal food.” Zach prudently decided not to share that he was an owner.
“Hey,” came Maddie’s voice after he and the guys had said their goodbyes. He was shooting free throws, annoyed Wally hadn’t texted him back yet.
“We need to call Dad,” she said, approaching with her cell phone pointed toward him.
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