Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  Still, no matter how terrible Roger was, and how carelessly he’d pushed their family off a cliff, that didn’t mean she should go sleeping with Brian. Somewhere in deep storage there had to be dozens of notebooks in which she’d scribbled the monogram AWB in loopy cursive. When she’d still been into sketching, she’d even attempted to draw their likenesses together, like they were sitting for a wedding portrait. But that was when she was a hormonal, shit-for-brains teenager whose crushes felt like hot lava running through her veins. Now she was a premenopausal woman who had a daughter on the verge of marriage; Maddie could even have a child within a couple years. That would make Aimee a grandmother. Grandmothers didn’t have one-night stands. Grandmothers didn’t get so drunk that they suggested sneaking into the cabaret lounge to belt out the Golden anthem at 2 a.m. Grandmothers knitted. They played canasta. They did not act like Aimee Goldman-Glasser had last night.

  She eyed the alarm clock on the night table. It was the size of a matchbook and didn’t have any of the features she was used to in the luxury resorts Roger insisted on: a docking station for her phone, ocean waves to fall asleep to, a wireless connection to the coffee maker. It was 9:47 a.m. When was the last time she had slept that late? She felt like Zach, finding herself horizontal at this hour. The families were due to gather at ten thirty to continue discussions. Thank goodness she hadn’t overslept and been forced to stumble in looking like she’d been hit by a Mack truck.

  She was suddenly grateful to Louise for dismissing Maddie yesterday. Her daughter would sense something. She remembered overhearing Maddie and her friends giggling about how sex had a smell, and that was how they could tell who among their friends had been up to what. It had made Aimee terribly self-conscious around her children, as though they would pick up the scent of her and Roger’s lovemaking. Zach, she wasn’t too worried about. He was far too enraptured with Phoebe to notice much else.

  Yikes, she thought. She had slept with Brian, who was Phoebe’s uncle. This was all feeling very soap-opera-like. Next time on The Golden Hotel: Will Aimee’s affair with Brian complicate Zach’s chances with Phoebe? Tune in tomorrow to find out. Now, a word from our sponsors, Happy Family Dishwashing Liquid.

  She forced herself out of bed and wriggled into her only pair of blue jeans and a thin linen button-down. It was an outfit casual enough to communicate that she was feeling cool about what had happened. It was the exact opposite of how she felt, but she didn’t need her clothes to scream, I’m freaking out! Sex with Brian Weingold. She was so shocked that it had happened (Adultery! Her! Longest-serving PTA president!) that she hadn’t yet reveled in what it had been like to be with him. His hands were rough, his kisses were tender, and his body was the perfect size to envelop her. She remembered him asking, after he’d groaned with satisfaction, “Have you? Can I?” with the consideration of a man that recognized sex was a two-way street. Roger wasn’t a bad lover, but he used his distinct advantage of knowing that Aimee had no one with whom to compare him. She had been so young when they met. Why hadn’t she banged half the waiters and lifeguards at the hotel like most of her friends had? Why the hell was she so fearful that her parents would find out? Everyone bed-hopped in the Catskills. It was a form of cardio.

  So now Roger had . . . competition. Or did he? Would she ever sleep with either of these men again? Aimee didn’t know the answer to that any more than she knew what the hell they should do with the Golden. There was a good part of her that wanted to just flip a coin. Like the way she used to resolve conflicts between Scott and Zach. Whose turn is it to use the PlayStation? Let’s let a nickel decide.

  The boardroom was full when she arrived, with one extremely noticeable absence. Her mother charged right over, leaving Aimee little time to wonder where Brian could be.

  “I’ve made a call,” Louise said dramatically. “Diego will be here tonight to fix this.” She pointed with a red-lacquered nail at Aimee’s hair. “He was all set to go to Fire Island for the weekend, but I explained to him just how dire the situation was, and he’s driving up as we speak.”

  “You seriously called your hairdresser from the city to fix my hair?” Aimee was incredulous. Or she wanted to be, but actually, there was very little surprise in what her mother had done.

  “Yes, and you could express a little gratitude. He’s going to charge something astronomical because of the house call and the driving, but I’ll cover it. Whatever is going on between you and Roger—because I am no fool—coming back from the Golden with your hair looking like fusilli isn’t going to help.”

  Aimee seized on everything she couldn’t say to her mother: that Roger didn’t love her because of her hair, that what was wrong between them wasn’t reversible like a perm. Instead she muttered, “Thanks,” and took a seat in between Zach and Amos. At least this way Brian couldn’t be next to her, where the thump of her heartbeat would definitely be audible. It was already drumming loudly, each beat whooshing in her ears like ocean waves.

  “Mom, Phoebe and I got to talking more last night. We have some really good ideas that can save the hotel,” Zach said. Aimee nodded feebly. She was feeling the alcohol way too much to talk substantively about the hotel, but she noted something in her son’s beautiful blue, but normally glazed, eyes that she’d never seen before. It sounded cliché, like something that would only be expressed in writing, but there was a definite spark there. Maybe it was because of Phoebe and her pheromonal tug on him, but her son was undoubtedly excited about the prospect of work. Aimee felt a double pang of guilt now. How could she fairly assess the fate of the Golden when her husband needed the proceeds of a sale to stay out of jail, but her son was actually eager about being productive for the first time ever? As if sensing her allegiances shifting, Roger texted at that moment.

  Any news? Lawyers say sooner we can get them a first payment the sooner they can get to work. Catskills over. This is for the best for everyone.

  She flipped her phone to silent and thrust it back into her purse.

  Brian entered, a folded newspaper in his hand. He looked at everyone before taking his seat, and Aimee felt his gaze on her for an extra beat. She hadn’t flirted or been flirted with since her teenage summers at the Golden, younger than her own children were today. But she sensed that flirtation could reignite with muscle memory. At least it had for her last night, sitting next to Brian in a dimly lit room, laughing like fools about their childhood memories at the hotel, inching closer together with each story.

  “My brother loved you,” Brian had blurted out at one point. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you that.”

  “It’s okay. I already knew,” she had said, lightly grazing the inside of Brian’s forearm. “Do you like Greta? Are they happy together?”

  “Greeda? She’s all right, I guess. Phoebe and Michael are nice children, and I don’t think you can come down too hard on a person if their children turn out well. I know I don’t have any of my own, but I’ve come across enough families at the hotel to draw that conclusion confidently. Besides, nobody really knows what goes on in another person’s marriage. I didn’t even know about my own.”

  That was maybe the truest thing Aimee had ever heard anyone say.

  “I’m sorry about Melinda,” she had responded, and instead of saying thanks, Brian had slipped his hand under the table and squeezed her thigh.

  “It’s ancient history,” Brian had said, and Aimee wondered if such a thing truly existed.

  “So I assume many of you have seen the article in the Windsor Word?” Brian said now, laying the newspaper flat on the table.

  “That reporter is a moron,” Fanny said. “Horace over at the General Store told me that same reporter ran a story about how he was always out of stock in everything, but that he never even came into the store to see for himself. Or called for comment. Brian—why is there no nosh set up for this meeting?”

  “Really, Mom?” Brian said. Aimee bristled on his beh
alf. To be the top dog and still get chastised by your mother for not providing pastries. Besides, Aimee didn’t think Fanny needed any more food. At yesterday’s gathering, she’d filled a plate with at least a dozen rugelach. Since she no longer had the ability to exercise, all those calories were going to go straight to her, well, fanny.

  “Zach and I have something we want to say,” Phoebe said. Five sets of eyes swiveled to look at her. She was dressed in a crop top and jean shorts and wore a hat that said pray for surf. It wasn’t what you’d call a “dress for success” ensemble, but still, she commanded everyone’s attention.

  “So yesterday Zach saved me from jumping off a building. Kidding, kidding. I was just on the roof of the maintenance shed to get better Wi-Fi. Uncle Brian, seriously, WTF with the slow connection? Anyway, we ended up walking around the hotel for like three hours in the evening and came up with a whole list of ideas to turn the Golden around. And we’d like to share them.” She turned to include Zach. Aimee suspected she was smart enough to realize it would be helpful to have a Goldman on her side. Phoebe was proving the whole don’t-judge-a-girl-by-her-crop-top thing.

  “We do,” he said, rising to pull a laptop from his backpack. She hadn’t realized he’d brought his computer, but of course he’d need something for gaming. “Brian, can you set us up with a projector?”

  “We don’t have that kind of capability,” Brian said, clearly embarrassed. “No one’s ever asked for that.”

  “That’s because this is a place to relax,” Louise said, coming to his defense. “The whole purpose of coming to the Catskills is to unwind. We used to say Benny and Amos were the only men working around this place.”

  “Exactly,” Amos seconded. “We want people on the links. Watching shows. Eating. You don’t come to the Golden to work.” He shook his head, looking to his generational counterparts for support. “We only put in a business center so that we could get an extra star.”

  “Things don’t really work that way anymore,” Aimee said softly. She didn’t want to make Brian feel worse, but she knew the children were correct. “Work doesn’t stop in the summertime. It’s a twenty-four-seven thing these days. Roger’s patients text him at all hours. On Christmas. Yom Kippur.” Oh God, she thought as she said that out loud. She had once believed his connectivity was a sign of how much he cared. But were his calls actually customers reaching out for refills, like he was a street hustler? No, that couldn’t be. She chided herself, recalling dozens of conversations between Roger and his patients where he’d soothed them for as long as they’d needed, asking patiently, “When did the rash begin?” and “Can you hold down any liquids?” And sometimes, “Yes, I think you should call an ambulance. I’ll meet you over at the hospital so that you’re not alone.” Nobody is all bad or all good, Aimee thought. There was a world of gray; a place that was once as lustrous and now lackluster as the Golden proved the point. The hotel, like her husband, wasn’t obviously primed to be dumped. Would she drop him if he was an alcoholic? Certainly not. A compulsive gambler? Aimee’s grandmother Celine had never left her husband, even when the creditors took everything away. There was such a thing as loyalty.

  “So can we present?” Phoebe asked. “We’ll do it without the screen.”

  “Sure,” Brian and Aimee said simultaneously, perhaps both feeling their obligation as the middle generation to mediate.

  “Great,” Phoebe said, popping out of her chair. Her stomach was smooth and taut, and her legs were shaped so perfectly, Aimee imagined them popping out of a mold. It was insanity to compare herself to a twentysomething who had barely birthed a complete sentence, let alone three children, but still Aimee imagined with horror the puddles of cellulite and maze of veins Brian had worked his way through last night. Though he hadn’t seemed turned off. He’d been into it, panting, squeezing his eyes tight with pleasure. Or had that been to avoid looking at her? No, that was absurd. He kept his eyes closed during sex because he wasn’t a psychopath.

  “Zach and I came up with a list of ways to make the Golden great again. I know, I know. Sounds very MAGA, and we’re obviously not going for that.” Phoebe stuck her finger down her throat. Aimee cringed. She was no fan of the man in the red hat, but the last thing she wanted was for generational World War III to break out by throwing a political debate into the cauldron. Benny called anyone who wanted to raise taxes a socialist; he’d nearly punched a helpless teenager visiting the hotel last summer for wearing a Bernie Sanders T-shirt. Restrained by Brian, he’d instead sat the boy down and subjected him to an hour-long lecture about why he, an honest, hardworking citizen, shouldn’t be forced to subsidize lazy people with his hard-earned dollars.

  “We don’t expect to do all of these things, but we decided the most important move is to modernize. We have to make the Golden cool if families are going to return,” Phoebe continued.

  We decided. Was every millennial destined to be an entrepreneur? Was nobody an employee anymore? Aimee felt like the weight at the base of a pendulum, pushed from Team Grandparents to Team Grandchildren and back depending on who made the last good point.

  “I mean, it’s fine to, like, try to cut costs by getting rid of fresh flowers or only changing the sheets every other day—which is totally environmentally conscious, so that’s good. But it’s gonna take more than that.” That was Zach, apparently also an expert in hospitality. The boy whose feet had a stench so bad, it trailed from his room down to the basement.

  “We’re listening,” Brian said. He caught Aimee’s eye and winked at her. A bona fide we-had-secret-sex wink. This time, there was no mistaking it.

  “I just emailed everyone a list of our ideas,” Zach said. “If you all check your phones, you’ll have it waiting in your in-boxes.”

  “My phone’s broken,” Fanny said.

  “Grandma, your phone isn’t broken. You haven’t charged it in like a month,” Michael said.

  “We can share,” Amos said, scooching over.

  “Can’t see a damn thing on this screen,” Fanny said, squinting.

  Aimee pulled out her phone, hoping Zach and Phoebe had used a large enough font that she wouldn’t need to put on her damn reading glasses.

  Phoebe and Zach’s Ways to Make the Golden Great Again (but not in the bad way)

  Goat yoga

  Zero-waste program

  Composting station a MUST

  Farm-to-table dining—all farms/orchards/cattle identified on menus

  Gluten-free

  Paleo

  Sustainably raised

  Non-GMO

  Meditation classes (with the possibility of silent retreats)

  Build an organic, naturopathic spa specializing in Reiki and tattoo refreshers

  Escape room

  Ugly sweater knitting club

  Mountain rappelling

  Bee pollen products in all rooms (revisit apiary idea)

  Coffeehouse on premises (no more free coffee) with gift shop featuring local artisans

  Pop-up museum (styled for Instagram)

  Selfie stations throughout the hotel

  Concierge app on phone

  Hashtag feelings mural wall

  Llama petting zoo

  CBD everything

  Cryotherapy tank

  Chapter Fourteen

  Amos

  What are you going to wear to this ridiculous outing?” Fanny asked him once they’d returned to their room. “I never thought I’d be grateful to be handicapped.”

  Amos sat on the edge of the bed and hiked his socks over his bites. The mosquitoes were vicious this week, but Phoebe went apoplectic when he spritzed bug spray. That has Deet, she yelled while holding her nose and covering her mouth.

>   “I’m wearing whatever I’ll feel comfortable burning after. I wonder how much they charge for this. They should be paying us to go.”

  “What did you think of Phoebe and Zach’s list?” Fanny asked. “I didn’t understand half the things on it. What is CBD, and why do we need it in everything?”

  “Apparently CBD is grass. But legal. I said to the kids that if that’s what they have in mind, they’re in the wrong part of the Catskills. Woodstock is an hour away, and they are welcome to use my car. The other suggestions were even more ridiculous. A silent retreat? Go tell our guests to shut up for five minutes and we’d have blowback. And everything connected via the phone? The whole point of coming to a place like this is to disconnect.”

  “It used to be. You know, I don’t think Peter has picked up one of my calls in ages. It’s only email, email, email. And then all he’ll write is I’m tied up in a meeting. What happened to our little boy?”

  “He needs Brian,” Amos said, though of course Fanny already knew that.

  Frick and Frack needed each other. Brian was the risk-taker, and Peter kept him from ending up in the local precinct for random mischief; Peter would have moved into a textbook if it wasn’t for Brian bringing out his lighthearted side. Their boys were better together. Alone, they became more exaggerated versions of their natural selves, and it didn’t benefit either of them.