Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  “Do me a favor, Zachary,” Greta said. Had she heard a word he’d said? “Fish out my lipstick from my purse. I can barely see anything through these bandages.”

  He reached into a black leather bag and found at least eight different tubes.

  “Which one do you want?”

  “Whichever goes best with stress,” she said, and Zachary handed over a red one called miami bitch. “So, I hear from my daughter that something’s brewing between you two. A Weingold-Goldman romance. That should be interesting to watch.” There was a cackle in her voice he didn’t know how to unpack.

  “Um, yeah. So, I’m going to look for my mom,” Zach said, excited that his “thing” with Phoebe had risen to the level of parent sharing. Still, he didn’t want to have a conversation about it with a mummified Greta. This was way too much crazy for one week.

  “Sure, sure,” she said, and motioned with the back of her hand for him to leave.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, hesitating. “Do you need anything?”

  He made out a smile from behind the bandages and a glistening speck of moisture from the corner of her eye.

  “Do you know that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in ages? But my doctor said I’m not allowed to cry. It’ll mess up the stitches. You’re a nice boy, Zachary Glasser. And yes, I’ll be fine. These were just routine procedures.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Routine procedures, Zachary learned later from Phoebe, was code for an eye job, a repeat rhinoplasty, and a chin implant. And they must have been routine for Greta Weingold, because when Zachary studied the photos of her hanging in Memory Lane, he realized that the Greta he recognized from as recently as his grandpa’s funeral shared only a passing resemblance to the young woman in the early photographs. He couldn’t imagine voluntarily going under the knife for any reason. He made his mother go along with him to get a flu shot. He really was an overgrown baby.

  In the rec room fiddling with a billiard cue, he waited for Phoebe. She had texted that she needed time away from her family while they “processed Michael,” and he was happy to avoid his own mother, whose anxiety could now be felt if she was within one hundred feet. The perm didn’t help. She had been acting like her head was going to explode, and now it looked like it actually had.

  “Hey, there,” Phoebe said, sliding next to him on the buttery leather couch that spilled its filling from several of the seams. “I heard you saw Patient Zero.”

  “Who?”

  “My mom. I call her Patient Zero because I think all these plastic surgeons experiment on her. She said you seem very nice and that she’s happy we’re . . . you know.”

  “Um, that’s nice,” he said. He didn’t know what they were. Based on his deep dive into Phoebe’s social media accounts, she always had a different guy hanging on her. He worried when she got back to New York, he’d be yesterday’s news. The Golden Hotel of boyfriends. And he couldn’t really blame her. She was a successful entrepreneur, and he was clocking eight hours a day on his parents’ basement couch playing video games.

  “You okay?” Phoebe asked. “I’m picking up on a stressed vibe.” She circled her open palm in front of his face.

  “Something’s going on with my family,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Join the club,” Phoebe said, and threw some popcorn from a bowl into her mouth. “Eww! This is insanely stale.”

  “No,” he said. “My family situation is like really, really bad.”

  “What is it?” Her brows crinkled in concern, and for a moment Zach was distracted by how utterly irresistible she was. Concern was a look she wore well, along with excited, amused, tired, and basically every other emotion.

  He glanced around and saw only Otto on his break playing Ping-Pong with a guest. There was a baseball game on TV in the background, and Zach determined that, between the pinging balls and the announcer’s voice, he was safe.

  “The day before we came here, the police showed up at our house in Scarsdale. They were doing a search. They ripped through our drawers, tossed our bookcases, even emptied my closets and stripped my bed.”

  Phoebe’s jaw dropped. “What were they looking for?”

  “That’s the thing. I have no idea. My parents won’t tell me. They said it was a mistake, just a misunderstanding, but, like—my dad’s not here this week, and it was Father’s Day and all.”

  “I thought he had a stomach thing,” Phoebe said.

  “Well, somebody was throwing up in the house, but I’m pretty sure it was my mom. The stomach thing is bullshit. I think my dad’s in real trouble.”

  “Shit.” Phoebe cocked her head to the side for a beat, contemplating. “What do Scott and Maddie say?”

  “They don’t know,” he said. “Scott’s away in school, and nobody ever wants to bother him because, you know, he’s the smart one. And my mom specifically said I can’t mention a word to Maddie, because she’ll blab to her boyfriend.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked. He could sense she genuinely wanted to help and wasn’t just eager for gossip.

  “I don’t know. I talked to my dad, and he’s, like, super fixated on the hotel getting sold. So maybe it has something to do with the Golden?”

  Phoebe stood up and took a pool cue off the wall, twirling the felt tip between her fingers.

  “Could be,” she said. He rose to join her. It would feel good to smash a ball with a stick right now.

  “I just feel like everything’s happening so quickly. We might not have the hotel anymore. Maddie’s going to get married. My parents, for all I know, are going to end up divorced or worse.”

  “That’s a lot to handle,” Phoebe said, sailing a red stripe into the corner pocket. “You have a lot on your plate.”

  “I don’t, though. I’m stuck. No idea what I want to do with my life, living at home, basically the same person I was when I was fifteen.” Why was he telling her this? He had literally zero game, though at the moment, he just didn’t care.

  “Don’t say that. You were way less cute when you were fifteen.” With that, she tipped the edge of her cue and jabbed him playfully in the ribs. “Whatever happens with the hotel and your family, you’ll adapt. And maybe you’ll come out better for it. Same goes for my family. My grandparents will accept Michael’s news. Did you know my uncle Brian found his wife in bed with another man? He dealt. The hotel is floundering. We’ll either sell or make changes. Nothing stays the same forever. Just be grateful things have been as good as they have been until now. I mean, how many kids can say they had their own hotel to rule every summer?”

  She was wise, Zach was realizing. He had underestimated how smart she was just because she was also hot. That really made him a shit, didn’t it?

  “You’re right. I wonder if I should try to find out, though, about my dad. I did a pretty extensive search on my computer but couldn’t find anything.”

  “I don’t know. I think sometimes our parents keep things from us for good reason. And vice versa. Secrets aren’t always a bad thing. If eventually it comes out, you will adapt. Take a page from my mom.”

  “Patient zero?”

  “Uh-huh. My mom doesn’t like her wrinkles. She gets a new face. Too much cellulite in her thigh? Liposuction. It’s Darwinian if you think about it.”

  Zach found himself shaking his head in amazement. “You’re very clever, Phoebe Weingold.”

  “Can you repeat that for my Instagram story? If I don’t post it, it’ll be like it never happened.”

  He laughed.

  “On that note, I gotta jet,” Phoebe said, grabbing her hoodie and darting out mysteriously.

  “I thought we were going to paddle—” he started to say, but Phoebe was already gone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Zach didn’t have much of an appetite, but
he wasn’t going to sit out this dinner.

  If it was possible to appear both anxious and relieved at the same time, Michael Weingold had achieved it. He was avoiding everyone’s gaze by staring at his plate, but his shoulders were finally down from their perpetual hunch. The rest of them were nibbling nervously at their potato knishes, waiting to see who would be the first to speak. At least Zach was. Greta and his mother were both wearing hats; Greta’s a baseball hat pulled low to hide her bandages, his mother’s a wide-brimmed straw hat that kept hitting him in the eye.

  “I just don’t understand,” Fanny said, finally breaking the silence. “I thought you were dating that girl we met when we visited you at Harvard.”

  “Me too,” Amos said. “We spent the whole ride home discussing how we’d handle a shiksa.”

  “Um, so many things wrong with what you just said,” Phoebe said. “Keep it down about the shiksas. That’s not very PC.”

  “Sorry,” Fanny said. She didn’t sound sorry.

  “Gina is my acting partner,” Michael said. “I have no idea why you thought she was my girlfriend. I certainly didn’t tell you that. You’re seeing what you want to see. Everyone in this family has the same problem.”

  “Michael, sweetheart, how in the world did you connect with Diego? My roots were overgrown in March, and it took me two weeks to track him down,” Grandma Louise said. When everyone looked at her in shock, she said, “What? I’m curious.”

  “It’s called Grindr,” Michael said. “It’s where men who want—”

  “That’s enough, Michael,” Amos said, holding up his hand like a stop sign. “Where is George with the damn Manischewitz?”

  “I’ll have some, too,” Fanny said.

  “Mom, you don’t drink,” Peter said.

  “Today feels like a good day to start,” she said, so fiercely no one thought to say another word on the subject.

  “What about this switch from being an economics major to drama?” Greta asked, her voice muffled by the layers of gauze covering her face. “Did you not think to mention that to your parents, the ones paying your tuition?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to have a job like Dad, where he works all the time in some dumb office helping people who have a shit ton of money make more of it?” Michael crumpled up his napkin and threw it across the table, where it landed in Brian’s soup, sending a splash into his eye.

  “Jesus,” Brian winced.

  “That job pays for your Harvard education,” Peter said. “And I don’t work all the time.”

  “Actually, Peter, you do,” Greta said. “We never see you. Did you even notice that I changed my hair color? Did you think that maybe I’d want you to come to the hospital benefit I chaired? Did you think rather than just pay for the kids’ school, you should have taken an actual interest in it? Name a single teacher either of our children had.”

  “Maybe we should go,” Aimee said, elbowing Zach and starting to rise. “This sounds like a family discussion.”

  “Our families are intertwined,” Amos said. “Benny was a brother to me. Sit down.”

  “Not that we necessarily know everything about our brothers,” Brian said, and took a long pull from his wineglass. Zach didn’t know what he meant by that, but he sure said “brothers” in a strained voice.

  “Honestly, I really don’t understand how you guys can be so against the drama thing. All I heard growing up, over and over and over, was about all the great talents who performed on the Golden Stage. Bette Midler. Rodney Dangerfield. Jerry Seinfeld. Jackie Mason. Henny Youngman. Sammy Davis Jr. Mel Brooks. It was seeing those shows that made me want to be a performer. And now you guys are like, ‘No, that job isn’t good enough for me’? It’s paying the best possible homage to the Golden Hotel. Grandpa, you feel like we don’t honor tradition enough? Well, look at what I’m doing. As for the other stuff, with Diego, well—”

  “There’s something of a tradition there, too,” Louise said, looking at Amos and Fanny pointedly.

  “What do you mean?” Greta asked.

  “Let’s just say Mort Kaufman and Sol Bergman did a little more than compare scores in the golf clubhouse. And Shirley Abramowitz and Penny Silverstein—those two had their own interpretation of Bungalow Bunny.”

  “Interesting,” Phoebe said. “I’d like to hear more about that. Garçon?” She lifted her empty glass. “I could use another tequila for this.”

  “Well, let’s just say the men’s locker room—” Louise started.

  “Maman, I really don’t think this is helping much,” Aimee said, shooting off a fiery glare. “You’re trading in idle gossip, and what we really need to discuss is what the hell we’re doing with the offer from Diamond Enterprises. We have only two days left to—”

  “Actually, something’s come up,” Brian said. “The buyer is rethinking a few—”

  “What’s this? Cold feet? That’s not good. Not good at all,” came a familiar voice from behind Zach’s seat. “I knew I should have been here all along.”

  “Roger? What the hell are you doing here?” his mother asked, dropping her fork with a deafening clang.

  “Dad?” Zach felt like he was seeing an apparition.

  “Okay, everybody, fill me in,” Roger said, taking his traditional seat at the owners’ table and pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s get this baby sold for top dollar. And fast.”

  @GoldenHotelCatskills: Call your grandma and write your favorite Catskills memory in the comments below and enter to win a CatsKillMe T-shirt designed by @Free2BPhoebe #catskills #goldenhotel #retro #nostalgia #fashion #design #ontrend #memorylane #dirtydancing #mountains #memories #family #tradition #summer #vacation

  @bubbetotherescue Winning the 4th of July pie-eating contest at Grossinger’s with my husband Abe

  @ajewgrowsinbrooklyn Bingo nights at the Golden

  @sarahshwartzman Going to the beauty parlor with grandma when I was little to get manicures

  @shirleystein Canoeing on Lake Winetka and beating Kutsher’s in the race in 1968

  @morrismeyer EVERYTHING. The Golden Hotel is the most special place on earth

  @marisaweiner Eating all day long without stopping

  @paulaweiss I’ve heard you might be selling. Please don’t sell.

  @laurencohen Winning the Gold Rush in 1987

  @marilynsimon You did not win the Gold Rush in 1987 @laurencohen. My second cousin on my father’s side @jeffreyrlevine66 won the Gold Rush that year

  @jeffreyrlevine66 No @marilynsimon I didn’t win the Gold Rush. I won the kugel-eating contest

  @marilynsimon Sorry! @laurencohen

  @stevenbaronphilly Searching for golden nuggets the night of the bonfire

  @perrywinter singles mixer at the Golden because that’s where I met my wife @sherrywinter

  @houstonhipster I’ve never been to the Catskills but dying to go!

  @mikeymikester You’re so hot @Free2BPhoebe

  @leilalevine Pheebs, you are the best BFF in the world and the cutest ever! Omg, I love this.

  @MarktoMark Take off your shirt @Free2BPhoebe

  @terry10075 Save the Catskills!

  @coolleggings Follow my account to save 20% on the best exercise pants ever

  @MrsMaiselWannbe I read that the hotel might be sold. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

  @catskillscutie Memorial Day BBQ, July 4th fireworks, the end of summer bonfire. I can’t choose which one!

  @angelaruggiero The best thing in the Catskills is Brian Weingold.

  @larrylerman #savethegolden

  @juicyjew #savethegolden

  @fivetownsfamily #savethegolden

  @morriszelkowitz #savethegolden

  @mamabear212 #savethegolden

  LOAD 1,293 MORE COMMENTS

  Chapter Nineteen

  Louise


  One look at her daughter’s ashen face when Roger appeared at dinner and Louise knew things were worse than she’d conjectured. And it filled her with an unending feeling of dread and doom, because Aimee—and her happiness—were all that she lived for.

  Over her lifetime, Louise had heard parents lament that they could only be as happy as their least happy child. Louise imagined there was truth to that, as there was to most aphorisms passed down generation to generation, but she believed that if you had a child going through tough times, you would still experience pockets of joy from your other children. For Louise, everything hinged on Aimee. More so for her than Benny, even though she knew him to be a devoted and loving father. But Benny had the hotel, which functioned as something of another child—Aimee’s older brother, so to speak. He’d created it, nourished it, celebrated its successes, and mourned its failures. Louise loved the hotel, too, and felt a pride of ownership greeting the guests and singing her traditional anthem at the closing weekend; but the hotel was never the appendage to her that it was to Benny. She could return to their apartment in Manhattan and put it out of her mind for weeks at a time, but never did she stop thinking about Aimee. Aimee’s face, and the faces of her grandchildren, were the first thing she saw when she woke up in the morning and what she imagined as she drifted off to sleep.

  What had Roger done to her daughter? She would kill him for hurting her baby.

  The only silver lining of Roger showing up was that it took the heat off Michael, who looked far more like an eight-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar than the scholar who had been admitted to all eight of the Ivy League schools. Fanny made sure everyone who passed through the Golden’s threshold knew that detail, along with the fact that Michael was a Presidential Scholar, a National Merit Finalist, and a master-level chess player. Louise had always found it terribly tacky of the Weingolds to go around bragging about their grandchildren, which was another thing that had come up the night of the ugly Fourth of July barbeque. She hadn’t meant to say “We all know that, Fanny” quite so emphatically when it was repeated for the tenth time that Michael had earned a 1600 on the SATs. “Fanny is just very proud, Louise,” Amos had said, making her feel like a small child being scolded.