“Want some unsolicited advice from your older brother?” Peter asked.
“How you got out first is a mystery to me. I’m so much more athletic than you,” Brian said.
“Mom and Dad have medical records that prove otherwise. So, you want my advice or not?”
“I’m not in a position to refuse advice,” Brian said. The ways in which his life was complicated and his future uncertain were myriad, and he’d sit for a fortune-teller if one were to pass by. Which reminded him . . . He had forgotten to book talent for the next evening. Maybe the local tarot lady would do readings.
“Be involved in the kid’s life as much as you can. I missed so much working. It’s very easy to tell yourself you’re doing it all for the kids. I certainly made that excuse when I looked at my watch and decided to stay in the office instead of making it home for dinner. But now I look at them and realize how much I’ve missed. If I’d made more time, taken more vacations with them . . .”
“Like at the Golden,” Brian said. He hadn’t meant it to come out like an accusation, but it thudded like one.
“Yes. Like at the Golden. That’s exactly what this place is all about. Family time. And you know what? I know my kids are giving you shit about the Wi-Fi being spotty. But frankly, I love it. I missed a video conference this morning and realized that the world didn’t spontaneously combust. I sort of like the time-warp vibe. So does Greta. I mean, I’m sure she’d be happier if there was a Chanel store nearby, but she honestly seems more at ease than I’ve seen her in ages. You’re doing really good stuff here, Bri.”
“Not good enough.” He heard the downtrodden tone in his voice. The hotel’s demise was just a fact.
“This isn’t your fault. Lots of people want new, bigger, better. And different. But clearly not everyone. What about that GoFundMe? Think the kids are behind it?”
“No idea,” Brian said. “Should we check it out?”
He pulled up the page on his computer and swiveled the monitor to face Peter.
“Jesus, my clients would die for returns like these,” Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Brian stared at the screen and rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing clearly. In the past hour, another thirty thousand dollars had been donated to keep the hotel afloat.
“I don’t know who the 5B are, but they certainly don’t mess around. I think we serve borscht tonight in their honor.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aimee
Aimee, you can’t avoid me forever,” Roger said, which was technically true at the moment because he’d trapped her inside the costume closet at the back of the auditorium. It was raining, again, and this was the only place she could think of to smoke out of sight.
He discovered her seated with her knees hugged to her chest on the dusty linoleum floor, partially obscured by Joseph’s Technicolor dream coat and Glinda’s witch outfit, both of which looked highly flammable. The tradition of the guests mounting a Broadway show was not a ritual Aimee missed. Mrs. Hoffman’s Gypsy Rose had sent half the audience in search of earplugs, and the Canasta League of Jericho’s 42nd Street costumes had sent the other half in search of blindfolds.
“You smoke now?” he asked, making a show of waving away the fumes.
“You deal Oxy now?” She blew a smoke ring right in his face. Brian Weingold had taught her to blow rings back when they were teenagers and would smoke cigarettes and drink booze in the woods behind the staff housing. She remembered thinking his perfect clouds of white circles were the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. “How’d you find me here, anyway?”
“Larry saw you take the closet key. At first he thought I was asking about Amy Schwartz—remember the bridge teacher that your mom caught stealing office supplies?—but then I clarified that I was looking for my wife. Because, remember, we are still married.”
“For now,” she said flatly, fixing her gaze on a Cleopatra wig with synthetic black hairs she’d love to use to strangle Roger.
“Aimee, I am so sorry for what I’ve done.” Roger dropped to the floor next to her. “I don’t want to make excuses, but if you’ll just hear me out. The drugmaker is relentless. I saw all these studies that convinced me that I was actually helping people. Remember after Maddie was born how horrible you felt?”
Of course she did. Her daughter had been over nine pounds. She’d labored with her for twenty hours, and when Maddie had finally emerged, it had felt like her insides had gone through a paper shredder. Not to mention the level four tear that had reached all the way up her backside. She’d had to sit on a donut for a month.
“Imagine if you’d had to endure that pain without the Percocet,” Roger said.
“You and I both know that the police wouldn’t have torn our home apart if you were prescribing drugs to people who actually needed them. And by the way, I still remember that pill bottle. I used to stare at it, waiting for eight hours to pass so I could have my next dose. What I remember the most about it was the all-caps no refills label slapped across it. Roger, you have to tell Scott. You have to tell each of them. I can’t protect you from this. I have been a devoted wife to you since day one, but this isn’t in my job description.”
“You’re absolutely right, Aimee. It’s not. Can I just say something? Please.” He looked pitiful. She nodded for him to proceed. Roger sucked in a deep breath. There wasn’t much oxygen to be had in the closet, and Aimee felt her lungs getting desperate.
“Do you know what it’s like to marry the Aimee Goldman? It was literally like marrying royalty. I could practically hear the guests whispering—Why him? What makes him so special? I actually did overhear one lady say that I was “just” an internist, not even a plastics guy or a surgeon. People tried to poke around to see if I came from money. It made me feel like a loser. I worried you felt that way, too. I wanted to prove I wasn’t just any doctor—a dime a dozen in these parts—but a really successful one. Did I get there through shitty ways? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Aimee, my love, what are you thinking?”
She tried to squash the image of a naked Brian in her bed, but it was like playing Whac-A-Mole. No words came to her. She felt sympathy for Roger for the first time since he’d come clean. And the sympathy made her course with guilt.
“Aimee, listen. If we sell the hotel, we can use the money to get me the best legal defense possible. The fault lies with the pharmaceutical companies way more than the doctors. You should see the data. The carrots they dangle if we prescribe their so-called wonder drugs. If we could just get our hands on a hundred thousand—”
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. He was back to the money. Always with the money. She felt an urge to put her cigarette out on Roger’s arm.
“I slept with Brian Weingold,” she said, because it was the next best thing she could do to cause him pain.
“Huh? You did?” Roger looked surprised, but she wouldn’t quite say he looked hurt. “It’s okay. We can work through that. What did Brian say about how the Weingolds are leaning?”
His response to her confession said everything she needed to know. To have the worth of a thirty-year marriage reduced to a single wicked reaction gutted her, but it also gave her the clarity she’d been seeking.
She stood up abruptly, pushing past a sequined number from a poorly received Cabaret revival, and flung open the closet door.
“Tell the children as soon as we leave the hotel. You have one week. Or I will. And my version will not be as pretty.”
She hadn’t made it more than twenty steps from the theater when Maddie called. Aimee’s stomach lurched. Had Roger already told their daughter? And if so, how had the conversation been that short? She imagined the text. Dear Firstborn: I’m going to the clink. Will probably have to miss your wedding. Love, Dad.
“Maddie, honey, how are you?” She was grateful Maddie couldn’t see the throbbing vein in her neck.
<
br /> “I’m fine,” she said. “I mean, not really.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. She wasn’t ready for this.
“Dad called you?”
“What? No, why? Was he supposed to? Is he feeling better?”
Aimee felt like an IV of fluids had been jammed into her arm. She would live to fight another day.
“Yes, he is. He’s joined us at the hotel, actually. What’s wrong with you? What does ‘not really’ mean?” She was relieved that her daughter didn’t know about Roger yet, but that also meant there was another problem to deal with. Whoever said God didn’t give people more than they could handle was a moron.
“Andrew and I had a big fight last night,” her daughter explained, and Aimee heard the sniffles and yearned to reach through the phone and wipe Maddie’s tears.
“About?”
“Well, we were at dinner at the Hoffs’ club, and his parents’ terribly snobby friends were there. And Mrs. Hoff—I cannot believe I’m twenty-nine years old and have to call her that—said to her friend, ‘Maddie’s grandparents built one of those Catskills hotels. You know, those corny places where they teach polka lessons and play bingo. And there’s endless food, but of course it’s all terrible and ethnic.’”
“Oh no,” Aimee said. She felt the blood drain from her face. “What did Andrew say?”
“He kind of said, ‘Mom,’ like he was a little annoyed, but that was it. I literally wanted to stab her with a fork. Then they all went back to talking about their yachts and jets, and then later on, Mrs. Hoff’s friend said, ‘Dear, does anyone still go to your family’s hotel? It sounds dreadfully outdated.’” Maddie put on this haughty voice, and Aimee could imagine exactly what that must have felt like for her daughter. Her mama-bear instincts kicked into high gear. Could she find out who these awful friends were, and how quickly could she get a stink bomb into their mailbox?
“I’m really sorry, Maddie. That sounds terrible. We’re lucky most people realize how special this place is. Did you know there’s a GoFundMe to save the hotel? Zach told me one hundred thousand dollars has been raised so far.”
“Really? That makes me happy. It actually gets even worse. Mr. Hoff said he read in the paper about how Diamond Enterprises was going to buy the place and rip it up, and that he was thinking about investing with them. Like, he’d actually be helping the people buying the hotel.”
Worlds were colliding in the worst possible way. What was next? Roger dealing Oxy to hotel guests?
“So now what, honey? Where do things stand?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I just landed at LaGuardia. I’m renting a car and should be at the hotel in two hours. I need you, Mom.”
How Aimee craved hearing those four words. Maddie was normally so self-sufficient—the architect of a life plan that never seemed to include needing her mother—that this desperate cry for help came as a true shock.
“I’ll have Chef Joe make all your favorites. Drive safely.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zach
The casino excursion was way more fun than Zach had expected.
He and Phoebe held hands as they roamed the casino floor. When he hit the jackpot on The Price Is Right, she jumped into his arms and snapped a selfie of them together, which was posted moments later with the hashtag #squeezingmymainsqueeze. So not only were they a couple away from the hotel, but also online, where tens of thousands of people would like, comment, and repost their status. It was like Phoebe had taken the largest megaphone and shouted, “I like Zach Glasser!”
After they had returned to the hotel, Phoebe disappeared again, and Zach had a text message from Wally. His roommate had come through with a weed connect not too far from the Golden. But something made Zach stop himself. He hadn’t been stoned since last Friday, and he felt sharper than he had in ages. Why did he need to get high so often? He wasn’t swearing off pot for good, but he decided to lay off at least until he got home.
“Hi, Zacky,” his mother said, surprising him in the lobby. “You doing all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, and the relief in her eyes made it obvious that if he hadn’t said he was okay, she might have collapsed.
“Your sister is coming. She’ll be here in about two hours.”
That was unexpected news, but Zach was pleased. Four days ago, Maddie had been making fun of his obsession with Phoebe Weingold, and now they were dating. He didn’t know what would happen when the week at the hotel ended. It was hard to imagine bringing a girl as sophisticated as Phoebe to his parents’ basement to watch Netflix and chill. Zach needed a job, and quickly. Maybe Maddie would hire him. He could be a real estate agent, couldn’t he? He didn’t understand mortgages and how to calculate square footage, but how hard could it be? Maybe he even had a flair for reinventing spaces. The brainstorming with Phoebe had awakened something in him. Maybe Phoebe would give him a shout-out on her social media account to jump-start his client roster.
And if he could get his act together and move out of his parents’ house, maybe that would give them the space they needed to fix their problems. That was another reason he was happy Maddie was returning to the hotel. She wouldn’t miss the tension between the ’rents. And then Zach could tell her about the police raid. Let Maddie ask questions and figure out what was up. She acted all mature and grown-up—let her fix this.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, Zach was seated in the dining room surrounded by family, hoping Maddie would appear before dinner concluded. The hotel was fuller than it had been the past four days, though still far from busting at the seams. He could remember a time as a young child when he would use his owner-brat status to cut the queues at the waterslide and at the driving range. At least the higher occupancy meant less talk at the owners’ table and more schmoozing with the guests. An unfamiliar woman approached their table to ask his father to look at a rash on her arm; his mother was still hitting the wine hard, but looked a bit less homicidal.
The waiters were moving with more pep, though there still were too many of them idling near the kitchen. Another thing Zach had used to do when he was younger was practice balancing serving trays with Scott. A decent Golden waiter could handle thirty stacked plates. Now, even if they had such deep talent on the bench, it wouldn’t be necessary.
“Borscht?” Michael said, pushing his soup bowl away. “What are we, peasants?”
George looked crestfallen as he continued ladling feebly.
“We are paying our respects to the people doing the fundraising campaign to keep the hotel open,” Brian said. “They call themselves the 5B. Bring Back the Borscht Belt, Baby.”
“Excuse me,” Grandma Louise said, her spoon clattering to the table. “There are people trying to give us a bailout?”
“Yep,” Zach said. “Apparently we’re too big to fail.”
Everyone looked at him.
“Andrew Ross Sorkin. His book on the 2008 financial crisis. Am I the only one who reads?”
Amos, returned from chatting up nearby tables, slapped down his napkin.
“We do not accept charity from anyone,” he said. “Fanny, back me up.”
“I agree. We will not accept a handout. This is so shameful. Who would do such a thing?”
“Grandma, it’s people who love the hotel. They miss this place,” Phoebe said. “It’s a really generous thing. We’re up to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in donations now.”
“If they missed it so much, why don’t they book a room?” Louise asked.
“It is pretty remarkable,” Peter said. “Mom, Dad, Louise—I think you should be flattered. You’ve created something that’s very meaningful to people.”
“But it’s not supposed to be a charity. It’s a business,” Louise said. “I’m just glad Benny isn’t around to see this.”
“Louise, I couldn
’t agree with you more,” Roger said. “If the hotel needs donations to stay afloat, it’s time to sell.”
The look Zach saw his grandmother give his father was possibly the most menacing he’d ever seen in his life. Everyone shifted uncomfortably.
“Hey all. What’d I miss?” Maddie appeared, a rolling suitcase in hand and a few crumpled tissues peeking out of her jeans pocket.
“Nice hair, Mom!” She kissed their father on the cheek.
“Welcome back, Madeline,” Louise said, and motioned for her to sit alongside her.
His sister studied the bowl of purple liquid placed in front of her.
“Borscht, seriously? Did anyone ever think how much money we could save if we stopped serving this stuff? You can’t get these stains out of the tablecloths. At least I assume you can’t—my Lululemon hoodie is toast.”
“Why do we even have tablecloths? It’s so stuffy in here,” Phoebe said.
“That’s actually a really good point, sis,” Michael said. “If you guys love beets so much, Chef Joe could try a beetroot cocktail. We make them at our cast parties and they’re great. I mean, the signature drink of the Golden is an old-fashioned. The name kind of says it all.”
“Beetroot rocks,” Maddie said. “Actually, I did some thinking on the flight about other ideas that could be good for us. What if we did theme weekends? You know, get the fetishists excited. We could have, like, a Star Trek convention here, and then maybe a Scrabble tournament. Ooh, what about a murder mystery weekend?”
“We’ve done a murder mystery weekend before,” Fanny said. “You kids wouldn’t remember. Some of you weren’t even born yet. We got the mustached inspector, the officer in uniform. Whole nine yards.”
“And?” Phoebe said. “It sounds fun.”
“And then Mrs. Taitz actually died. The actor who was supposed to die had just stumbled out of the kitchen with a knife stuck in his chest, fake blood everywhere. The guests were excited. The inspector had just arrived on the scene. And then out of nowhere, Sally Taitz had a heart attack and fell off her chair. Her body jerked around for a minute or two, and then she was perfectly still. Everyone was confused. Was she in on it? Was she playacting or improvising? But she was really dead. We were calling over to Riverside Memorial within the hour. Let’s just say we didn’t do any more theme weekends after that.”
Last Summer at the Golden Hotel Page 22