Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  “Yikes,” Zach said. Now seemed like a bad time to bring up his latest idea, a real-life Grand Theft Auto simulation.

  “I had an idea,” Phoebe said. “Because of climate change and temperatures being higher, we could extend our high season all the way through Indigenous People’s Day.”

  His grandma’s hot tea sprayed from her mouth like a garden hose. Everyone else just looked confused.

  “It’s what they call Columbus Day now,” Zach said quietly. “You know, because of the whole killing the Natives and ransacking their villages thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Amos said. “While they are renaming holidays, might I suggest changing World War II to The Time Six Million Jews Got Slaughtered.”

  “Amos, calm down,” Fanny said, resting her hand on his elbow. “Let’s focus on what matters. The hotel. Not what they call a holiday that we couldn’t afford to stay open for anyway, no matter the name.”

  “Fine. Any other ideas?” Amos asked brusquely. “Or should we just let our online saviors take over?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Grandma Louise hissed. “We don’t need all these people in our business.” She did a grand sweep with her arm over the dining room, but it was a fact that all the tables in their immediate perimeter were empty.

  “Amos, that’s not fair,” Aimee said. “The kids are trying. This week has been relatively civil. Let’s try to keep it that way. We have to let Diamond know our answer tomorrow. I’m sure we can keep it together for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Aimee’s right. We need to focus on the offer. There’s not much time left.” Brian gazed slowly around the table. Zach looked down at his hands. What did he know about something this monumental? Sure, it was his birthright, his grandparents’ legacy, but he still didn’t feel like he should have an actual say. He was still a kid! All he knew about business were a few fancy terms to throw around that he’d learned in his mergers and acquisitions class—there were cool things called “bear hugs” and “poison pills,” but he didn’t remember what they were. And he hadn’t even read the Andrew Ross Sorkin book that he’d name-dropped from the syllabus.

  “The fairest way to do this is a simple vote, like the operating agreement specifies. There are six Weingolds—Mom, Dad, Peter, me, Phoebe, and Michael. There are only five Goldmans—” Brian said.

  “Your point?” Louise snapped. “We’re equal partners.”

  “My point, Louise, was that you should have a double vote. So that it’s equal. Your vote counts twice, then Aimee, Maddie, Scott, and Zachary. A tie is a possibility, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Why should the children have a say at all? I don’t care what the damn operating agreement says,” Amos asked. “Did they build this place? Are their names on the deed?”

  “Darling, we’re old,” Fanny said gently. “At some point we have to recognize that what the children want matters more than us. Besides, if they don’t want the hotel, they’ll sell it the minute we’re six feet under—and maybe not for as good a price.”

  “I believe the children are our future.” Michael crooned the Whitney Houston song. Phoebe quickly joined him, making her fist into a pretend microphone. Everyone gaped.

  Michael shrugged. “What? I thought it was apropos. Plus, hasn’t my singing gotten way better since the karaoke competition last summer?”

  “Not that you don’t sound lovely, Michael, but can we just back up a second about the children voting? Scott’s not even here,” Aimee protested. “He hasn’t been privy to all the discussions.”

  “Actually, Scott will be here tomorrow morning bright and early.” Everyone whipped around to face Roger. Zach was excited to see his brother. He’d spent the afternoon wandering the premises, thinking about him. Tracing their footsteps like he was following a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to their childhood. An actual childhood, not the quasi-man-child life he was leading now. In the athletics shed, he’d found the sticks he and Scott had used for roller hockey, the foosball table with half the poles missing, the Frisbees, beach balls, Kadima paddles, and lots more detritus of their summers. When Zach had freed a soccer ball from a sack of sporting equipment, a cloud of dust mites had exploded. If Scott arrived early enough tomorrow, they could hit the basketball court or throw the Frisbee around. His brother could use a break from that stupid studying. Their differences were not unlike Peter and Brian’s.

  “Since when is Scott coming?” Clearly this was news to his mother as well, but her inquiry was overridden by Louise.

  “I have a concern,” she said. “I think my grandson Zachary is under the influence of Phoebe now that they’re an item and that he will just vote whichever way she tells him to.”

  “We’re not an item,” Phoebe said. Zach didn’t like her tone. He didn’t know if she meant they weren’t “an item” because nobody born after 1960 used that phrase, or if they’d somehow broken up in the intervening hours between the casino and dinner. Which would be weird, because of her Instagram post. “We’re just having fun,” she added.

  “We are?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What did you think this was?” Phoebe looked to be stifling a giggle. And fucking Maddie was swiveling her head between them like she was watching the U.S. Open.

  “Excuse me, but do you think you’re too good for my grandson?” Grandma Louise demanded, making that scary face all over again, this time directed at Phoebe.

  “Grandma, stop, please,” Zach begged. He wanted to crawl under the table and die. Could he die? Was that a viable option now? Run out to the tetherball court and wind himself up in the rope?

  “Here we go again. A Goldman can’t believe that a Weingold wouldn’t be interested in them,” Fanny said. “You’ve always thought you’re better than us, Louise. Well, Phoebe doesn’t want to date Zach. He doesn’t do anything. He lives at home. Phoebe is a major inspirator.”

  “Influencer,” Greta said. “Fanny, you’re not helping things. Neither are you, Louise. The children should work this out themselves.”

  “Oh, shush, Greeda. You know that’s what they call you when you’re not around, right? Greeda. Because all you care about are designer labels,” Louise said. She was wild-eyed. Even the waiters were standing down, the friction at their table mounting so quickly that it was lapping the dining room in concentric circles.

  “Is that true?” Peter asked. “That’s horrible. Greta is a wonderful person. She doesn’t deserve that nickname. If she spends a lot of money, it’s because that’s all I’ve emphasized the last two decades, living at the office.”

  “You know, I don’t care whether Phoebe is an inspirator, an influencer, or an imitator, she should feel lucky that Zachary likes her so much. Benny carried this place with his innovation and charm, so if I think we’re better than you, I have my reasons.” Louise tossed her napkin onto the table and jutted her chin in the air.

  Zach saw Peter and Brian exchange glances.

  “Benny was wonderful. But it was a partnership through and through. We each had our strengths,” Amos said, keeping remarkable composure.

  “That’s right. And everyone, keep your voices down,” Aimee urged. “People are starting to eavesdrop.”

  “Well, we know why you wouldn’t want that to happen,” Phoebe sneered.

  “Phoebe, don’t,” Amos warned. Zach looked at her in confusion. She must know what was happening with his parents. But how?

  “What are you talking about, Phoebe?” Fanny asked.

  “Well, now’s as good a time as any to tell you all,” Phoebe said. “Dr. Glasser’s a drug lord.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Maddie

  I’m not sure I like that phrasing,” Roger said. “But while we’re telling secrets, did you also know that Benny was stealing from Amos? So let’s not anybody at this table get all high and mighty.”

  “How dare you?” Louis
e yelled. “You hurt my daughter, and now you assault the character of my late husband with your lies?”

  Maddie’s heart was pounding. What was everyone talking about? She couldn’t follow anything. Phoebe had called her father a drug lord, and he hadn’t denied it. And then he’d said her grandfather was a thief? She looked at Zach, who was staring at his lap, appearing on the verge of tears.

  “Figures he was a crook,” Fanny said. “Think you’re better than us now?” She powered up her wheelchair, though Maddie didn’t know if she was planning to charge or retreat.

  “Louise, Roger, let’s take a deep breath,” Brian said. “There is no proof of anything.”

  “You knew about this?” Aimee asked.

  “My brother doesn’t know anything,” Peter said. “And I would like to know where Roger goes making these accusations.”

  “Brian’s emails,” Roger said. “I read them while he was off pretending to manage this place. This family can’t separate the memories from the reality. I just wanted to get a look at the financials, see how bad things actually were. And there, right on his desktop, was an email to you from someone named Howard that spelled it all out. ‘Possible fraud . . . fishy financials . . . yada yada.’”

  “Possible!” Louise said. “Possible! It’s not possible, that’s what it is.”

  “Dad? Why are they saying you had something to do with drugs?” Maddie asked, her voice coming out in a squeak.

  “I’ll explain everything,” he said, cupping her chin. “I promise I will.”

  “This isn’t right,” Amos said. “Not right at all. We can’t take back the things we say. And the children are here. There is no fraud of which I’m aware. And, Phoebe, you should be ashamed of yourself for airing other people’s dirty laundry.”

  “So what do we do now?” Zach asked. Maddie got up from her chair and put her arms around her little brother.

  “We sell this goddamn hotel,” Roger muttered. “Oh, and Brian, by the way—congrats on the baby. The doctor confirmed your appointment for tomorrow. Nice work knocking up a staff member.”

  The next thing they heard was, “HELP! Call an ambulance!”

  * * *

  • • •

  If Milton Green’s defibrillator hadn’t failed, Maddie couldn’t imagine where the night would have taken them. But it did, and an ambulance came with sirens blaring, and everyone crowded around Milton as the medics strapped him to a gurney and piled him into the ambulance. Though everyone knew it was merely a perfunctory trip. Milton was DOA. And watching a human take his last breath—it did something to all of them. Shut them up.

  While everyone fussed around Milton’s wife, Maddie snuck outside the hotel to her favorite spot, the giant tire swing on the front lawn. She tried to unpack it all.

  If the Hoffs thought the Glassers weren’t good enough for them because they owned a shtetel-like resort in the Catskills, how in the world were they going to react to the news of her father being a criminal? She didn’t actually wonder. She knew they would tell Andrew to break up with her. The question was whether he would listen. What Maddie hadn’t told anyone yet, not even her mother or her best friend, was that she and Andrew had picked out the engagement ring two days earlier. It was a beautiful three-carat emerald-cut, excellent color and quality. And it was on hold at a jewelry store on Worth Avenue while they waited for Andrew to ask his parents to take money out of his trust to buy it. She acknowledged the weirdness of being old enough to get married but needing permission to get the money for the ring.

  “Hey,” Zach said, walking toward her with his hands jammed into his pockets. “Come back inside?”

  “What the hell, Z? You knew about Dad? And how does Phoebe know?”

  “I just found out same time as you. I told Phoebe about the police raiding our house—by the way, the police raided our house—but that I didn’t know why. I guess she had this relationship with a hacker dude a few months ago. She asked him to get into the Scarsdale police records, which was apparently super easy.”

  “Well, she didn’t have to go and announce it,” Maddie said.

  “No, she didn’t. But it was going to come out eventually,” Zach said. “Mad, everyone wants you back inside. C’mon.”

  She didn’t have the strength to argue. The dining room had quieted since the paramedics had left, and miraculously the guests were digging into dessert as if nothing had happened.

  “I’m sorry,” Phoebe said when Maddie took her seat. “Everyone was being really cruel to each other, and I felt like the one person who really sucks in this group was getting away scot-free.”

  “You might want to mind your own business,” Roger said sharply. “And nobody is Scott-free, because he’ll be here in the morning. He will understand my situation is a whole lot more nuanced than you all realize.”

  “Shame on you for bringing Scott,” Louise said. “He has enough on his plate.”

  “It’s important for him to vote with the rest of us,” Roger said, opening the top two buttons of his shirt. “Jesus, it’s hot in here. Why the hell doesn’t the air-conditioning work, Brian?”

  “Leave Brian alone,” Aimee said. “At least he runs an honest business. You’re full of crap about Scott. You called him here to get him on your side. Scott rarely looked up from his textbooks when he was at the hotel. He wouldn’t know how to get from the pool to the card room without directions. He doesn’t care about this place. Sorry to say it, but it’s true.”

  “None of the young people care about this place,” Amos said. “They want to turn it into a hippie-dippie, goat farm, Indigenous People–loving pot factory.”

  “Grandpa, that’s not true. This is just the future,” Michael said. He tugged at his sweat-ringed T-shirt, which said three-dollar bill on it.

  “The kids are right, Dad,” Brian said. “But I think we need to cool it for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll vote in the boardroom at lunchtime. Whatever our differences are, our squabbles, our complaints and gripes and hostilities, they will still be there after we vote. Can everyone agree to a truce until tomorrow at noon?”

  “Can everyone agree that it’s time for dessert?” George interrupted, wheeling over a giant trolley with wheels the size of a horse-drawn carriage. It was typically only brought out on special evenings at the hotel.

  “Oh, thank God,” Greta said. “Yes, we would all like dessert.”

  “You’re going to eat sugar?” Phoebe asked. “Wow. The world really is coming to an end.”

  “Tell us what you have,” Peter said, even though they knew Chef Joe’s confections like the backs of their hands. Apple strudel, linzers, chocolate and cinnamon loaves, raspberry roll-ups, sponge cake, marble cake, and the hotel specialty: a pineapple-strawberry Jell-O mold. Everything available with a scoop of vanilla ice cream if you just said “ALM,” hotel shorthand for à la mode.

  Maddie had been avoiding desserts for the past few weeks. She had her eye on a red Alaïa dress that Andrew said he’d buy for her. It would be perfect for an engagement party. They had decided the party would be in New York City, so that it was easy for their friends to make it, and because the wedding would be at Andrew’s family’s club in Palm Beach. “Imagine exchanging vows with the waves crashing in the background,” Andrew had whispered in her ear dreamily. This had been the night before his parents had acted so abominably, and so she’d just kissed him by way of agreement. In truth, she thought getting married on the sand would be terrible. Andrew was eight inches taller than her, and if she couldn’t wear heels, she’d look like a dwarf bride. And they’d have to scream their vows to be heard over the ocean. Now she wasn’t sure any wedding would be taking place. Which meant . . . carbs.

  “George, I’ll have the Golden Palette,” Maddie said, and watched the waiter’s face light up. It was his favorite thing to serve—tiny slices of everything on the trolley. He’d have to Edward Scissorhands the c
akes and tarts to make it all fit on one plate. “And I want it all ALM.”

  “Me too,” Greta said, and her order was followed by a whole chorus of requests for the same.

  “Brian, can I speak to you for a moment?” Larry the concierge approached while George was doling out the sweets.

  “Sure, Larry, what’s up?”

  “Guests are asking what the Saturday night entertainment is going to be. You still didn’t let me know, and I’m printing up the schedules,” the concierge said.

  For a moment it looked like Brian was about to wave him off, but then his face darkened.

  “You know what, Larry, you’re right. I can’t believe this. I don’t think I’ve forgotten to book a Saturday night act in, well, ever. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “More strudel?” came a female voice from behind Larry. It was a waitress Maddie had seen around the dining room. She was pretty, in a middle-aged, Katie Couric kind of way.

  “Angela, hi,” Brian said, and the angst on his face just deepened. “You shouldn’t be working the dinner shift anymore. I’ll make sure to change that.”

  It was then that Maddie noticed Brian look at the waitress’s midsection with tenderness.

  Oh dear, Maddie thought. Her father had said something about a baby, hadn’t he?

  Maddie blew air from her lips in a whistle. And so the plot thickened at the Golden Hotel . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  Maddie woke up to the sounds of lawn mowers winding their way across the property, louder as they passed her window, then receding, then loud again when they zigzagged back around. The alarm clock read 7:00 a.m. Why would Brian have the groundskeepers start this early? She thought about suggesting a change, but why bother if this was the hotel’s final summer? Its swan song might as well be lawn mowers.