She closed her eyes and let a meditative silence take over. As her body relaxed and her diaphragm expanded, she imagined each empty seat filled with guests in their finest attire. The men were clutching Scotches, the women were gossiping amiably about who was wearing last year’s fashion and who had gained weight. Celebrities filled the front row. Everyone was flush with excitement, ready and not ready to say goodbye to a fabulous summer at the Golden.
Louise cleared her throat and purred in French.
My friends. You all look fabulous this evening. Thank you for making this our best summer yet at the Golden Hotel. Now please join me in singing our beloved anthem.
Everyone cheered.
She began to sing, her voice wavering at first but growing stronger as she moved from stanza to stanza.
“Grandma, what are you doing?” Maddie’s voice, high-pitched and giggly, broke through.
Louise’s eyes flitted open.
At the back of the auditorium stood her three grandchildren, along with Phoebe and Michael Weingold and Andrew, Maddie’s beau.
“You sound amazing, Mrs. Goldman,” Andrew called out. “Keep going!”
Michael let out a wolf whistle.
“Maybe you should be the entertainment for tomorrow night?” Scott called out.
“Nah, nah, we’ve got that all worked out, remember?” Phoebe said.
Louise gathered the skirt of her gown in her hands and rushed stage left. What excuse could she give the children as to why she was all dressed up, singing her heart out to an empty auditorium?
Zach charged forward to help when he saw her struggle on the stairs. Aimee had done a lovely job with her children. They were mensches, each and every one of them.
“I was just checking on the—” she started to say, but Maddie interrupted.
“So cool you’re singing up here, Grandma. We’re also going around the hotel doing our favorite things for the last time.”
“Speaking of which, we gotta go,” Scott said apologetically. “We have a hot dog eating contest to start, a Gold Rush to reenact, and some other things that you’re better off not hearing about.”
Before she could ask any questions, the children were gone, and Louise was left in the auditorium, alone once more. But now she felt a fullness in her heart. She looked again at the empty seats, but this time she didn’t close her eyes.
“Vous êtes tous beaux,” she murmured.
* * *
• • •
Hey, the kids told me you were in the auditorium all dressed up,” Aimee said, spotting Louise seated on a rocking chair outside the main entrance. “You feeling all right?”
“Yes, yes,” Louise said. “Just a little foolish. Want to have a cup of tea?” She rose from the chair, not liking how clumsy her movements were. Long gone were the days when she could pop up and down to greet guests.
“Sure,” Aimee said, looking at her watch. “I’ve got time. I’m a little hungry, too.”
They walked into the kitchen together. It wasn’t a mealtime, so they went to help themselves to the pastries that Chef Joe always held back for staff.
“Shoot, I want Splenda,” Aimee said. “I think there’s some in there.” She gestured with a raised hand to a cabinet above the fridge. As she did so, her tank top slid off her shoulder and revealed a constellation of bright red dots above her bra. Cherry angiomas.
“Aimee, you have those red dots, like your father. When did that happen?”
Aimee looked down at her chest.
“Ugh, those. All over my stomach, my chest. One of the pleasures of middle age. They’ve been sprouting like crazy,” Aimee said. “My dermatologist said they’re genetic, so I’m not surprised. Dad was covered in them.”
“He certainly was,” Louise said, her entire body tremoring. Clarity, after so many years. It ripped through her like an electroshock.
“Maman, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Aimee said, facing her with a puzzled expression.
“It feels like I have, darling,” Louise said. “In the best possible way. Now let’s have tea, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Michael
On Saturday morning, Michael jumped out of bed and headed straight for the auditorium. The costume closet smelled like cigarette smoke, and Michael coughed his way through the metal racks stuffed wall-to-wall with costumes and props from decades of shows. The dangling fluorescent bulbs were causing him to sweat, but he simply couldn’t part with Tevya’s cap nor the red pleather Kinky Boots he had on. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a simple black bodysuit that had been worn for a production of Cats many years ago. Michael was going to kick off the evening’s performance with “Memory.”
He was almost done compiling everything he would need for the show when a stack of leather-bound albums caught his eye. Michael reached for the top book, and a single Polaroid fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and saw Jackie Mason standing in between his grandfather and Benny Goldman. On the flip side of the photo, someone—likely the comedian himself—had scrawled: Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I love money.
Michael tore open the book. There were at least a hundred photographs affixed to the pages. It was always an entertainer flanked by Benny and Amos; a Hollywood-meets-Catskills sandwich. Billy Crystal, Andy Kaufman, Henny Youngman, Sid Caesar; a who’s who of entertainment spanning many decades. A young Jerry Seinfeld was pictured giving bunny ears to Benny; Joan Rivers was smooching his grandpa. He turned over every picture and found a handwritten note. Rodney Dangerfield had written, You owe me dry cleaning money for the borscht spill. The fighter Rocky Marciano, pictured shirtless in his boxing shorts and gloves, had written, Chef Joe’s babka is a TKO.
A drop of water fell on a photograph of his grandfather sitting at the piano next to Sammy Davis Jr. Michael looked up at the ceiling, trying to spot the leak. This whole place was falling apart. He wouldn’t be surprised to find a gaping hole in the roof of the playhouse. But he saw nothing other than yellowed paint on the popcorn ceiling. It took him a minute to realize he was crying.
Get it together, Michael. He used his shirt to dry his eyes and shimmied into the cat costume. He was a little worried about how his grandparents would feel seeing him pirouette to Andrew Lloyd Webber. He was the headliner, but Phoebe, Maddie, Scott, and Zach had agreed to be “backup.” Zach had needed the most convincing, demurring that he’d help backstage, but once Phoebe had said “Don’t be lame,” Zach was stretching for the Dirty Dancing lift reenactment. They’d apparently patched up from Phoebe’s dismissive comment about their relationship at dinner Thursday night. When he asked his sister about it, she said, “I dunno. I like the whole Capulet and Montague thing we have going on.” Which reminded Michael . . . he might throw a little Midsummer Night’s Dream action into his performance.
Michael’s professional goals were born of summers spent sitting front row, goggle-eyed, at the Golden’s performances. Watching a singer captivate an audience, a comedian bring on laughter, a musician tickle the ivories—Michael had longed to leap onto the stage and join them. When his acceptance to Harvard had come via email and actually brought his father home from work midday to celebrate, other people’s ideas about his future had started to take shape. Acceptable paths were law, medicine, or business. Slightly more offbeat detours that were still acceptable were variants of the above—not-for-profit law, public sector medical research. When Michael had secretly switched majors a few months earlier, he had channeled courage from the very performers who had graced the stages of the Golden. How upset could his parents be when he was simply honoring a tradition their family had fostered for so long? And they weren’t. His parents were adjusting.
“Michael, we need to practice,” came his sister’s voice through the closet door. He heard the giggles of the Glassers. “What are you still doing in ther
e?”
He opened the door and watched with glee as everyone took in the sight of him in the cat costume.
“You’re right. I’m done being in the closet.”
* * *
• • •
Thunderous applause followed the performance, even a standing ovation from the more spry audience members.
“You were really amazing,” Fanny said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Who knew such talent from our family? Though I had an uncle who could really tell jokes.” She was beaming, buzzing around in her wheelchair and stopping at every table to accept congratulations on behalf of her grandson.
But when she got to the Cullmans, things got a little dicey.
Mrs. Cullman, an old-timer guest of the hotel who had once dated Benny briefly before he’d met Louise, asked Fanny about Michael. “You know I have that pretty granddaughter at Brown. Thin, sweet, studying to be an economist if you can believe it. And yours goes to Harvard, I know. Could be a nice match. What do you say, Fan?”
“I’m seeing someone,” Michael said, saving his grandmother the discomfort.
Mrs. Cullman looked disappointed.
“Well, if it doesn’t work out, don’t forget my Julie.”
Once the guests had cleared out, the Weingolds and Goldmans collapsed into chairs.
“That went well,” Brian said. The ice in his Scotch clinked as he took a sip.
“Considering we had half a day to rehearse, I’d say yes,” Scott said. “I was forced into singing with the UltraSounds by someone in med school. Well, the someone is actually my girlfriend, Bella. I wanted to bring her here.”
“You still can,” Aimee said. “We’re open through Colum—Indigenous People’s Day. I’d love to meet her.”
“What happened at the end?” Phoebe asked, looking at Grandpa Amos. “I thought you were going to announce the sale once our performance was over.”
“I just wanted to enjoy tonight. There’s always time for that. Rumors swirl like flies around here. I’ll tell Shirley Cohen in the morning, and she’ll get on the horn and everyone from Brooklyn to Miami Beach will know by the end of the day,” he said.
“On that note, Andrew and I have a little announcement,” Maddie said. She unwound her hand from Andrew’s and revealed a sparkly diamond.
“Oh my God,” Aimee exclaimed, jumping up from her seat and swallowing Maddie and Andrew whole. “You’re engaged!”
“Let me get champagne from the kitchen,” Brian said, popping up.
“Well, more than engaged, technically.” Maddie pulled her other hand from her pocket, where a thin metal band circled her ring finger.
“What? When? How?” Louise asked. “Are you crazy?”
“Maman, stop,” Aimee said. “Let’s enjoy this moment.”
Louise stood up and kissed Aimee on the forehead. She cupped her daughter’s chin.
“You’re so much like him, you know? Your father. Benny would have focused on the positive as well.”
“We figured there’s no time like the present,” Andrew said with a modest shrug. “With Maddie’s dad and—well, you know. So we went to a justice of the peace this morning. And, if it’s all right with you all, we’d like to celebrate our marriage here. At the Golden.”
“If the Catskills were good enough for Elizabeth Taylor, then they’re good enough for me,” Maddie said.
“And she only got married at Grossinger’s,” Louise said. “Wait until you see what we put on for you here.”
@GoldenHotelCatskills FRIENZ . . . Sad, sad news After nearly sixty years of continuous operation, the Golden Hotel will be closing its doors at the end of this summer. The hotel and surrounding land has been purchased by Diamond Enterprises, which will build a casino and resort on the premises. Everyone at the Golden Hotel, in particular the Goldman and Weingold families, thanks our thousands of guests for their many years of loyalty. Together we built something incredibly special that will forever be a part of history. The hotel will be gone, but the memories will last forever. With love and gratitude, Louise, Amos, Fanny, Benny (of blessed memory), Aimee, Peter, Brian, Maddie, Scott, Zachary, Phoebe, and Michael #borschtbelt #movingon #hotel #resort #jewishalps #thanksforthememories
@GoldenHotelCatskills Due to the outpouring of love and support upon the announcement of our closure, the management of the Golden Hotel has two important announcements. The first is that we hereby declare May 15, the date the Golden Hotel opened its doors, National Catskills Day. We encourage all Catskills lovers to share their memories on social media using the hashtag #natlcatskillsday. Second, we have received a tremendous volume of inquiries about what we will be doing with the furniture, signage, and other mementos from the hotel. We will be holding an auction for these items in the fall. Please check our social media channels over the next month for more information. XO, the Goldmans and Weingolds
Chapter Thirty
Aimee
She forced herself to log out of Facebook, though it was harder than expected, considering she’d been rereading posts and comments for an hour already. Tightening her robe around her and rising for a coffee refill—the drive ahead of her would require caffeine—she wondered why she was suddenly a glutton for punishment. It was hard to explain the urge to read hateful comments like Roger Glasser should be locked up for life and I can’t believe I ever let Dr. Glasser treat me and What a horrible thing for our own lovely town. The Facebook group, Scarsdale Citizens, was more often a place to post a listing for a housekeeper whose services were no longer needed or to inquire if anyone knew the nearest Goodwill to deliver old clothing. But since the news had broken about her husband, the group had been a cauldron of gossip and mean-spirited comments, speculation, and lies. Someone named WestchesterMommy had suggested the Glassers move out of town. Aimee knew the person hiding behind that innocent handle was her next-door neighbor, Betsy Lehman, the same woman who had delighted in Zach’s lack of ambition and Aimee’s unsuccessful attempt at a rose garden on the front lawn.
“Zach, you almost ready?” she called upstairs, a knot in the back of her throat. “We’re leaving soon. It’ll be chilly; dress warmly.” She checked her phone. It was typical November weather in Scarsdale—midfifties—but in Windsor the temperature would be closer to forty.
There was no answer.
She called her youngest’s name again.
“Zacky?”
Aimee looked at the staircase hopelessly. She felt so weak lately; all the emotional distress that had started back in June had had a funny way of atrophying her muscles over the past five months. Maybe she’d have time for a jog once she and Zach reached the Golden. It was time to get her life back in order, and that would start with fixing things from the inside out. Exercise, eating healthier. Things she could control, because Lord knew, if there was anything she’d learned this year, it was that so much was out of her hands.
When there was still no answer, she climbed the steps to Zach’s bedroom. The empty shelves and stripped bed startled her. Zach had been packing up his room for at least a week, but she hadn’t made it upstairs to see his progress until now. Aimee couldn’t believe he was moving out, and seeing boxes with his belongings was too much to face. Suddenly the house felt entirely too big for her without Zach’s hoodies strewn all over the sofas and the tangle of his computer and phone chargers making her stumble. And then there was Roger’s absence, looming in every closet and cupboard. His Italian coffee gone; dress shirts banished; toothbrush trashed. Her lawyer had suggested it. Not as a legal maneuver, but as a friend. “You don’t want to see bits of your ex-husband every time you turn around.” Ex-husband. The word still felt thick and unfamiliar on her tongue. And it wasn’t even accurate yet. She and Roger wouldn’t officially be divorced for at least another year. The hotel had sold faster than her marriage could be unwound. Which went to show, as much as the hotel felt like a character in their lives, it w
as still an inanimate object. And humans were a heck of a lot more complicated than things.
“Mom, were you calling me?” Zach asked, appearing in the doorway behind her.
Her boy. A flop of dark hair covered one of his eyes. His shirt, a University of Vermont tee, was wrinkled and shrunken, but still looked great on him. He was a handsome boy—no, a handsome man. Zach looked like Roger, down to the gap between his front teeth. At least her future ex had been good for something. He’d given Maddie athleticism, Scott a penchant for science, and Zach his striking good looks. And he’d given her things, too. Thirty happy years. It was important to remember the good times, not to let a drop of ink poison an entire well of memories. That advice had come from her therapist. It was Dr. Wind who had analogized the end of her marriage to the sale of the hotel. “Just because it failed in the end doesn’t mean it wasn’t wonderful while it lasted.”
“I was calling you. We should really leave by ten. The auction is called for two, and I want to see the items before the crowds arrive. Where were you, by the way?”
“I was outside. Mrs. Lehman asked me to bring the giant pumpkin on her front porch to the curb for garbage collection. That thing was gross and rotting.”
She could explain to Zach that Mrs. Lehman was a nasty bitch who was maligning their family online, but what was the point? Aimee was proud to have raised a kind and helpful child. She was proud of all of her children. Maddie and Andrew’s celebration was coming up; they still hadn’t quite figured out whether Roger should be in attendance. Formal charges had just been filed, but a trial was months away. Andrew’s grandmother—the hussy from the photos in Memory Lane—had been rather embarrassed to be outed as a Catskills dweller, and a less than reputable one, no less; but it had certainly gone a long way toward changing the Hoffs’ snooty attitude about the Borscht Belt. Scott was thriving in medical school. Since he’d changed his focus of study and emerged from his father’s shadow, Aimee had seen a whole new side of her middle child. And his girlfriend, Bella, was simply lovely. It turned out she had contributed $200 to the 5B’s fundraiser without even realizing her boyfriend’s connection to the place. “My grandfather was a busboy at the Nevele for two summers during law school,” she explained. “He was famous for never dropping a plate.”
Last Summer at the Golden Hotel Page 26