Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  And Zach. Her directionless wonder. He had found an apartment on the Lower East Side that he would share with a few roommates. He claimed to have professional plans, though he wasn’t ready to share them yet. Maybe she’d get some details out of him on the ride to the Catskills. Or maybe not. She saw his Beats poking out of his knapsack.

  “Is there really going to be a crowd?” Zach asked, heeding her advice and layering on a sweatshirt. Just that action was a sign that her children were now fully formed adults. As teenagers, if she’d told them to wear warm jackets and hats, they specifically wouldn’t to prove they knew better. Of course, when their inevitable colds had come, she’d still run out for lozenges and made chicken soup with a very specific carrot-to-celery ratio. She hoped that even in adulthood, her children would always still need her, like she needed Louise. Her mother had been her rock during the divorce proceedings. Aimee could call her at 2 a.m. and Louise would always claim to have been awake.

  “Maddie said there will definitely be a crowd. She and Andrew got up to the hotel a few days ago to meet with the party planner, and apparently all sorts of strangers have been poking around.”

  “Is Joe making the Thanksgiving dinner?” Zach was always focused on his next meal. Aimee would miss feeding him, spontaneously leaving out snacks on the kitchen counter that he’d devour within minutes. But she needed to grow up, too. She would always be a mother, even if she wasn’t grocery shopping for her kids and doing their laundry.

  “He is,” Aimee said. “It’s been too many years since we’ve all done a holiday meal together. Brian called me to ask if we had any specific food requests.”

  She had frozen when Brian’s cell phone number had appeared on her screen a few days earlier. They hadn’t spoken since Labor Day, and even that weekend, it had just been friendly snippets when they’d passed each other in the lobby and in the dining room. Aimee had tried to find Angela on social media, but it was a dead end.

  “I’m really looking forward to seeing you at Thanksgiving,” Brian had said after she’d listed off Zach’s ten dietary requests, emphasizing the marshmallow and sweet potato hash as the highest priority. Something in his tone had made Aimee’s heart race, though she’d chastised herself after they’d hung up. He was having a baby with another woman! Don’t be a loser, Aimee Goldman. She was also no longer a hyphenated woman. She’d chopped the Glasser off the moment she’d finished reading the indictment against her husband. The numbers were staggering. In the past year alone, he had written 2,500 OxyContin prescriptions. His low-income “clinic” was a drug den, operating under the cover of darkness. She saw pictures of strung-out patients waiting in a line half a block long to see Roger. Most heartbreaking of all, he had called in several Oxy prescriptions to the local pharmacy in Windsor.

  “Nice,” Zach said. “Hopefully we all get along. I’d hate to have to . . .”

  “Hate to have to what?” Aimee asked.

  “I need to come clean about something. Remember the fire that broke out on July Fourth, the one where—”

  “Where the Weingolds and us almost stopped speaking. Yes, of course I remember.”

  “I did that. I couldn’t stand the fighting. Of course, I had no idea there would be so much damage. I just wanted to cause a diversion. Grandpa Benny would have killed me if he knew. I heard the insurance didn’t cover half of it.”

  Aimee was shocked. And weirdly proud. She went over to kiss Zach on the forehead.

  “I don’t suggest that method of conflict resolution in the future. But I think we can keep this as our little secret. Shall we go?”

  She wondered how things with Phoebe were going, but didn’t ask. She knew they were in frequent touch, “P” coming up on Zach’s screens often whenever Aimee could sneak a glance.

  “Sure,” Zach said. “Scott texted his train is ten minutes from the station, by the way.” She and Zach stepped outside the house, and Aimee locked the front door behind her without a backward glance.

  THE WINDSOR WORD

  HISTORIC GOLDEN HOTEL TO AUCTION OFF ITEMS TODAY

  Everything from dishes to sofas to first aid kits will be up for grabs

  By George Matsoukis

  Windsor, NY—Nostalgia lovers will be living it up on the grounds of the Golden Hotel for the start of a two-day auction in which management will be selling off virtually everything from the hotel, from the rafters to the floorboards.

  As was reported in June, the Golden Hotel entered into a sale agreement with casino operator Diamond Enterprises. The title will transfer in January of next year, after a family wedding in December.

  Insiders at the hotel say that among the items being auctioned off are photographs from the hotel’s “Memory Lane,” featuring guests throughout the years, the famous sign on Route 87 that indicated the hotel was three miles ahead, and a baseball signed by Jackie Robinson, who stayed at the hotel for several weeks every summer in the 1960s.

  “I hope they don’t auction off my uniform,” longtime concierge Larry Levine said. “Then I will have nothing to wear home.”

  An auctioneer from the well-heeled Sotheby’s, based in New York City, will run the auction. Many of the items feature autographs from celebrities who performed on the stages of the Golden. A more unusual lot is the bathrobe Joan Rivers wore when she went to the Golden Hotel to recover from plastic surgery.

  “I want that painting behind the check-in desk. The one that the daughter painted with the backwards G,” said one former guest of the hotel, who wished not to be identified. “I’d pay top dollar for that.”

  When the sale is complete, there will be no remaining hotels or bungalows left from the so-called Jewish Alps, so it is not surprising that folks will be lining up to collect memorabilia. At one point there were more than five hundred hotels and five hundred bungalow colonies in the area, but today all that remains are ghostly vestiges of a different era.

  All owners are expected to be on the premises for the sale.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Brian

  The last time parking had been a problem at the hotel was back in the late 1990s, and that was because a water main had burst and flooded half the parking lot. But today, for the auction of the Golden’s vessels, cars were lined up for at least two miles down the road in each direction. Somehow word had spread that people coming up to the hotel should dress “classic Catskills,” and so the bodies dotting the endless front lawn were outfitted in pedal pushers and plaid shorts with socks hiked to the knee, despite the November chill. Many of the women had embellished their looks with jaunty hats and cat-eyed sunglasses. Brian was grateful he’d asked Angela’s brother, a talented photographer, to document the scene.

  He spied the curve that was now Angela’s defining feature from across the lawn. She was directing traffic and passing out auction paddles, even though Brian had insisted she rest. She was in her sixth month already, and backaches, swollen feet, and the urge to pee every ten minutes were plaguing her. Brian would often marvel at the injustice. He was getting a kid, too—a boy, they’d learned at the twenty-week anatomy scan—but he felt totally fine. And since he and Angela had decided that they would raise the child together, but not as a couple, he wasn’t even around in the evenings to rub her feet or bring her pickles and ice cream, if that was really a thing. He had offered to spend the night on the couch in her condo many times, but she’d declined. Sensibly, she’d say that their lives were going to be complicated enough; there was no need to intensify them.

  “I don’t think you’re in love with me.” That’s what Angela had said to him after the first trimester had passed, plain and straightforward and wildly brave. He had told her he was open to trying anything: together, apart—he’d even thrown the word “marriage” on the table. But Angela had been firm. She wanted more than he could give her, and she demanded more for herself.

  The arrangement they’d worke
d out—for Angela to care for the baby during the week, Brian to have three weekends a month, both of them to have access when they wanted it—meant that he was now free to lay down roots outside Windsor. But that also meant facing hard choices. Selling the hotel was a choice, but he didn’t have to make it alone. Next steps, where to settle, what to do: They were on him alone. His parents had offered to reach out to longtime guests of the hotel to pursue job leads. It was a gracious offer, but with his fiftieth birthday looming, he fought off the urge to accept. Maybe once a child, always a child. He’d find out eventually with his own.

  “Can you believe this turnout?” Peter asked, approaching with his arm around Greta. She, too, had gotten the memo and was wearing a mustard yellow swing dress topped with a brown felt cape, looking like a sixties superhero.

  “It’s wonderful to see,” Greta said, lightly touching Brian on the arm. “But not surprising. You did a remarkable job organizing all of this.” Her face looked less taut than usual, like a balloon with a bit of air let out. Since the week in June when the family had gathered, there had been new life breathed into his brother’s marriage. He and Greta had sat on a blanket together during the Labor Day weekend fireworks show, and when, predictably, the Wi-Fi had gone out for the day, Peter had stayed. “The office will manage without me” were actually the words he’d uttered, which had cued a number of jokes about a secret lobotomy.

  “Thank you, Greta. You look great,” Brian said. Greata. That could be her new nickname, replacing Greeda, which it turned out she’d never really deserved. If you had a certain opinion about someone, anything they said or did confirmed it. Change that opinion, and suddenly their actions could be viewed in a whole new light. “Mind if I steal my brother away for a few minutes?”

  She motioned for them to go on.

  “I want to talk up the tea service platter anyway,” Greta said. “I heard Lucille Ball used it every morning when she stayed at the hotel, and I think the reserve price is too low.”

  “What’s up?” Peter asked after his wife had sauntered away.

  “This is kind of delicate,” Brian said. “But I really want to be honest and transparent. You know the painting behind the check-in that—”

  “Aimee’s picture. Of course,” Peter said. “I was surprised she didn’t claim it when we did the family walk-through.”

  “Yeah, well, I think she felt guilty. It’s going to fetch a pretty high price, and she needs the money. And she didn’t want to take it away from us. She may have drawn it, but you and I know it’s as much a part of the hotel as the banister, the pool, the nightclub—it’s steeped in a lot of history.”

  “So what are you saying?” Peter asked. He could be overly analytical at times, missing an emotional gene. Brian had hoped his brother would have already connected the dots.

  “I’d like to buy it for her, if that’s all right with you. I know it’s one of our more desirable lots, and I don’t want people to get upset that an owner is taking it back, so I’ve spoken to Otto. He has a cousin in Loch Sheldrake who will come over and bid in my place.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Peter asked, but before Brian could respond, his twin’s face changed, his expression finally washed with understanding.

  “Yes, what you’re thinking is true. I have feelings for Aimee. She’s going through a divorce. I’m having a kid. It is possibly the worst time in history to even think about a relationship, but it’s like what Chef Joe says when he brings out the dessert trolley.”

  “You think you don’t have room for another bite, but you still can’t resist,” Peter said. “Does she know?”

  “We were intimate. Back in June. I wanted to tell you back then, but I was a coward. I know how you used to feel about her for so long . . .”

  “‘Used to’ is the operative phrase,” Peter said. “I love Aimee. I always will. But Greta is my wife. And more than that, she’s my life.” He put a solid hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Go for it. Seriously.”

  “Thanks, Peter. Speaking of other auction items, I was thinking we should go through Amos and Benny’s desks before the auction starts. Sotheby’s sent along some fancy locksmith to open up the locked drawers and cabinets without damage.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Man, our father was a mess,” Brian said when, ten minutes later, he was bent over Amos’s desk. At first Brian had been surprised when his parents had said they would arrive after the auction, just in time for Thanksgiving dinner. “Your mother loves the sun,” Amos had said. “And I should get to the eye doctor before I head north.”

  He’d mentioned their parents’ absence to his brother, and Peter, showing a rare surge of EQ, had said, “I think Pops doesn’t want to watch his baby gefilted like a carp.”

  Their mother had called Brian later, when Amos wasn’t around, and told him to lay off his father. “Brian, he doesn’t need to be there when the vultures circle the entrails.” Peter had been spot on. Brian hoped the shock of arriving in a few days to an empty shell wouldn’t be too much for either of his parents. He still felt numb remembering when his father had nearly lost consciousness in the boardroom.

  “Benny was so neat,” Peter remarked. They had just finished checking over his desk. Everything was spick and span, organized hotel brochures and copies of activity and payroll schedules in neat files.

  “I feel like their desks were versions of themselves. Benny’s, polished and shiny, perfect for show. Dad’s sloppy, literally covered in elbow grease,” Peter said.

  “Yeah, but Benny was the greasy one,” Brian said. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t even try with Aimee. With all that muck between our families. You know, I tried to ask Dad about it after that dinner, but he’s just so freaking protective of Benny.”

  “They were brothers,” Peter said, looking at Brian. “About Aimee, why don’t you first worry about whether she’d be willing to have coffee with you?”

  “Good plan,” Brian said.

  “Got it!” Peter exclaimed, yanking open Amos’s top drawer. “Junk drawer. Paper clips, nonworking pens. Wait a second. I feel something weird.”

  “What?” Brian asked.

  “It’s like a false back. Hang on, I’m getting it.”

  Brian moved next to his brother. “Let me,” he said. “I’ll use a key to shimmy it out.” He tinkered with what was clearly a fake back of the drawer until he pried the board loose. Cold metal greeted his hand as he groped in the dark.

  “What the—” he said when he pulled out a pair of furry handcuffs. They dropped to the floor in a clank. Brian reached back and retrieved another pair of handcuffs and a leather whip.

  “Is this a joke?” Peter asked, studying the handcuffs. “Was Dad a fetishist?”

  “Not just Dad,” Brian said. “Mom’s name is stitched into this whip. Oh my fucking God. I really want to unsee this.”

  “Didn’t you just assume Mom was a big prude?” Peter asked.

  “No, because I tried to never think about their sex life, period. I need Purell. We can never mention that we found this to anyone.”

  “Obviously,” Peter said, already stuffing the sex toys into a shopping bag. “I’ll drop this into the garbage dump ASAP.”

  “Do we dare look in the second drawer?” Brian asked. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”

  He dropped to his knees and opened the unlocked lower drawer, combing through a jumble of yellowed papers and file folders.

  “Peter, come over here,” Brian said. His brother joined him in a huddle underneath the giant mahogany mass of their father’s desk, as if it was up to them to literally shoulder the weight of his legacy.

  “Is this what I—am I seeing this right?”

  They were looking at scraps of loose-leaf paper, where figures had been scrawled in both Benny’s and Amos’s handwriting.

  “Jeez, this is what happened,”
Brian said. “Benny didn’t steal from Dad. They had an arrangement.”

  “Why the secrecy? Why was Benny borrowing a hundred thousand dollars from Dad? This promissory note looks like a kid’s homework assignment. And if he was already borrowing money from Dad, why did he also take out loans against the hotel without Dad knowing?”

  Brian was as bewildered as Peter. Never in any conversations about the hotel had Amos intimated any side arrangements.

  “We could call him,” Brian suggested.

  “I want to,” Peter said. “If there’s one thing the closing of the hotel has shown me, it’s that time doesn’t stand still. Who knows how many more opportunities we’ll have to ask him things?”

  Brian took his cell phone out of his pocket and called Amos on speaker.

  “Let me guess,” their father said when he picked up the call. “Every housewife from Roslyn to Cherry Hill wants the dessert trolley cart?”

  “Um, hi, Dad. I don’t think ‘housewife’ is really the term these days. But the auction hasn’t started yet anyway. I’m here with Peter, and we were just cleaning out your desk before it goes up for sale. We found some papers. Some kind of agreement between you and Benny. He borrowed an awful lot of money from you, Dad. And we see that Howard was right about the property liens.”

  The twins could hear their father’s jaw clenching. He was old school in so many ways, one of them being that children were on a need-to-know basis, even when those children were past middle age. When it came to the private sphere that he and Benny had shared as best friends and business partners for decades, Amos did not welcome visitors.