Last Summer at the Golden Hotel

by Elyssa Friedland

  “All right,” he said, offering no more.

  “Dad, after Roger accused Benny of fraud, you said he didn’t do it, but didn’t explain anything. Why? Louise was always so haughty. The Goldmans moved to Manhattan, we stayed on Long Island. Louise went to Paris to buy clothes, Mom was all about Loehmann’s. How many years did we listen to that crap? And here he was the one borrowing from you.”

  “Louise didn’t go to Europe to buy clothes. And she didn’t go to Paris. She went to Switzerland. Geneva, to be precise.” He paused for a long beat. Peter looked like he was about to press, but Brian held up his hand to stop him.

  “I suppose it’s all right for me to tell you this story now. There was a medical clinic there—maybe it still exists, maybe not. She desperately wanted another child. But it was so expensive—these drug therapies and procedures, all experimental—and Benny didn’t want Louise to worry about the money. She had Fifth Avenue tastes—I think a part of her channeled what she was missing from her life into her appearance and reaching a certain station.”

  “I think I can appreciate that dynamic,” Peter said knowingly.

  “One of the loans is from the same year as Aimee’s bat mitzvah,” Brian said. “That over-the-top party. Mom couldn’t stop talking about it.”

  “That’s right,” Amos said. “Another thing to keep Louise happy and busy and distracted from the disappointment.”

  “Amos! We’re needed at the Harrisons’ for bridge. You’re always the one making me late.” Their mother’s voice, loud and clear, could be heard summoning their father.

  “The boss beckons,” Amos said. “I’ll see you boys in a few days. Good luck with the sharks out there. Tell them Sammy Davis Jr. used all the toilets in the hotel—maybe we can sell those, too.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Well, that was a smashing success,” Aimee said, rubbing the soles of her feet. All the furniture had been tagged and carted away, and the Weingolds and Goldmans were perched on the steps, exhausted.

  “The Sotheby’s guy has no idea what happened to the driveway sign. That thing weighs at least forty pounds and is staked eight feet into the grass,” Peter said. “I checked with the guard at the main gate, and he swears he didn’t see anyone take it. It’s a shame, because I think that might have fetched the highest price.”

  “Nothing we can do,” Brian said. “I had a feeling some townies would snag a few things with all the chaos here today.”

  “Did they leave any tables in the dining room for us?” Scott asked. “I’m hungry. I tried to get one of Chef Joe’s chocolate chip cookies, but they were gone in two seconds. One lady wrapped up at least a dozen and put them in her purse.”

  “The pocketbooks are bottomless at the Golden,” Brian said. “And yes, there are tables. And chairs, too. We’re donating them all to a food pantry nearby. After Maddie’s wedding—I mean marriage celebration.”

  “Actually, we’re going to rent furniture. There’s, um, a lot more choice out there now. We thought lucite chairs might be cool. And instead of round tables, we’re thinking of just bringing in a bunch of cocktail tables and couches.”

  “It was the party planner’s idea,” Andrew said.

  “I don’t understand. We’re going to have to bend over to get our food? And who ever heard of couches at a wedding?” Louise, plainly flummoxed, let her nostrils flare.

  “Maman,” Aimee said firmly, shooting her a look.

  “Fine, fine. Who am I, other than the person who decorated most of this place? I agree with Scott, though. Let’s eat.”

  “Let me help you up, Grandma,” Zach said, extending a hand to Louise.

  “Such a good boy,” Phoebe teased, and Brian watched Zach’s face redden. What is happening with those two? Brian wondered. Normally he wouldn’t meddle in the affairs of young adults, but it could be awkward if he were to date Aimee and his niece was dating Aimee’s son. There he went again, getting ahead of himself.

  “Yes, let’s eat,” Brian said, and everyone rose. As long as the kitchen was in operation, the Golden was still the Golden.

  @GoldenMotelLES After nearly fourteen months of construction, we are ready to open our doors. Tonight, join us for bites and booze. #thecatskillsredefined #lowereastside #whereitallstarted #thenextchapter #exclusive #hospitality

  @hipsterdipster This is the coolest thing ever

  @AvenueBbaby I’ll be there!

  @Jessie212 Major FOMO

  @ParkSloper Sick

  @theLouiseGoldman HOW DO WE MAKE RESERVATIONS? THERE IS NO PHONE NUMBER

  @FannyWeingold THERE IS NO PHONE NUMBER. AM I DOING THIS RIGHT?

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  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Phoebe

  The four of them were sitting in a velvet banquette in the newly built Golden Motel, Fanny and Louise stirring loose-leaf teas and Zach and Phoebe nervously sipping Lavender Collinses in skinny, tall glasses. Opening night was only an hour away.

  Above their heads, affixed to an exposed redbrick wall, was a sign that read the golden motel. It was the same sign that Amos and Benny had hammered into the ground themselves in 1960, the letters of the hotel in a loopy green script—all but the letter M, which was in neon blue.

  “So you stole the sign?” Louise said. “We all drove the security guard crazy about it.”

  “Guilty,” she said, tapping Zach on the arm. “But I had some help. Needed muscle, of course.”

  “It looks nice here,” Fanny said. “Though why didn’t you match the letters? I don’t understand. What’s with the blue? And why would you call a nice place like this a motel?”

  “Maddie kept talking about how the H was missing in the sign and how someone really ought to fix it,” Zach explained. “And Phoebe and I both kind of hit on the idea at the same time. We’d been discussing the idea for the hotel—I mean motel—for a while, and then it was like we had this mind meld: Let’s use the sign with the missing H and change it to an M.”

  “But still, why a motel?” Louise asked, as confused as Fanny.

  “It’s ironic,” Phoebe explained. “Like, it’s cool because it’s not cool.”

  Fanny and Louise exchanged bewildered glances. It had taken a rather frustrated explanation from the waitress to understand how the tea strainer worked. When she’d asked them if they preferred Darjeeling or rooibos, they’d stared back blankly until Phoebe had muttered they would take mint.

  “What I don’t understand is why there is no website or phone number. You’re going to be sitting with a ton of empty rooms,” Fanny said. “Phoebe, you’re good with the computer. You set up my Instapicture account. I bet you could fix that quickly.” She held the bar menu askew and adjusted her reading glasses, as if understanding the offerings were a matter of eyesight.

  “What is folk kale topped with massaged fig? How do you massage a fig?” Fanny pointed out the item to Louise.

  “With olive oil, I suppose,” Louise said.

  “Good one, Grandma,” Zach said.

  “You should try the reimagined borscht,” Phoebe said. “Our chef got the original recipe from Joe, and he added parsnip puree and changed the sour cream to vegan nut cheese. It’s amazing. And we don’t have to worry about all the purple stains on the tablecloths because—see—we have none!”

  “Phoebe, Zach, we’re being serious with you. We are very proud of what you’ve done. Being an entrepreneur takes a lot of guts. But you need to update the reservation system. I heard from Marcia Winter that her grandson tried to book a room, and all he got was a busy signal for three hours and an email that said no bookings available.” Louise looked up at the sign above her head. “You’ve got a legacy to uphold here.”

  Phoebe felt her insides surge with pleasure. She had been waiting for this moment.

  “As a matter of fact, we’re entirely book
ed solid for the first year. And there is a three-hundred-person waitlist to come to tonight’s opening.” She winked at her grandma, so cute in the hot pink dress that Phoebe had gotten a designer friend to loan her. “You’re lucky you know the right people.” And here she playfully jabbed at Zach again, though she was careful not to be overly friendly. If they were going to succeed as business partners, a romance was off the table. Besides, one Weingold-Goldman romance was enough. Speaking of, Phoebe checked her phone.

  “My parents are arriving any minute, and they said Uncle Brian and Aimee are just a few minutes behind.”

  “I have a guest to add to the list,” Louise said. “A Walter Cole will be joining me. Do I tell her?” She pointed at a hostess in a skimpy black dress, fishnets, and Doc Martens approaching their table.

  “We’ve got you covered, Gram,” Zach said.

  “Phoebe, Zach, the New York Post would like a word with one of you. I took a message.” The hostess handed Phoebe a slip of paper.

  “The Post is going to run a big story on us tomorrow,” Phoebe said. “We’re going to play up the museum a lot in the interview.”

  After the families had made the hotel sale public, the 5B had taken to social media to decide what to do with the money raised. It was decided that a museum paying homage to the Borscht Belt would be opened in the Catskills, though a location hadn’t been chosen yet. Amos, Fanny, and Louise would be the honorary chairs of the museum, but the operation would be left to the younger generation. Phoebe had so far received over two thousand photographs from Catskills vacationers and was in the process of culling them down. The 5B had a very active Facebook page.

  “Maybe our problem all along was exclusivity,” Grandma Fanny mused. “If we had only not picked up the phone, imagine how busy we’d be.”

  Phoebe laughed. She knew her grandmother would never grasp the vision behind the Golden Motel, much like Phoebe couldn’t comprehend what made people so eager to sit on I-87 for up to nine hours every Friday to get to the Catskills.

  “This place has more to offer than just exclusivity,” she said. “We have virtual check-in, room service available via iPhone, a silent disco every Saturday night, a meditation class every morning—”

  “Why bother coming at all?” Louise said, though she wasn’t being mean-spirited. “If you’re just going to be quiet, you can stay home for free.”

  “What else does this place offer?” Fanny asked. “Will you be bringing in goats?”

  “Oh my God, I wish,” Phoebe said, realizing a moment later that her grandmother had been joking. She looked over at Louise, whose face indicated she was still not over the poop incident.

  “We have some stuff you guys had at the hotel. We have Ping-Pong. Bingo. Billiards. Even a shuffleboard set up on the roof,” Zach said.

  “If those things are still popular, why did the hotel fail?” Fanny asked.

  “Because now it’s not just about playing shuffleboard for the sake of playing shuffleboard. It’s playing shuffleboard so you can post a picture of yourself playing shuffleboard. It’s posting about the experience instead of living it,” Louise said, judgment in every syllable.

  Phoebe wanted to protest, to explain it was all more nuanced than that. But Louise was probably right. Behind her was a jumbo magnetic poetry board that screamed, Tag me!

  “Oh, look, Peter and Greta just walked in,” Fanny said, waving them over.

  Her father swept Phoebe into a bear hug of the kind he hadn’t given her since she was a small child.

  “You’ve done an incredible job,” he said, standing back from her to look around. “The sign!”

  “There’s more . . .” she said, handing her parents the drink of the evening from a nearby tray. It was an updated grasshopper, a nod to the insects that provided the evening soundtrack in Windsor. “Upstairs in the lounge we hung the portrait of Grandpa and Benny.”

  “You and Zach are truly impressive,” her mother said, air-kissing her. “Oh, screw it, I can touch up,” she said, smacking her lips on Phoebe’s cheek.

  “We couldn’t have done any of this without Uncle Brian,” Phoebe said truthfully. While Phoebe had an idea a minute, it was Brian who grounded her. He’d shown them how to set up a proper payroll, how to link up with the right employment agencies, where to get liquor at a better cost. The list of ways he’d helped her and Zach realize their dream was immeasurable, which was why they’d named the best suite in the place the Brian.

  “Speaking of the devil,” Zach said, pointing to the door, which was opened by a smartly dressed attendant in jeans and a tight-fitting blazer, holding a clipboard and wearing an earpiece.

  Aimee and Uncle Brian entered, holding hands. Phoebe surreptitiously snapped a photo to post on the motel’s feed.

  “Congratulations, Zachy,” Aimee gushed, enveloping him the way Phoebe’s father had swallowed her moments earlier. Phoebe had to laugh a little bit at the outpouring of support and admiration from both sets of parents and grandparents. It was obvious how little confidence they’d had in the youngest generation before they’d pulled this off. “You too, Phoebe. You look stunning.”

  Phoebe beamed. So much of her life up until this point had been about appearances, the pressure to look good while selling another person’s product driving her to the gym every morning and causing her to agonize over filters. Finally, she was promoting her own product, and how she appeared wasn’t just about what would look good on camera and cropped into a square. Not that she hadn’t specifically chosen a navy jumpsuit that looked insanely hot in photographs. But there was something infinitely more exciting about the lineup of actual people that would soon form outside the building, waiting to offer congratulations to her face rather than comment on her posts—though there’d be plenty of that, too.

  “Uncle Brian, you were beyond helpful,” she gushed, standing on tiptoe to hug him.

  “Well, I come by hospitality honestly,” he said in a modest tone. “Oh my God, the freaking sign. You guys had it all along!”

  “We did,” she said. “The maintenance guys just hung it up this morning. Couldn’t spoil the surprise.”

  “Kids, did you know that your grandfathers grew up not two blocks from here?” Louise said.

  “Of course we knew that,” Phoebe said. “Sunrise, sunset, baby. Back to where it all began. Where is Grandpa, by the way?”

  “Sweetheart, he’s not feeling great. He wanted to be here so badly to see this, but the doctor thought he should stay in Florida. But I even learned how to do the FaceTime for him for tonight.”

  Phoebe felt herself sinking. She had never imagined that her entire family wouldn’t be here for opening night. Michael was driving from Cambridge and was due to arrive momentarily. Her parents and uncle were already there. Grandma Fanny was in true form. But Amos—the man who’d breathed the hospitality gene into their bones, whose portrait hung upstairs—was going to miss it.

  “We’ll send him a ton of pictures,” Zach said, coming up from behind and putting a supportive hand on her back. “Plus, the FaceTime. And the Twitter. And the Instapic.” He squeezed her elbow playfully. The grasshoppers were working their magic, and she was reconsidering if a little romance on opening night might not be the end of the world.

  “Well, well, well, sis, aren’t you fabulous,” Michael said, sweeping inside the hotel with the cold air behind him. He wasn’t alone. A striking Asian guy, in dark slacks and a slim sweater, followed a step behind him.

  “Phoebe, this is Troy,” Michael said. “He’s an engineering major at MIT. And he’s my—”

  “Michael, give me a hug,” Fanny said, rolling up to them. Michael bent down. Phoebe felt her insides tensing.

  “This is my friend Troy,” Michael said to their grandmother. His mechanical speech made it obvious her brother and Troy had rehearsed this introduction.

  “Michael, sweetheart, I know who
this is.” Fanny extended her hand. “Fanny Weingold. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Phoebe, the bartender wants to have a quick chat,” Uncle Brian said. “He said the tequila isn’t tasting right. And the bathroom attendant just slipped, so we need to get her an ambulance. And the heat broke in the Borscht suite.”

  Her eyes widened and she felt a strong impulse to run for the door. There was a cool spot on Avenue C where she could look cute at the bar, flirt her way to free drinks, and go back to living her life online. But no. She could do this. It was in her blood.

  “Welcome to hotel management,” Brian said.

  She looked from her uncle to her grandmother to her parents, and said to no one in particular, “I got this.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Aimee

  I think that’s the last of them,” Aimee said, handing over a generous tip to the head of the moving crew, a muscly, tattooed guy who had been surprisingly familiar and cautious with her rare book collection.

  “Good luck in your new place, ma’am,” the mover said, pocketing the money. “Can’t believe we fit it all in.” He looked around, as if struck for the first time by how small the apartment was. Aimee acknowledged how odd it must seem—a middle-aged woman moving from a sprawling Westchester McMansion with nine bathrooms and a swimming pool to a fifteen-hundred-square-foot apartment with a view of mostly brick walls. But she didn’t care. A fresh start was what she needed, and that was what she was getting. All her children were out of the house. She didn’t need a large backyard and a basement with a hundred-inch television.

  Brian crossed paths with the mover on his way out. He was carrying something large, wrapped in brown paper. He was sweet to insist on helping with the move. She liked the sight of him with sweat rolling down the back of his neck, the way he was handy with tools and took the back stairs two at a time when the elevator was too slow.