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.”
“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.”