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 was 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.”

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.