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hard to be my parents’ daughter, but I wanted to think I was up to the challenge.

    At about nine o’clock that evening I was passing by the front desk on my way up to my room when Uncle Cy stopped me. Another man, one of the night clerks, was behind the desk with him.
    â€œWait just a second, will you, Eve?” Uncle Cy dropped a stack of thick manila folders into a cardboard box and closed the flaps. He handed the box to the night clerk. “Okay, Thomas,” he said, “this old tax stuff is ready for storage. Take it on up to the attic, will you? One more box to add to the clutter.” He winked at me. “But we’ve got to keep it in case the IRS ever starts breathing down our necks. Got to have all our ducks in a row for the feds, you know.”
    Thomas, bald and bespectacled, nodded and took the box. Without a word, he slipped around the desk and headed up the stairs.
    â€œHow do you get to the attic, Uncle Cy?” I asked.
    Uncle Cy, already busy gathering another pile of papers, didn’t look up. “You know where the VIP suite is, right?”
    I thought a moment, reaching back into childhood memories. “It’s at the opposite end of the hall from my room, isn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s right.” He nodded. “That’s where I stick the bigwigs and the people who think they’re bigwigs. Well, the door to the right of that door, that’s how you get up to the attic. I don’t recommend you going up there, though, especially if you’re allergic to dust.”
    I shrugged. “I’d rather spend my time in the suite. From what I remember, those are the prettiest rooms in the lodge.”
    â€œSmart kid. And don’t worry. You’ll see the suite plenty, once you start helping the maids clean the rooms.”
    â€œThat wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, Uncle Cy!” I tried to sound stern but laughed instead.
    Uncle Cy smiled good-naturedly as he bundled the papers with a clip. “Now, listen, Eve honey”—he waved the papers at me and looked annoyed when the phone rang—“do me a favor, will you? Take these invoices to Jones.”
    â€œTo Jones?”
    He nodded and picked up the receiver. “Good evening. Marryat Island Lodge. Cyrus Marryat speaking.”
    He listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. I took the invoices and whispered, “But where is he?”
    Uncle Cy put his hand over the mouthpiece and nodded over his shoulder. “In the apartment.”
    â€œBut—”
    Uncle Cy cut me off with a wave of his hand, pulled the guest register from beneath the front desk, and started flipping through it.
    I frowned at the invoices. I really didn’t want to carry them to Jones. So far, he wasn’t anybody I liked very much, and besides, I had worked hard at the Eatery all day and I was tired, too tired to deal with anyone as surly and ill-mannered as this newfound cousin of mine. But I remembered whatMother had said, that we needed to make him feel like part of the family, so I resolved to deliver them willingly and perhaps even wish Jones a good-night.
    I clenched my teeth as I made my way through the sitting room, down the hall, through the ballroom, and into yet another hall that led to Uncle Cy’s apartment. The door was open, so I paused to look inside. From what I could see of the room, it was sparsely furnished with a couple of wing chairs, a bookcase, and a long dining room table pushed up against one wall. The hardwood floor was dull and rutted with scrapes and scratches. Dark heavy drapes hung in the window. A few paintings and framed photographs adorned the walls. Other than that the room was nearly devoid of a woman’s touch, and I wondered why Aunt Cora hadn’t tried to make it more homey and cheerful.
    Jones sat at the dining room table in one of its accompanying ladder-back chairs. Every inch of the tabletop was consumed by clutter: