Uncle Finn was up early the next morning, making a breakfast feast for us.
First came the strawberry crepes with strawberries he picked from his own patch.
“Look at that, like a perfect little gemstone.” He held up a berry for us to admire. “And sadly, they’re the last of the season,” he sighed and carefully cut it into thin slices. Thank God we didn’t trample them in the night.
As we settled around the table, he made us café au lait with coffee made in a little pot he had picked up in France. He whipped up the foam in a little gadget he had brought home from Italy.
Then, he made us omelets with eggs from a family farm on the west side of the island and cheese and vegetables left over from the party the night before.
“The best part of any party is eating well for a week afterward with little effort,” he said.
The cleaning lady came while we were eating. She was about twenty-two and from somewhere in Europe, but no one knew exactly where. She wore a low-cut tank top and bent at the waist to pick up everything on the floor. I was embarrassed for her, even though I knew she did it on purpose and wanted everyone to see everything.
“Geez, Uncle Finn,” Pepper said. The boys snickered.
“I know. She is a good worker, though. And she’s a good soul. Sends a lot of money home to her family. She just wants someone to notice her, that’s all … ” he said kindly, then changed to a serious tone and whispered, “When you have money, you’re always a target. You should know that, kids. Just be aware of it.”
“We know. Grannie drills us. But we aren’t rich like you,” Pepper said.
“What’s rich? It’s all relative. You kids that don’t work all summer are rich to the kids that have to.” I was surprised to hear myself included in any group described as “rich.”
“But that guy over there,” he said, pointing to a house whose chimneys were barely visible between the breaks in the tall vegetation, “I am an ant compared to him. They use that house for two weeks in July—only. The rest of the time, it sits empty. Empty. And staffed. They don’t even rent it out. Let someone else get some enjoyment of the place. He doesn’t need the money. Neither do I. But I like knowing my house isn’t lonely and it’s being enjoyed. I rent this place out all summer. Except for this one week when I have a party and see all my friends.”
“Where do you live for the rest of the summer?” I asked.
“I travel. I go to Maine for the big First of Summer party, of course; I wouldn’t miss that for the world. But then I take off again—I do my northern hemisphere trips, I leave for a tour of Mongolia by camel next month. I can’t wait. I live here most of the winter, but travel all of February. I hate February. I go somewhere warm, like Tonga.
“But how rich am I really?” he went on. “I’ll tell you. My one week in summer here and I have all of you here with me. Now that’s truly rich,” he said, lifting a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice in a toast. If I didn’t know his tragic past, I would think he might be full of crap.
Uncle Finn flew us home two days later in a plane he rented. He said owning your own plane is for the birds.
I thought that if I were a forty-year-old woman, I would be madly in love with Uncle Finn. I didn’t blame his cleaning lady one bit, even though she looked like a complete skank and was going about it all wrong—not that I had much experience in that department.
Uncle Chet picked us up at a tiny airport I didn’t even know existed. He came with Grannie in her ancient Ford wagon. Pepper flew into her grandmother’s arms immediately. It was cute to see.
“Mission accomplished,” she said to her grandmother, as Grannie wrapped her strong arms around her.
“Glad to hear it, Pep,” she said and kissed the top of her head. “Glad to hear it.”
Aw, that’s cute, I foolishly thought.
All I could think of was what fun I was having.
To recap, I had:
And it wasn’t even July.