My Husband Called It My Little Summer Job — Then He Planned Family Time Over My First Saturday Shift
PART 7
By the beginning of Marissa’s fifth week, the lodge had become ordinary enough to stop feeling like an experiment.
She knew which floorboard behind the desk squeaked. She knew Kim drank coffee until noon and iced tea after. She knew that guests who asked whether the lake had snakes usually did not want a biological answer.
Her name badge no longer felt like costume jewelry.
On Tuesday, Kim handed her the festival-weekend staffing sheet.
“Final version,” she said.
Marissa scanned it.
Friday, noon to eight.
Saturday, ten to seven.
Sunday, nine to three.
Saturday was her anniversary.
She had known that from the first rota. The date had been sitting there for weeks, visible but emotionally distant.
Now it was eleven days away.
Kim pointed to Saturday. “We’ll be full by Thursday. Festival booths start at nine. Front desk gets ugly between eleven and three.”
“Comforting.”
“You and I are both on. Tessa has arrivals support. Greg handles luggage and parking until five.”
Marissa nodded.
Kim looked at her. “If you need to ask for anything, ask now.”
Marissa thought of Ethan.
They had not made anniversary plans yet. In other years they usually went to dinner. Sometimes they stayed overnight downtown. Once, when money was tight, they ate takeout on the back porch after the kids went to bed and called it romantic because there were candles.
This year Ethan had mentioned “doing something Saturday” twice without details.
“I’m good,” she said.
That evening she called him from her room in the staff building.
“Festival schedule is final.”
“How bad?”
“I work Saturday ten to seven.”
There was a pause.
“On our anniversary.”
“Yes.”
“I know the date, Marissa.”
“I did not say you didn’t.”
“I thought maybe they would shift you off that one,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you told them it was your anniversary.”
“I did not tell them.”
He went quiet.
Marissa sat on the edge of the narrow bed.
“Did you want me to?”
“I thought we were doing something.”
“We can do something Friday night or Sunday.”
“That is not the day.”
“No.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
She recognized the word now. It meant he was not okay but had not decided what to do with that yet.
Marissa said, “I do care that it is our anniversary.”
“I did not say you didn’t.”
“Now you sound like me.”
“That cannot be good for either of us.”
She smiled faintly.
Then Ethan said, “Let’s talk when you’re home.”
On Thursday night, he had dinner ready when she arrived.
Nothing dramatic. Grilled chicken, corn, salad.
They ate at the kitchen table where the old family calendar still hung, though most squares were empty now that the children had their own homes.
Ethan had written MARISSA — LODGE in blue marker across several dates.
The effort touched her.
After dinner he said, “What if I come up Friday? We stay somewhere nearby, have dinner Friday night, then I leave Saturday morning.”
Marissa considered it.
“That could work.”
“Or I could stay Saturday too and entertain myself until you’re done.”
“You hate entertaining yourself.”
“I have matured since June.”
“Evidence is limited.”
They made a plan. Friday dinner in town. Ethan would stay at a nearby motel because Pine Harbor’s staff rooms were not guest lodging. Saturday he could hike, read, or drive home whenever he wanted.
Marissa felt relief.
This was what she had hoped adaptation would look like: not one person winning, just the calendar changing shape.
On Friday the following week, Ethan arrived at four while Marissa was still working. He sat on the porch with a book until her shift ended.
They drove into town and ate at a restaurant with a view of the marina. Ethan gave her an anniversary card that made fun of how many years they had spent arguing about thermostat settings. She gave him one she had bought three weeks earlier and forgotten in the canvas duffel until that morning.
They talked about Ben’s new apartment, Paige’s plan to take a certification course, and a leak under the kitchen sink that Ethan had fixed without calling her at the lodge.
At dessert he raised his glass.
“To twenty-seven years.”
Marissa touched hers to it. “To twenty-seven.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“And to your not-little summer thing.”
Warmth spread through her.
“Thank you.”
The next morning, festival traffic began before eight.
Marissa dressed in her staff room, clipped on her badge, and packed the canvas duffel for one more night because Sunday’s shift started early.
Ethan was waiting in the motel parking lot with coffee.
“Happy actual anniversary,” he said.
“Happy actual anniversary.”
He kissed her.
Then he said, “So I made a reservation for tonight at that place by the marina. Seven-thirty.”
Marissa thought she had misheard.
“What?”
“The nicer one. The one with the deck.”
“I work until seven.”
“I know. I figured you could leave at six-thirty.”
She stared at him.
His expression stayed hopeful for another second.
Then he saw her face.
“What?” he said.
“Ethan.”
“It’s half an hour.”
“I work until seven.”
“It’s our anniversary.”
“We had anniversary dinner last night.”
“Because you had to work today.”
“Yes.”
He set his coffee on the hood of the car.
“I thought last night was the flexible part. Tonight is the actual date.”
Marissa felt something inside her go very still.
The previous ten days did not vanish. His visit to the lodge had been real. His changed language had been real. His support had been real.
So was this.
He still believed the commitment became movable when the family reason was important enough.
And because she had spent years treating her own plans exactly that way, some part of her still believed it too.
