Page 7 of Marry Me Tomorrow
“Is there something wrong with me?” I ask. My pulse quickens as my thoughts spiral. I need this job. This interview has to go well, and right now, it’s not seeming like it will. Although, Trent is still smiling, and his eyes twinkle with something that feels more like amusement than judgment.
“No,” says Trent, “it’s just a very Holly thing to do.” He gestures to the front door. “So, let’s walk and talk. I’m not your typical boss, and this isn’t a typical job. I thought we could walk around the marina and lodge as we talk.”
I nod as he holds the door open for me, the soft chime of the bell above the door ringing out as we step into the crisp morning air. The faint scent of lake water and pine greets me, mingling with the lingering aroma of coffee from the shop counter.
“Why do you want this job, Jenny?” he asks, his voice cutting through the soft murmur of distant boat engines.
“Well,” I say, my fingers playing with the strap of my bag. I guess I should just be completely honest. “It’s not that I necessarily want this job, but I need it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I just moved back here from Atlanta. I was raised here but have been working in Atlanta since I graduated from college there. My grandmother recently passed away and because of that, I had to pack up and move here to help my grandpa. I am trying to take care of my grandparents’ medical bills and retirement home costs. We sold their house, but the money from the sale is only going to cover so much. That’s why I was so distracted yesterday and stepped into traffic without looking, because I’d just left the bank. I was trying to get a loan, but with no collateral to my name and no full-time job . . . well, I was unsuccessful.” I pause my long rambling, glancing over at Trent.
His expression is unreadable, but then something in his eyes softens, like a ripple in calm water.
“I’m not looking for a handout,” I say. “I am a hard worker. That’s how my grandparents raised me to be. And I’ve held just about any job over the years, so I should be able to handle a marina store.”
Trent holds up his hand to pause me, and I stop mid-step, the gravel crunching under my Converse. “You say you’ve had a variety of jobs, but what is it you did in Atlanta?”
“Oh, that. I’m an artist. Or at least I was trying to be. I had the occasional art show at galleries in Atlanta and did fairly well, but the uncertainty of that won’t cover my grandpa's costs.”
“I see,” Trent says, stopping in front of a gazebo that looks out over the water. A light breeze rustles the nearby trees, carrying the faint scent of the lake as we stand in silence for a moment.
I wish with everything in me that I could read minds. How is it fair that superheroes can do that but I can’t? I mean come on, give a girl a break already.
“Let me tell you a bit about the job,” says Trent, “so you can see if it’s something you’d actually want to do full-time. It requires more than just running the store.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“What I would need is someone who could run the shop, including restocking, doing inventory, running the register, managing the reservations, and prepping the rentals for the next day. I also need someone to do administrative stuff for me, billing, filing, registering guests, stuff like that. You wouldn’t be required to do anything with the boats. I manage all of that.” He motions us to walk toward the docks and boats.
The wooden planks of the docks creak slightly as we walk. There are about six docks lined up along the side of the lake, their edges glinting faintly in the sunlight where the water laps against them. Each dock has spots for about ten boats, probably for people who rent out spaces for their boats. Further back, a cluster of fishing and pontoon boats is corralled in a separate dock area, likely holding the rentals. We walk near these as Trent explains more about some of the boat owners and regular rental people.
The way he speaks about each patron, with genuine warmth and a hint of pride, I can tell how much he cares about them and his job. I could tell the first time I met him that he’s a people person. This must be the perfect job for that.
“I would be responsible for maintaining the boats,” Trent says, “refueling, cleaning, moving them in preparation for the next day, and receiving them from people returning them at the end of the day.”
The smell of the lake mixed with the faint chemical sweetness of gasoline from the docked boats lingers in the air, and I nod, taking in the ripples glistening on the water’s surface. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic hum of an engine drones, fading in and out like a heartbeat for the marina.
“That sounds doable,” I say with a smile, brushing a strand of hair away as the breeze plays with it.
“It would also include helping to clean and reset the cabins once we open those in a couple weeks.” His tone is casual and his eyes steady, searching mine for any sign of hesitation.
“I can handle that," I say, my voice firm. "I worked part-time as a hotel maid when I was just starting up my art, so I’m not opposed to housekeeping.” Memories of scrubbing grout and folding corners of crisp white sheets flicker briefly in my mind.
“Good. Of course, just like with the boats, you wouldn’t have to do any maintenance on the cabins. When they open up, you would just manage check-in and checkout and prep for the next guest.” His fingers brush absently against a railing as we walk.
“Nothing you’re telling me sounds like something I can’t handle. And I plan to be around for a long time. I don’t want to move away from my grandpa now that he is all alone.”
“Understandable,” Trent says, nodding as his gaze drifts over the water. “When would you be able to start?”
“What?” I ask, caught off guard. Is he really offering me the job? "You don’t want to check references or interview other candidates?” I ask, my tone tinged with incredulity.
“Jenny, I’ve had this posting up for a few months now, and the only people who have interviewed are college kids who can’t work full-time. I need someone who can and is capable, and you fit both categories. Plus, you come highly recommended from someone whose opinion I value more than most.”
“But she only just met me,” I argue, the warmth of the sunlight on my face doing little to calm my racing thoughts.
“Are you saying you don’t want the job?” Trent asks, his eyes bunching in confusion.
