“Use the emergency fund.”
“You have one?”
“Yes.”
June felt absurdly proud.
She did not say it.
“Good.”
The December repayment arrived on time.
Payment 11.
June transferred it into a travel account.
By then she had decided to retire at sixty-five.
Not sixty-eight.
Not seventy.
Sixty-five.
She met with the hotel’s benefits administrator.
She ran the numbers.
They worked.
Not extravagantly.
Enough.
She would have her pension.
Savings.
The house.
And time.
Time had become the most expensive thing she owned.
—
The following spring, the Beaumont Hotel announced a renovation.
Several longtime housekeepers worried automation and staffing changes might reduce hours.
June attended every union meeting.
At one, management announced a retirement incentive for employees with more than twenty-five years of service.
June read the package twice.
Marisol leaned over.
“You’re thinking.”
“I am.”
“You look dangerous.”
June laughed.
If she took the package, she could retire seven months earlier than planned.
For a week, she told no one.
Then Ethan came for dinner.
June put the paperwork beside his plate.
He read it.
“You’re retiring?”
