Russell Hale, 59, has restored vintage typewriters out of his cinder block garage outside Asheville for 22 years. His biggest flaw is holding grudges longer than he keeps the worn rubber key gaskets he hoards for 1960s Smith Coronas. He hasn’t spoken to the man who used to own the town’s only office supply store in 15 years, not since the guy ran a full-page ad in the local paper calling typewriter repair “a waste of money for people stuck in the past.” He’s lived alone since his wife left 8 years back, fed up with how he shut down completely after their only son moved to Oregon for a forestry job, and he’d spent the last half-decade turning down every invitation to local barbecues, street fairs, and even the monthly mechanic’s coffee meetup he used to love.
He only showed up to the summer downtown fair because his elderly next door neighbor left a free beer tent ticket taped to his screen door at 7 a.m., along with a note saying if he didn’t get out of the garage one day this week she was going to start leaving her cat at his house while she went to bingo. He’d grabbed his faded gray flannel, even though it was 78 degrees out, and drove his beat-up 1998 Ford F-150 into town, planning to drink one cold IPA, avoid eye contact with everyone he knew, and be home in time to feed his hound dog before the sun went down.
The beer tent floor was sticky with spilled seltzer and discarded lemonade cups, the bluegrass band playing 20 feet away was loud enough that he could feel the bass thrum in his boots, and the air smelled like fried green tomatoes and burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand two stalls over. He was leaning against a rough-hewn cedar post, watching a group of teens race each other down the sidewalk with snow cones, when someone’s elbow knocked hard into his left side, sloshing a quarter of his beer down the front of his flannel.
He turned to snap at whoever it was, and froze. It was Elara Voss, the ex-wife of the office supply store guy he’d hated for a decade and a half. She was holding a sweating glass of sweet tea in one hand, a crocheted tote bag slung over her shoulder, strands of silver threading through the dark brown hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid. Her cheeks were pink from the heat, and she was already dabbing at the wet spot on his shirt with a crumpled paper napkin, her warm, calloused hand brushing his forearm through the thin fabric of his flannel. “I am so sorry,” she said, laughing a little, her voice low and rough, like she smoked a single cigarette every night before bed. “I was watching my niece chase a goose and didn’t look where I was going.”
Russell’s first instinct was to step back, mumble a gruff it’s fine, and leave. He’d only met Elara twice before, both times at town hall meetings 17 years prior, when her then-husband had been lobbying to ban small home businesses from operating within city limits. He’d spent 15 years lumping her in with the guy, assuming she was just as snobby and short-sighted as he was. But then she smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and he noticed she was wearing scuffed work boots, not the fancy heels he’d seen her in back then, and her shirt smelled like lavender and freshly cut grass.
“I’m Elara,” she said, holding out her hand, and when he took it, her grip was firm, no dainty little shake. He told her his name, and her grin got wider. “Oh, I know who you are,” she said. “My ex ranted about you constantly. Thought you were a relic who needed to get with the times. I always told him he was an idiot. I still have my mom’s 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe in my guest room, I’ve been trying to find someone to fix it for years.”
He found himself leaning against the post closer to her, their shoulders almost touching, the heat from her arm seeping through his flannel. He made a snarky joke about her ex’s obsession with disposable inkjet printers, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth. She told him she’d left her ex 6 months prior, after she found out he’d been cheating on her with a 22-year-old who worked at his copy center, and she’d moved back to the area to open a small pottery studio out of the old farmhouse she inherited from her grandma.
They talked for 45 minutes, the beer in his hand going warm, the bluegrass band switching from fast dance numbers to slow, twangy ballads. She kept holding eye contact when he talked, not glancing around for someone more interesting to talk to, asking him questions about how he sourced old typewriter parts, how he fixed the bent keys, how many machines he’d restored over the years. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone actually listen to him, not just nod while they waited for their turn to talk. At one point, she leaned in to tell him a story about her ex trying to use a typewriter once and breaking three keys in 10 minutes, and her hair brushed his cheek, soft and sweet-smelling, and he felt a jolt go down his spine that he hadn’t felt since he was in his 20s.
He was so caught up in talking to her he forgot all about his hound dog, about the half-restored Underwood sitting on his workbench at home, about the grudge he’d carried for 15 years against a guy who didn’t even live in the state anymore. When the sun started to dip low, painting the sky pink and orange, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her finger brushing her lower lip, and asked him if he wanted to come over to her farmhouse later to look at her Royal. “I’ve got a bottle of 12-year bourbon I’ve been saving for someone who actually appreciates old, well-made things,” she said, her voice a little lower than it had been before, her eyes not leaving his.
For half a second, he hesitated, the old resentment flaring, the voice in his head saying don’t have anything to do with that guy’s ex. But then she smiled, and he thought about going home to an empty house, a frozen meatloaf dinner, and a hound dog that would just look at him like he was an idiot if he tried to talk to him about typewriter parts. He said yes.
They walked out of the fair together, their hands brushing every few steps, until he laced his calloused, grease-stained fingers through hers. She squeezed his hand tight, and he could hear crickets starting to chirp in the trees lining the sidewalk, the faint sound of the fair’s music fading behind them.
