Roland Voss, 62, makes his living restoring water-damaged antique maps out of the sunporch of his Portland bungalow, and he hasn’t willingly attended a neighborhood social event in 18 years. That streak only broke because his 16-year-old next door neighbor Javi had begged for three weeks straight for Roland to bring his famous hickory-smoked brisket to the summer block party, promising he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone if he didn’t want to. Roland caved mostly because Javi had helped him replace rotting sunporch trim the month prior, no charge, just asking for a six pack of root beer in return.
He showed up at 4 p.m., brisket wrapped in butcher paper, planning to drop it off with Javi’s mom and hightail it back to his half-finished 1792 Lewis and Clark expedition map. But the shade under the big oak at the end of the block was too nice, the air smelled like grilled corn and cut clover, and a folding chair left by the cooler looked too comfortable to pass up. He grabbed a root beer, propped his boots on the lower rung, and watched kids chase each other with water guns for 20 minutes before anyone bothered him.
Mara Hale sat down in the chair next to him without asking, plate loaded with potato salad and a pickled egg on the side. She was 58, had moved into the pale blue bungalow two blocks over three months prior, and Roland had only ever waved at her from his truck when he passed her pulling weeds in her front yard. He recognized her immediately by the thick silver streak cutting through the left side of her dark brown hair, and the scar slashing across her left knuckle he’d wondered about once while waiting for her to cross the street. “You’re the brisket guy, right?” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over blaring 90s country from the picnic table speaker. Their knees brushed when she shifted, denim on denim, and Roland tensed up like he’d touched a live wire. He hadn’t been that close to a woman who wasn’t a client dropping off a map in over a decade.
He nodded, took a sip of root beer, and was about to make an excuse to leave when she said, “I’m Mara. My cousin is Linda Voss. Used to be, anyway.”
Roland’s jaw tightened. Linda was his ex-wife, the one who’d left him for a 28-year-old ski instructor after 14 years of marriage, who’d taken half his map collection and his favorite cast iron skillet when she moved to Aspen. Disgust curled in his gut first, sharp and familiar, the same feeling he got when he saw a mold-infested map too far gone to restore. He should get up, walk away, go home to sand the frame he was building for the Lewis and Clark map. But then Mara laughed, rough and warm, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Relax. I’ve thought she was a self-absorbed idiot since we were kids. She called me last month to ask if I’d run into you, said she wanted you to mail her the old fur trade map she left in the attic. Told her I wouldn’t even ask.”
He blinked, surprised. He studied her for a second, noticed the pine sap stain caked on the cuff of her work jeans, calluses on her fingertips, the way she held her paper plate like she was used to eating perched on rock ledges or pickup truck tailgates. She told him she was a retired backcountry park ranger, spent 26 years patrolling Mount Hood National Forest, moved to the neighborhood to be closer to her sister undergoing chemo. She’d seen his map restoration posts on the neighborhood Facebook group, had a tattered 1931 Columbia River Gorge map her dad gave her before he died, wanted him to look at it if he had time.
They talked for 45 minutes straight, every small accidental touch sending a jolt up Roland’s spine. She reached across him to grab barbecue sauce from the cooler next to his chair, her forearm brushing his chest, and he could smell her perfume: cedar and orange peel, like the forest after rain. She held his eye contact when she laughed at his dumb joke about the client who brought in a map chewed up by a pet raccoon, her gaze not darting away like most people’s did when they realized how little he’d talked to anyone in years. A group of kids sprinted past chasing a golden retriever with a half-eaten hot dog in its mouth, and one slammed into Mara’s back hard enough that she pitched forward into his lap.
He caught her automatically, one hand on her waist, the other steadying her shoulder. Her face was three inches from his, he could smell the mint gum she was chewing, see faint freckles across her nose hidden from far away. She didn’t scramble to get up like he expected. She just grinned, the corner of her mouth tugging up, and said, “Well, that’s one way to skip awkward small talk.” Roland laughed, loud and unplanned, the first real laugh he’d had since before Linda left. The disgust he’d felt earlier was gone entirely, replaced by a warm, giddy buzz he’d forgotten existed, like he was 17 again sneaking into the drive-in with his first girlfriend.
She climbed off his lap a minute later, brushed crumbs off her jeans, and asked if he wanted to walk back to her place to look at the Gorge map, maybe have a glass of small batch bourbon she brought back from Kentucky last year. He hesitated for half a second, 18 years of rigid routine and self-imposed isolation screaming at him to say no, to go home to his quiet sunporch and his maps and no surprises. Then he thought about the way she’d laughed at his raccoon joke, the calluses on her fingertips, the way she hadn’t judged him for looking like he wanted to run away when she first mentioned Linda. He said yes.
They left the party an hour later, Roland carrying the leftover half of his brisket in one hand, the other brushing hers every few steps as they walked down the sidewalk. Streetlights flicked on one by one, crickets chirped in the flower beds, and the air cooled just enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled. She stopped at her front steps, turned to face him, and leaned in to kiss him quick, light, tasting like mint and the strawberry shortcake they’d split for dessert. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the scar on her knuckle when he pulled his hand away.
She unlocked her front door, held it open for him, and he stepped across the threshold, the screen door slamming shut softly behind them.
