Roland Voss, 53, spends 90 percent of his days hunched over a workbench in his converted garage shop, prying stuck keys off 100-year-old typewriters and reinking ribbons that haven’t seen paper since Nixon was in office. He likes the routine. No surprises. No one expecting him to remember anniversaries or make small talk over dinner. He only agreed to set up a display at the neighborhood block party because his next-door neighbor, a retired elementary school teacher, brought him homemade chocolate chip cookies for three straight days to beg him. The party was a fundraiser for the local fire department, the same crew that had saved half the street when the oak tree at the end of the block caught fire during last summer’s heat dome.
He’s been there for two hours, already turned down three offers to join the cornhole tournament, when a warm shoulder brushes his bicep hard enough to make him drop the cleaning brush he’s holding. He turns to snap, and the words die in his throat. The woman running the pie booth two feet to his left is leaning over the flimsy plastic divider between their tables, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, flour dusted on the cuff of her red flannel shirt. She smells like baked peach and lemon Pledge, like the kitchen of his grandma’s house when he was a kid.
“Sorry about that,” she says, holding eye contact longer than most people do when they bump into him. Her eyes are hazel, crinkled at the corners like she laughs a lot. “That Underwood No. 5 you’ve got there? My husband had the exact same one. He taught 10th grade English, wrote all his lesson plans on it before he passed two years ago.”
Roland nods, his throat suddenly dry. He hasn’t had a conversation longer than 10 minutes with anyone who isn’t dropping off or picking up a typewriter in months. “They’re workhorses. Hard to break, even if you drop them down a flight of stairs. I fixed one last month that survived a tornado in Kansas.”
She snorts, a warm, rough sound that makes the corner of his mouth twitch up before he can stop it. She holds out a paper plate with a slice of peach pie on it, still warm, the crust flaking at the edges. When he reaches for it, their fingers brush. His skin buzzes where they touch, like static from an old outlet. He fumbles the plate a little, and she laughs, not mean, just amused. “Relax. I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely. I’m Marnie, by the way. My brother’s the fire chief.”
He eats the pie standing up while he tells her stories about the weirdest typewriters he’s restored: a 1920s Corona that belonged to a silent film screenwriter, a bright pink 1960s Smith-Corona that a drag queen used to write her set lists. He keeps catching her staring at his mouth when he talks, and he keeps catching himself staring at the freckles across her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she’s listening. He hasn’t felt this light in years, and the thought makes his stomach twist. He spent 8 years building this quiet, safe little life, no risk, no heartbreak, and now this stranger with pie flour on her shirt is making him want to blow it all up.
He’s trying to work up the nerve to ask her if she wants to get a beer after the party when the sky opens up. Rain pours down hard, fat cold drops soaking through his Carhartt in 10 seconds flat. Everyone screams, grabbing their stuff and running for cover. Marnie reaches for the stack of pie tins on her table, and a gust of wind blows her braid loose, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. Roland grabs her wrist without thinking, yanking her under the small awning over his shop door, the one he installed last spring to keep the rain off his package deliveries. They’re pressed up against each other, chests almost touching, the rain hammering the awning so loud they can barely hear each other. Her shirt is soaked through, clinging to her shoulders, and he can feel the heat of her body through the fabric.
“I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to knock on your door for three months,” she says, loud enough for him to hear over the rain, her face inches from his. She doesn’t look away. “My husband’s Royal is sitting in my closet, broken. I was scared you’d be the grumpy hermit everyone says you are.”
Roland laughs, a real, loud laugh that he hasn’t let out in years. “I am the grumpy hermit everyone says I am. But I’ll fix your Royal. Free of charge. If you let me make you coffee while we wait out the rain.”
She grins, leaning in a little closer, her shoulder pressing into his. “Deal. But only if you let me help you test the typewriters after. I haven’t typed on one since my husband got sick.”
He unlocks the shop door, holds it open for her, and she steps inside, running her finger along the edge of a 1930s Remington sitting on the front counter. The warm glow of the overhead lamp hits the silver streaks in her hair, and for the first time in 8 years, Roland doesn’t feel the urge to rush someone out of his space. He reaches for the coffee pot on the counter, his hand steady for the first time all afternoon.
