Roland Voss is 53, makes his living restoring vintage typewriters out of a cinder block garage behind his cottage in northern Michigan, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a community event since his ex-wife left him for the college kid he’d hired to haul his 1920s Underwood collection across town 12 years prior. His only consistent companion is Mabel, a 9-year-old beagle with a taste for cherry pits and discarded cheese curds, so when his lifelong buddy Mike dragged him to the annual county cherry festival beer tent at 6 p.m. on a sweltering July Thursday, he’d already mapped out his escape route: cut through the craft booths at 7, stop at the cherry stand for a quart of pie cherries, be home in time for the Tigers game and a frozen pizza.
He’s leaning against a splintered cedar post at the far edge of the beer tent, half hidden by a stack of empty kegs, when she steps back to avoid a screaming 7-year-old holding a melting blue raspberry snow cone and slams into his left forearm. The hard seltzer in her hand sloshes over the rim, splattering cold, citrusy liquid on the knee of his worn denim jeans. She yelps, turning to apologize, and he’s first aware of the sun-warmed skin of her bare upper arm where it’s pressed to his, then the faint smell of jasmine and coconut lotion, then the gold flecks in her hazel eyes that catch the string lights strung across the tent.
He knows who she is, everyone in the county does: Clara Hale, 48, married to the new mayor, who’d been caught making out with his 32-year-old chief of staff in the back of his city-issued SUV three weeks prior, the photo splashed across the front page of the local weekly. She’d stood next to him at the press conference, face blank, while he apologized for “a lapse in judgment,” and the entire county had spent the next two weeks debating if she’d leave him or stick it out for the four-year term.
She laughs, dabbing at the wet spot on his jeans with a crumpled napkin from her pocket, and her knuckles brush his thigh through the fabric. “Sorry about that. Those kids are feral tonight, and the PTA horde I’ve been hiding from for an hour is right over there, so I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She nods toward a group of women in matching cherry festival t-shirts, craning their necks like they’re looking for someone.
Roland tenses up first. He doesn’t do drama, doesn’t do small talk with people who exist in the town’s gossip orbit, knows if anyone sees them chatting for more than 10 seconds there’ll be a new rumor floating around the diner by Monday morning. He starts to mumble that it’s fine, he was just leaving, when she leans against the cedar post next to him, close enough that their shoulders are four inches apart, and nods at the tiny flathead screwdriver peeking out of the breast pocket of his work shirt. “What’s that for? You fix watches or something?”
He pauses. No one asks him about his work unless they’re dropping off a typewriter. He pulls the screwdriver out, holds it out to her, the worn plastic handle smooth from 20 years of use. “Typewriters. I restore them. This is for adjusting the ribbon spools on mid-century Royals.” She takes it from him, her fingers wrapping around his for half a second longer than necessary, and turns the screwdriver over in her palm. “My mom had a Royal Quiet De Luxe when I was a kid. I used to type terrible love poetry on it in her basement when I was 16. Haven’t touched one in 30 years.”
They talk for 22 minutes, he counts, alternating between teasing each other about the terrible band, the overpriced beer, the mayor’s terrible spray tan, and swapping stories about old typewriters, the time he dropped a 1930s Remington on his foot, the time she wrote a poem about her high school boyfriend that got published in the school literary magazine. He forgets about the Tigers game, forgets about his escape route, forgets that he’s supposed to hate large crowds and small talk.
When one of the PTA women calls her name, she startles, then reaches into her pocket, pulls out a napkin, scribbles her cell number on it with a purple gel pen, and presses it into his palm. Her thumb brushes the knuckle of his index finger as she does it, and she holds eye contact for three full seconds, no smile, no hesitation. “Don’t overthink it. I don’t.” Then she turns and walks away, her linen dress swishing around her calves, the faint jasmine scent lingering in the space she was just standing.
Roland stands there for 10 more minutes, sipping his warm beer, Mabel curled at his feet waiting for the cherry pit he’s been twisting between his fingers. He pulls out his beat-up iPhone, types the number into his contacts, names it “Clara Royal” so he doesn’t forget, and sends a text before he can talk himself out of it: Shop’s open tomorrow at 10. Lemonade’s cold, Mabel doesn’t bite, and the Royal’s been waiting for someone who’ll actually use it. His phone buzzes 10 seconds later, a text back: I’ll be there. Don’t drink all the lemonade. He tucks his phone back in his pocket, tosses the cherry pit across the grass, and watches Mabel bolt after it, tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggles.
