Ronan O’Malley, 54, made his living restoring antique maps for private collectors and small historical societies, a trade he’d picked up after leaving the Army Corps of Engineers 25 years prior. His biggest flaw, one his granddaughter ribbed him for weekly, was that he’d turned into a full-time hermit in the eight years since his wife passed from breast cancer. He’d skipped every neighborhood block party, every holiday potluck, every impromptu backyard cookout invite, convinced small talk and performative friendliness were a waste of the limited time he had left to spend hunched over his workbench, patching tears in 18th century trade route charts with rice paper and wheat paste. He only showed up to this July party because his granddaughter, home from college for the summer, had baked a pan of his favorite lemon bars, threatened to leave them on the porch of the overbearing HOA president he despised if he didn’t bring them to share.
He’d planted himself by the rickety tiki bar set up at the end of the cul-de-sac, nursing a lukewarm can of Pabst, ignoring the neighbors who waved him over to their lawn chairs. The air smelled like grilled bratwurst, cut grass, and the cheap cherry Kool-Aid the neighborhood kids were dumping into dented plastic cups. He checked his watch for the seventh time in ten minutes, already mentally mapping the route back to his air conditioned workshop, when a shadow fell over his scuffed work boots.
It was Clara, the woman who’d moved into the blue ranch three houses down three months prior. He’d only waved at her twice, once when she was hauling a stack of heavy book binding presses into her garage, once when her golden retriever had escaped and run into his backyard to dig up his tomato plants. She was holding a sweating glass of iced peach sangria, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of cobalt blue ink stark against the pale skin of her left wrist. Her cutoff jeans were frayed at the hems, her linen button down unbuttoned at the collar, a tiny silver compass pendant glinting at the base of her throat. She said she’d seen his workshop light on at 2 a.m. the week before, had a 16th century portolan chart she’d picked up at a flea market in Marseille that needed restoration, had been too nervous to knock on his door.
He blinked, surprised. No one paid attention to his workshop hours, not even his own kids when they came to visit. He found himself leaning in when she pulled up a blurry photo of the chart on her phone, explaining the process of fixing foxing and mildew damage without charging her his usual premium rate, his voice quieter than he intended. She stepped closer to get a better look at the screen he was holding, her elbow brushing his bicep when she pointed to a frayed edge of the map in the photo. He caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and the sweet, boozy tang of sangria on her breath, the sound of her laugh cutting through the noise of kids screaming and a lawnmower running two streets over.
He tensed up immediately, half wanting to step back, half wanting to lean in further. Guilt coiled tight in his chest, sharp and familiar. He’d spent eight years telling himself he didn’t deserve to enjoy anyone’s company other than his own, that dating or even flirting would be a betrayal of his wife’s memory. He didn’t do casual, didn’t do small talk, didn’t do the messy work of getting to know someone new. But when she smiled at him, crinkles at the corners of her hazel eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to make an excuse and leave.
A siren blared at the end of the street, and the neighborhood kids yelled in unison. The local fire department was doing their annual summer drive-by, spraying a fine mist of cold water over the street to cool everyone down. People scattered, laughing, and Clara stumbled sideways when a kid on a scooter cut in front of her, grabbing his forearm hard to steady herself. For three full seconds, she was pressed flush against his chest, her warm hand wrapped around his forearm, her cheek almost brushing his collarbone. He could feel the heat of her body through her thin shirt, the cold condensation from her sangria glass dripping onto his wrist. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and didn’t step back immediately.
She said she’d been wanting to ask him out for iced coffee for weeks, had thought he hated all his neighbors. He huffed a laugh, admitted he’d been avoiding her specifically because he’d liked the way she looked the first time he saw her, had been scared of what that meant.
They left the block party ten minutes later, leaving the pan of lemon bars on the tiki bar with a handwritten note scrawled on a napkin. They walked slowly down the street to his house, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the cold mist from the fire truck still hanging in the warm summer air. He unlocked his front door, held it open for her, and flipped on the light to his workshop so he could show her the hand-cut Korean rice paper he used for the most delicate map repairs.
