Roy Pacheco, 62, spent 34 years restoring antique typewriters in a cramped Portland shop before retiring to a 3-acre parcel outside Baker City three years prior. His biggest flaw, as his only local neighbor liked to tease, was that he’d rather spend three hours adjusting a 1947 Underwood’s carriage than make small talk with anyone at the town’s endless string of community events. He’d skipped the annual summer block party every year since he moved, still raw from losing his wife to breast cancer eight years prior, convinced the whole thing was just an excuse for bored retirees to swap gossip and lumpy, over-mayoed potato salad. He only showed up this year because his neighbor’s 10-year-old daughter had begged him to bring his fully restored 1952 Royal KMM for the kids’ craft table, and he could never say no to that kid.
The air hung thick with charcoal smoke and the sweet tang of cherry Kool-Aid, the asphalt under his scuffed work boots soft enough in the 92-degree heat to stick a little when he shifted his weight. He was leaning against the rickety folding craft table, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of a calloused hand, when her shoulder brushed his first. She was 58, he’d later learn, new county librarian Elara Voss, ex-wife of the town’s newly elected mayor, the same guy who’d tried to push through a 20% property tax hike for rural parcels six months prior that Roy had spent three weekends protesting at city hall. Everyone in town kissed the mayor’s boots, so even looking at his ex felt like a petty, thrilling act of rebellion before he even said a word.
She smelled like lemon Pledge and dried lavender, her auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a tiny tattoo of a typewriter peeking out from under the rolled-up cuff of her faded navy flannel shirt. She reached past him for a sheet of neon pink copy paper stacked next to the Royal, her forearm brushing the fine hair on his, and he caught the faint edge of jasmine perfume under the cleaning product scent. “I haven’t touched one of these since I was 16,” she said, nodding at the typewriter, holding his gaze for two full beats longer than casual politeness dictated, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth like she knew exactly who he was, exactly what he thought of her ex-husband.
His first instinct was to step back, mumble a polite reply, and leave before anyone started gossiping. He hated drama, hated the way this town talked about anyone who stepped even a little outside the unspoken rules. But when she sat down on the folding chair next to the typewriter and tapped the space bar, the sharp, satisfying clack of the metal bar hitting the rubber platen made him grin before he could stop himself. The cool metal of the Royal’s frame bit into his palm when he leaned in, pointing at the tiny lever on the left side of the carriage, and when she reached up to adjust it their hands brushed, a faint static shock making both of them huff a quiet laugh. He told her about the time a customer brought in a Royal just like this one that had been used to write a bestselling 1970s western novel, she told him she’d left the mayor six months prior because he’d rather spend three hours schmoozing with donors than listen to her talk about expanding the library’s after-school program for low-income kids.
They talked for 47 minutes, he counted, not that he was keeping track. Half the block had glanced their way by the time the mayor wandered over, crisp button-down shirt spotless, holding a plate of hamburgers stacked high with pickles. He greeted Elara with a tight smile, gave Roy a cold, assessing look, and Roy tensed up, fully expecting her to step away, pretend they were just casual acquaintances. Instead, she leaned a half inch closer to Roy, her shoulder pressing lightly against his bicep, and introduced him as the typewriter restorer who’d offered to take a look at the beat-up 1938 Remington she’d inherited from her grandma. The mayor’s jaw tightened, he mumbled a polite reply, and walked away without another word.
Roy’s heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his ears, equal parts disgust at the mayor’s smug attitude and sharp, warm desire he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. He’d spent so long closing himself off to anything that didn’t involve typewriters or his small garden of heirloom tomatoes that he’d forgotten what it felt like to talk to someone who got the quiet joy of fixing old, forgotten things. She asked him if he wanted to follow her back to her rental house after the party to look at the Remington, her voice low enough that no one standing three feet away could hear, and she brushed a strand of wind-tousled hair off her face, her fingers brushing his wrist for half a second when she did.
He hesitated for all of two seconds, thinking about the gossip, about the mayor, about all the reasons this was a terrible idea. Then he nodded. They stopped by the craft table to grab the sheet of neon pink paper she’d typed on while they talked, her phone number scrawled in messy cursive under a line of Mary Oliver poetry she’d pecked out, and walked to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 parked at the end of the block. She opened the passenger door, pausing for a second to tuck the pink paper into the breast pocket of his worn work shirt, her fingers lingering on the thick cotton fabric for a beat. He climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and the sound of the block party’s loudspeaker faded into the background as he pulled onto the dirt road leading out of town.
