Elroy Voss, 54, made his living restoring antique typewriters for collectors across the country, his workshop behind his rural Vermont cottage perpetually dusted with metal shavings and faded ribbon ink. He’d avoided local community events for nearly eight years, ever since his wife Ellen died of breast cancer, convinced any sign of him moving on would spark the kind of small-town gossip he’d spent his whole life avoiding. His biggest flaw, the one his older brother teased him about every Christmas, was that he cared far too much what strangers thought, even the ones who bought his pickles at the farmers market and never asked how he was doing. He only showed up to the fire department’s annual summer cookout because his next-door neighbor had threatened to leave a bag of rotting zucchini on his porch if he bailed again.
He stood by the beer cooler holding a paper plate stacked high with smoked brisket and pickled okra, nodding half-heartedly at the guys from the feed store who waved him over, when he turned too fast to avoid a kid darting past with a popsicle. The cold glass of sweet tea in the woman’s hand sloshed over the edge, dribbling down his wrist and soaking the cuff of his grease-stained Carhartt shirt. She yelped a quiet apology, grabbing his wrist before he could reach for a napkin, dabbing at the damp fabric with the crumpled paper towel she had tucked in her back pocket. He froze first, unused to anyone touching him outside of a handshake at the post office, then caught the scent of her: lavender hand lotion mixed with the dull, sweet smell of old paper, the same scent that clung to the first editions he sometimes picked up at estate sales.
She was Mara, the new town librarian who’d moved in three months prior, he realized, watching the sun catch the thick silver streak that ran through her dark, shoulder-length hair. She was a little shorter than him, her jeans cuffed at the ankle, scuffed white sneakers dotted with grass stains, a gold library card pin stuck to the front of her flannel shirt. She didn’t let go of his wrist right away, her calloused index finger (the kind you get from turning thousands of book pages, he noted) brushing the ink stain permanently embedded under the skin of his knuckle. “You’re the typewriter guy, right?” she said, holding eye contact longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tipping up in a half-smile that made his neck feel hot. “I’ve got a 1932 Underwood in my attic that’s been jammed since the 90s. I’ve been too nervous to stop by your shop, everyone says you don’t like visitors.”
Elroy’s first instinct was to make an excuse, to say he was booked solid for the next three months, to go back to his workshop where no one bothered him and the only noise was the clack of keys and the radio playing old jazz. But he looked down at her hand still wrapped around his wrist, at the faint smudge of ink that had rubbed off his skin onto hers, and the words died in his throat. He’d spent eight years telling himself he was happy alone, that he didn’t need anyone to fill the quiet, but for the first time since Ellen died, the quiet felt like a weight instead of a comfort. The conflict twisted in his chest, half shame at himself for even considering flirting with someone, half sharp, unexpected desire that made his hands shake a little when he took the napkin from her to wipe the last of the tea off his arm.
She sat down next to him on the splintered picnic bench, her shoulder brushing his every time she reached for a chip from the bowl between them, leaning in close when she talked so he could hear her over the noise of the kids screaming on the bounce house and the firefighters yelling about their cornhole game. She told him she’d moved from Boston after her divorce, that she’d taken the librarian job because she was sick of the noise and the traffic, that she’d already read every mystery novel in the town’s collection twice. She teased him about the rumor going around the library that he could fix any typewriter ever made, that little kids left drawings of him at the front desk because they thought he was a wizard who fixed magic machines. He found himself laughing, something he rarely did outside of his workshop, not even when his brother visited and told terrible dad jokes.
When the sun started to dip below the tree line, painting the sky pink and orange, she leaned in so close her breath brushed the edge of his ear, no one around them close enough to hear. “What if I bring that Underwood by your place Saturday?” she said, her voice low, warm, teasing. “I’ll bake my grandma’s peach crumb pie too. The kind with extra cinnamon. No pressure if you’re busy, obviously.”
Elroy nodded before he could overthink it, his throat too tight to speak for a second. She held out her phone to him, the lock screen a photo of her golden retriever wearing a raincoat, and he typed his number in, his ink-stained fingers leaving a faint smudge on the corner of the screen. She laughed when she took it back, running her thumb over the smudge instead of wiping it off. “I’m not gonna delete that,” she said, grinning, before she stood up to go help the firefighters pack up the leftover buns.
He watched her walk across the grass, her hips swaying a little when she noticed he was looking, glancing over her shoulder to wink at him before she disappeared around the side of the fire station. He looked down at his wrist, still faintly damp from the tea, the lavender scent still clinging to the cuff of his shirt. He took a bite of the brisket he’d forgotten was on his plate, still warm, the smoke and salt bursting on his tongue. He pulled his own phone out of his pocket, double checking that her text with her name and a pie emoji had come through, a small, stupid smile tugging at the corner of his mouth he couldn’t wipe off even if he tried.
