Roland Hargrove, 59, has restored water-damaged 17th century sea charts, smudged gold rush trail maps, and even a tattered set of WWII bomber navigation prints someone pulled from a storage unit dumpster. He’s a stickler for routine, hates small talk, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a town event since his wife’s funeral 12 years prior. The only reason he’s at the annual Rockaway Beach summer street fair in 90-degree heat is to drop off a restored 1927 Oregon coast survey map for the historical society booth, and he’s already mentally mapping his exit route when she walks up.
She’s Marnie Carter, wife of the new county commissioner who just rammed through a budget cut that axed the lighthouse tour program Roland has volunteered at every Saturday for the last 8 years. He’s already got a sour taste in his mouth when she stops in front of the booth, sun glinting off the copper highlights in her auburn hair, cutoff jean shorts showing freckles across her thighs, flip flops kicking up a fine dust of sand and cotton candy sugar. He crosses his arms, leans back against the booth’s wooden frame, makes a point of staring at the fried dough cart across the street instead of at her.
She leans in to squint at the signature on the bottom of the map he just dropped off. “You’re Roland? The map restorer?” Her voice is low, a little rough, like she’s spent the last week yelling at her husband’s campaign staff, and he’s caught off guard when he turns to look at her, catches the scent of coconut sunscreen and jasmine perfume tangled with the salt air coming off the ocean. He nods, doesn’t say anything, still half-ready to tell her off for her husband’s bullshit.
“I had no idea he cut the lighthouse budget,” she says, like she can read his mind. She leans further into the booth, her sun-warmed arm brushing his elbow when she reaches to run a finger along the edge of the 1927 map, and he flinches like he’s been burned. “I’ve been fighting him about it for three days. I grew up going on those tours. My dad used to take me every year for my birthday.”
When they reach the front of the line, they both reach for the same paper napkin to wipe a smudge of blue raspberry sno-cone off the cuff of his work shirt, and their knuckles brush. He freezes, feels heat crawl up his neck, and she doesn’t pull away for a beat longer than she should, her eyes locked on his, before she grabs the napkin, dabs at the stain herself, her fingers brushing his wrist through the thin cotton of his shirt.
The first firework goes off right then, a burst of red that paints the sky over the ocean, and the crowd surges, a group of teens running past to get a better spot. She stumbles, grabs his bicep to steady herself, and ends up pressed against his chest for three full seconds, her heart beating fast against his, her hair brushing his jaw. He can feel the warmth of her through her thin tank top, can smell the lemonade on her breath, and for a second he forgets where he is, forgets she’s married, forgets half the town’s neighbors are standing 10 feet away. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push her away, just holds his breath, his hand hovering an inch above her waist.
“Marnie!” Her husband’s voice booms from across the crowd, sharp, impatient, and she steps back fast, her cheeks flushed pink, the light from the fireworks flickering across her face. She glances over her shoulder to make sure he’s not looking, then slips a folded scrap of purple construction paper into the front pocket of his work jeans, her fingers brushing the skin just above his waistband.
She gives him a small, secret smile, then turns and walks away, weaving through the crowd toward her husband, who’s waving for her to join him for a photo op with the town mayor. Roland stands there for another 10 minutes, watching the fireworks, the scrap of paper burning a hole in his pocket, half convinced he imagined the whole interaction.
When he gets back to his workshop above the old general store an hour later, he locks the door, pulls the scrap of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it. It’s her personal cell number, scrawled in messy black ink, with a note under it: I’ll get the lighthouse budget reversed. Let me buy you a beer when he’s in DC for that conference next Thursday. He leans back against his workbench, the faint smell of old paper and glue surrounding him, grins, and types the number into his phone before he can talk himself out of it.
