Manny Ruiz, 52, has made a quiet living restoring antique typewriters for the last 16 years, ever since he quit his job as a high school shop teacher after his wife left him for a commercial real estate broker in Bend. His biggest flaw is that he’s spent the better part of a decade shutting out any connection that isn’t with his sister or the half-feral tabby that hangs around his backyard workshop, convinced small town gossip is more trouble than any temporary thrill could be worth. He only agreed to man the historical society’s booth at the annual Maplewood Street Fair because his sister threatened to cut off his weekly supply of her peach crumb pie, the only thing he looks forward to most Sundays.
The August air hangs thick and sticky, 87 degrees with no breeze, and Manny’s linen work shirt is already dark with sweat under the arms. He leans against the rough pine booth counter, picking at a splinter while the cotton candy machine 20 feet away hums so loud he can feel it in his molars. The air smells like burnt bratwurst and spun sugar, and every three minutes a kid runs past screaming with a face covered in neon pink stickiness. He’d rather be at home sanding rust off a 1940s Underwood than making small talk with retirees who ask if he can “fix their grandkid’s laptop” too.
He’s halfway through considering lying about a sudden stomach bug to dip out early when she walks up. He recognizes her immediately: Lena Hale, 36, the new pastor’s wife, moved to town three weeks prior with her husband who’d taken over the Presbyterian church on Main Street. He’d seen her at the grocery store last week, loading up on white wine and frozen pizza while a group of church ladies stared daggers at her tiny silver nose ring, the stud glinting against her sun-kissed skin. She’s wearing a yellow sundress that hits mid-thigh, the straps slipping down her shoulders, and she’s barefoot, her toenails painted a bright cherry red.
She leans across the counter, and Manny catches a whiff of coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum, sweet and sharp enough to cut through the fair’s greasy haze. Her elbow brushes his when she taps the glass cover of the 1956 Royal Quiet De Luxe he’d spent three months restoring, the metal polished so bright it catches the sun. “My grandma had one exactly like that,” she says, holding eye contact longer than most people do, no polite look away after two seconds. “I used to write terrible angsty poetry on it when I was 14. She threw it out when I left for college.”
Manny snorts, a sound he rarely makes around people he doesn’t know. “Terrible angsty poetry is exactly what these things were made for. Wi-Fi never cuts out mid-stanza, no spell check to tell you you misspelled ‘misery’.” She laughs, loud and unapologetic, not the quiet, demure little chuckle he’s seen her use when talking to the church deacons at the diner. Her forearm presses against his as she leans in further to run a finger along the typewriter’s keys, her skin warm and sun-soft against his.
He’s immediately hit with two conflicting thoughts: one, that she’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to this town in years, and two, that if anyone sees them talking this close, the gossip mill will be churning so fast it’ll catch fire by sundown. He’s spent years avoiding that kind of attention, hasn’t so much as bought a woman a drink since his divorce, but he can’t make himself step back. He notices the tiny freckles across her nose, the way her bottom lip is slightly chapped, that she’s wearing three thin silver bangles on her left wrist that jingle when she moves.
“You give lessons?” she asks, tilting her head, and Manny’s throat goes dry. He knows what that question could mean, what people would assume if the pastor’s wife shows up to his workshop alone. He hesitates, half ready to lie and say he doesn’t, that he’s too busy, that it’s not worth the trouble. “My husband spends 12 hours a day at the church,” she says, like she can read his mind, her voice dropping so only he can hear it. “He hasn’t asked me how my day was since we moved here. I’m so tired of talking about potlucks and vacation Bible school I could scream.”
The conflict in his chest unwinds a little. He’s been that tired, that starved for a conversation that doesn’t revolve around someone else’s expectations, for years. He picks up a slip of receipt paper from the counter, scribbles his address on it, the numbers messy because his hand is a little unsteady. He tucks it into the palm of her hand, his fingers brushing hers for a beat longer than necessary, and she curls her fingers around the paper like she’s hiding a secret.
“Wednesday at 7,” he says. “Most everyone’s at the midweek church service then. No one will see you pull up to the workshop out back.”
She tucks the slip of paper into the cup of her bra, grinning, and Manny’s face heats up. She doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks away, her sundress swishing around her thighs. Halfway down the block, she turns around, catches his eye, and winks.
Manny runs a hand over the cool, polished metal of the Royal typewriter, a small, unfamiliar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reaches under the counter, grabs the half-warm bottle of beer he’d stashed there earlier, twists the cap off, and takes a long sip.
