*It’s a common-sense community expectation, Malcolm. Please don’t make this difficult.*
I sent back a polite question: *Is there an adopted rule or a board vote authorizing this fine?*
There was no answer for two days. Then a new letter arrived withdrawing the fine, accompanied by another warning about “uncooperative behavior.”
Marisol happened to be at my house when I opened it. She had come by with shop paperwork on her way to pick up her son from soccer practice.
“Uncooperative,” she read. “Because you asked for the rule?”
“Apparently.”
“Are you going to fight every letter?”
“I’m going to answer every letter.”
She studied me. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
I made a folder on my laptop labeled CEDAR GLEN. Every notice went into it. I preserved the envelopes and the email headers. At the shop, I would have thought that ordinary recordkeeping. At home, I found myself slightly embarrassed by how much time it took to defend my right to open my own garage.
Over the next two weeks I received three more complaints. The pickup parked in my driveway was allegedly commercial equipment because it sometimes carried microfiber towels. A visitor’s tire had touched the edge of my grass. My porch light supposedly shone into Vivienne’s bedroom, though her house was across the street and several doors away.
I asked for evidence and the relevant rules each time. Most notices disappeared. One remained pending after I requested a hearing. That was how I learned the board held informal meetings at Vivienne’s dining table before official meetings in the community clubhouse.
Arthur Finch knew about those gatherings. He had once been on the board.
“People stop showing up after a while,” he told me. “They think the real decisions are already made.”
“Are they?”
“That’s what happens when nobody asks.”
He didn’t sound angry. He sounded tired. The exhaustion unsettled me more than any angry speech could have.
CHAPTER SIX — The Boy’s Audience
Dylan appeared at the shop on a Friday afternoon, though I hadn’t told him where it was. He came with Brooke and another boy in a red baseball cap. They stood near the reception windows, filming the cars inside.
Nia, our youngest apprentice, was speaking with a customer when Dylan interrupted her.
“Which one belongs to Malcolm?” he asked, pointing at a silver Porsche.
“I’m helping someone right now,” Nia said. “Can I assist you in a moment?”
Dylan gave a theatrical sigh. “I just need to know whether he owns any of these cars or only washes them.”
The customer turned toward him. Nia looked uncomfortable but stayed professional.
From my office, I recognized his voice before I saw him. I walked out and asked what he needed.
“Just checking out your business,” Dylan said, lifting his phone. “Didn’t know you had all this.”
“Customers haven’t agreed to be filmed,” I told him. “Put the phone away.”
Brooke turned hers toward Nia, who immediately looked down. Dylan laughed.
“Why? Are you hiding something?”
“I’m protecting my customers’ privacy.”
A long silence followed. Then Dylan aimed his phone at the company sign.
“First Light,” he said in a mocking announcer’s voice. “Where the owner acts like he bought a Lamborghini, but everybody knows—”
“Stop,” I said.
He grinned. “What? Free advertising.”
I pointed toward the door. He took another second to look me over, then left with his friends. As the door swung shut behind them, I heard him say, “You see how serious he gets?”
