Nia was shaking. Not much, but enough that Marisol noticed from across the reception area.
“I didn’t know what I was allowed to say,” Nia admitted.
“You told him to wait,” I said. “That was fine. Next time, call me or Marisol. You don’t owe anyone an audience.”
The Porsche owner, an older woman named Mrs. Keene, had watched the whole thing. She asked whether Dylan was related to me.
“No,” I said. “He’s a neighbor.”
“Then he’s a terrible advertisement for that neighborhood.”
She insisted on leaving her vehicle with us despite his comments. Yet I could see how another customer might react differently. This business survived on trust, and some people were prepared to question that trust the moment a confident young man suggested I didn’t belong among expensive machines.
That evening I added the shop incident to my folder and told the staff we would review our visitor and filming policies. Marisol suggested we contact a lawyer before the situation became more personal.
“I already have one,” I said.
“Good. Because he’s learning that he can walk into your work just to make you uncomfortable.”
When I returned home, there was a video on Dylan’s social media account. It showed me asking him to leave, but not what happened before. The caption read: *Luxury car guy can’t take a joke.*
I saved it. Then I turned the phone off and sat on the porch until the sun went down.
CHAPTER SEVEN — The Meeting Nobody Wanted
The monthly HOA meeting took place on a Wednesday in a room that smelled of stale coffee and furniture polish. Thirty folding chairs faced a table where Vivienne sat beneath a framed photograph of Cedar Glen’s landscaped entrance.
I arrived with copies of the notices and the actual bylaws. Vivienne glanced at the papers, then looked past me toward the doorway as if expecting someone more important.
“Is there a problem, Malcolm?” she asked into the microphone.
“I asked for a hearing about the garage notice.”
“We’ve already withdrawn that.”
“I’m glad. I’d also like to understand how fines are being authorized so this doesn’t keep happening.”
She smiled without moving the rest of her face. “Our volunteers devote considerable time to protecting this community. We don’t appreciate accusations.”
“I haven’t accused anybody of anything.”
A few people shifted in their chairs. I noticed Arthur near the back, hands folded over his cane. Across the aisle sat Priya Shah, still wearing hospital scrubs from her shift. She gave me a small encouraging nod.
Vivienne continued, “Some residents believe every rule is a personal attack. The rest of us simply want a beautiful neighborhood.”
“Then the rules should be easy to find,” I answered.
Someone coughed. Another neighbor looked down at her shoes.
I asked whether the board could provide the written procedure for adopting new restrictions. The secretary, a quiet man named Daniel Wexler, started turning pages. Vivienne interrupted him and announced that the matter had been resolved. Then she moved to the next item.
During open comments, Arthur stood slowly.
“Since we’re discussing rules,” he said, “I’d like to ask why I was fined for my garbage bins being in the street when somebody else moved them there.”
Vivienne sighed. “Arthur, we’ve discussed this repeatedly.”
“I know. That’s why I’d like an answer.”
A woman near the window raised her hand. She’d received a citation for a porch swing installed before the board even adopted its current guidelines. A couple asked why their fence application had disappeared. Someone asked where the money from a community beautification fund had gone.
