The first time Vanessa arrived during construction, she did not walk.
She came down the roadside so quickly it was almost a run.
Red blazer.
Phone in one hand.
Papers in the other.
“You can’t put that there!”
My contractor looked at me.
I climbed down from the forklift.
“Morning, Vanessa.”
“This violates Silver Ridge architectural standards.”
“I’m not in Silver Ridge.”
“It blocks a protected lake view.”
“You have no recorded view easement.”
“You cannot build a twenty-foot barrier just to punish residents.”
“It isn’t a barrier.”
She pointed at the panels.
“That is a wall.”
“Yes.”
I nodded toward the steel frame.
“The western exterior wall of a permitted fabrication building.”
“You’re playing games.”
I walked to my truck.
Pulled the permit set from a weatherproof folder.
Returned.
“What is that?”
“Building permit.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
I handed her the first page.
She looked at the county stamp.
Then the date.
Her eyes stopped.
She read it again.
Six months earlier.
Before the tree removal.
Before the HOA’s twelve-thousand-dollar vote.
Before her first request that I top a single pine.
Her voice changed.