There were also uncomfortable conversations about Richard's role. Some residents wanted him blamed for every complaint because he'd been president while Linda was enforcing rules aggressively. Others insisted he had been doing his best with volunteers and a busy management company. The record showed that he had trusted Linda's version of several incidents without verifying enough facts. Whether that was fear of confrontation, excessive loyalty, or simple complacency was something only he could answer. In the end, his resignation gave the association room to move forward without turning its future into a perpetual referendum on his intentions.
As for me, I gradually returned to being the man who wanted a quiet weekend. I kept working, helping Odin practice around distractions, spending evenings with Emily, and discussing wedding plans that seemed much more important than a fight about outdoor cooking. The grill didn't become a shrine to the property line. I used it when the location and conditions permitted, cleaned it after every meal, and put it away when we were done. I didn't leave the temporary markers installed or turn the municipal strip into a private extension of our condo.
Linda continued living in the complex. I passed her occasionally by the mailboxes, on the sidewalk, or near the parking lot. She didn't greet me warmly, and I didn't expect her to. She also never yelled at me again.
We had the ordinary distant relationship of neighbors who preferred not to interact, which was perfectly acceptable to me. I had never needed her friendship. I only needed her to stop treating disagreement as grounds for special enforcement attention.
My Sundays had begun feeling normal again well before Richard eventually resigned. About a month after the recall, we had one of those clear Sunday mornings that make a person glad to be home. The air was cool when I walked Odin, but the sun was warming the grass by the time I brought out the grill. Emily had marinated chicken the night before and was carrying a tray toward the table. Odin, older and more disciplined now, lay quietly on his mat with an eye on the food but no serious intention of abandoning his training.
I checked the recorded boundary reference one more time, along with the current municipal and fire restrictions, and positioned the grill as I had before. Three feet and eight inches onto the city side, clear of the drainage feature, away from the building, with no walkway obstructed. The same location that had once required a blue binder and two patrol cars now looked exactly like what it was: a small place to cook lunch.
I had just set the chicken on the grill when a patrol car slowed near the entrance. The driver lowered his window. I recognized the officer who had examined the property documents during the original complaint.
He looked at me, then at the grill, then at the temporary boundary reference. A smile spread across his face.
"Still city property?" he called.
"Still city property."
"How much room to spare?"
"Three feet and eight inches."
He laughed. "Carry on."
"Have a good shift, Officer."
He raised a hand and drove away. No lights. No report. No controversy. Just an officer recognizing a resident he'd met during one unusually well-documented neighborhood dispute.
Then Linda came around the corner.