"The designation is not a blanket invitation," she said. "You understand that?"
"Completely."
"And if our stormwater people say no, it's no."
"That's why I called before doing anything."
She laughed once. "I wish more people did that. Send me a diagram of where you're thinking and I'll have the field office look at it."
By then, Emily had begun referring to the folder on our dining table as the Barbecue Dossier. Every night it grew by a few pages: municipal parcel records, a copy of the association's notice, the fire department inquiry, and emails from employees who had not yet reached a conclusion. I made sure she saw every message, including the ones that reminded me permission was uncertain. I would not move a grill onto someone else's land and then ask her to defend a surprise.
"Do you realize," she said one evening, turning a page, "that other couples plan a weekend picnic by asking whether they have enough charcoal?"
"We're not using charcoal."
"You are impossible."
"That's also what the equipment inspector said last week. He meant it as a compliment."
"I guarantee he did not."
We laughed, and the laughter mattered. It prevented a petty neighborhood conflict from occupying our entire relationship. Emily reminded me that our wedding was less than a year away, that Odin still needed training, and that no official document would ever be as important as whether we treated each other kindly in our kitchen. I promised not to forget those things, even if the file eventually required colored tabs.
The city answered the first question on Tuesday. Karen Bell sent a memorandum confirming the ownership record, the limited access status of the drainage corridor, and the department's willingness to consider my proposed temporary use. The field inspector had reviewed a photograph and the diagram I provided, but he wanted to visit the site before recommending any authorization. I could almost hear Emily's voice as I read the email: a line on a map was not the same as permission to cook.
On Wednesday morning, a city employee named Marcus Flores met me near the pool entrance. He wore work boots, carried a folding measuring wheel, and knew more about the town's stormwater infrastructure than I knew about my own refrigerator. He pointed out an unobtrusive grated inlet down the block and explained how surface runoff reached it after a heavy summer storm. The corridor needed to remain open for city crews, he said, and nobody was allowed to put down permanent equipment, build a platform, or damage its grade.
"I don't want any of that," I answered. "Just an occasional portable grill with a mat beneath it, provided the fire office agrees."
Marcus stood in the approximate location I had marked on my diagram. He checked the distance to the roadway and the nearest vegetation, looked toward the condominiums, and shook his head as if he were reconsidering his opinion of human leisure. "I've inspected this place for fifteen years," he said. "First time anybody's asked me whether a steak is allowed."