"We ask that residents complete their move-in within seven days. We don't want the neighborhood looking temporary."
"I'm nearly done," I told her.
She marked something on her clipboard. "The rules are what make this a desirable place to live. I hope you'll appreciate that."
I smiled because I was new, tired, and determined not to make enemies over something as small as a bicycle.
Eleven days later, I discovered that enemies did not always wait for you to make them.
I came home from a twelve-hour emergency repair at a medical center in Palm Desert and found a bright yellow notice taped to my front door. It was still warm from the afternoon sun. Across the top, in heavy letters, were the words ARCHITECTURAL COMPLIANCE VIOLATION.
The offense was my mailbox.
Apparently its faded navy paint constituted an unauthorized color deviation from the association's approved palette. The fine was $150, payable within fifteen days. When I read the exact provision cited on the notice, it sounded like something designed to settle a disagreement between interior decorators rather than homeowners.
I walked to the end of my driveway and looked both ways. Every mailbox I could see was some version of the same fading blue. One had a crooked post. Another had rust around the hinge. I counted thirty on my street, including my own, and took photographs of all of them.
Then I called Victoria.
"My mailbox is the same color as everybody else's," I said when she answered.
"Your mailbox appears black under certain lighting conditions, Mr. Castellanos. Section 4.2.7 is quite clear."
"Does it tell you which lighting conditions you're allowed to use?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm asking whether the rule says anything about the afternoon sun. The mailbox looked navy when I bought the house. It looks navy at noon. It looks navy when I shine a flashlight on it."
There was a long pause. "I won't debate colors with you. Residents who cooperate usually have no problems here."
I paid the fine. I told myself that I was buying peace for $150, and for a while, that was easier to believe than admitting I had just shown her how cheaply peace could be purchased.
Over the next few months, I began noticing that Willowbrook was not as quiet as it looked. Mrs. Mei Chen, who lived two doors down, grew vegetables in neat raised beds beside her garage. Her tomatoes were larger than any I had ever managed to grow. She gave them to neighbors in brown paper bags with handwritten notes explaining which ones were best for sauce.
One afternoon I found her sitting on a stool in the shade, studying a violation notice. Her garden had been described as visually inconsistent with the development's character. The fine was $200. When she appealed, Victoria had told her that vegetable gardens gave an upscale neighborhood a "crowded, improvised appearance."
"They are tomatoes," Mrs. Chen said, holding one up for me to examine. "Not a motorcycle engine."