"You should preserve the envelope and the message headers. Don't post anybody's private addresses online. And don't confront Victoria alone."
"You sound like you're preparing me to testify."
Maria looked up. For the first time since I met her, the quick answer didn't come. "I'm preparing you to be taken seriously if this becomes something more than an HOA dispute."
"You keep saying things like that. What exactly do you do for the county?"
She hesitated. "More complicated legal work than I make it sound."
I could see she didn't want to explain further. I was bothered by that, but I was also beginning to care enough about her to understand that some people needed room before they told you every detail of their lives. We went for a walk after dinner. For one hour we talked about everything except Victoria.
It was the last ordinary hour I had for a while.
The following Monday, the association delivered a new policy: mandatory professional landscape maintenance. Residents were to use approved contractors for a broad list of work, including significant planting changes, visible weed removal, and irrigation adjustments. The fines started at two hundred dollars per infraction.
There was only one name on the approved vendor list. Peton Premium Landscaping.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said to nobody.
Randy Peton, Victoria's brother-in-law, had been operating the landscaping business for years. I knew him as the man who drove a white pickup with an enormous company logo across the doors and a ladder rack that rattled over every speed bump. He had two employees, a leaf blower, and a habit of leaving grass clippings in the street.
The official notice described his company as a "premier horticultural services partner." Its prices were higher than anything I had paid for yard work before, and several neighbors said Randy was slow to arrive when called. He was, however, impressively fast when the association wanted photographs of weeds.
My notice identified three dandelions near the front walkway as an aesthetic hazard. The pictures were so closely cropped that they could have been taken in any yard. I went outside, counted the plants, and had to laugh. There were exactly three.
I had heard about California's protections for water-conserving landscaping during a training session at work. Our hospitals spent considerable money finding ways to reduce water consumption, especially in the hotter parts of Riverside County. I started reading state law and the association documents. Some restrictions were permitted, and every property had its own drainage and fire-safety considerations, but Victoria's blanket insistence on water-hungry turf looked much harder to defend than she assumed.
To make sure, I went to the county extension office and spoke with a horticulture specialist named Dave. He wore a sun-faded hat, had dirt on the knees of his trousers, and treated the subject of water-wise gardens with the enthusiasm other men reserved for championship football.
"Nobody should tell you that a carefully maintained drought-tolerant landscape is automatically a violation," he said, tracing a line across my property sketch. "But don't just replace the lawn overnight. Check the soil, the drainage, and the fire-clearance guidance. Keep a plan."