He reviewed the deeds.
“You’re fine.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“They have absolutely no authority over your bridge.”
“So I ignore them?”
“I would.”
I did.
Richard did not.
One warm afternoon in late May, I was drinking coffee on the back porch when I heard an engine approaching too quickly.
A sleek silver speedboat entered the cove.
Richard stood at the controls.
He brought the boat alongside my dock without tying it.
“Hastings!”
I stayed seated.
“Richard.”
“I’m trying to be reasonable.”
“You should keep practicing.”
His jaw tightened.
“We’re trying to establish a standard at the Reserve.”
“I know.”
“Your bridge is interfering with navigation.”
“Your boats are too large for the channel.”
“That lake belongs to everyone.”
“Some of it.”
He removed his sunglasses.
Apparently he wanted me to see the seriousness in his eyes.
“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to remove it.”
I almost spilled my coffee.
“Ten thousand?”
“Cash equivalent. Transfer today.”
“The bridge stays.”
“You haven’t even thought about it.”
“I thought about it before you finished asking.”
Richard pointed toward the bridge.
“That thing ruins the entire cove.”
“To you.”
“It restricts navigation.”
“To boats that should not be in this channel.”
“You don’t control the lake.”
“No.”
I looked toward the southern end.
“But you might want to read the property records before you start explaining to me who controls what.”
His face changed slightly.
He did not like implications he could not immediately categorize.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
I took another sip.
“That was advice.”
He put his sunglasses back on.
“We’ll see how long the bridge stays.”
“Richard.”
He turned toward me.
“You’re trespassing.”
He laughed.
Then slammed the throttle forward.
The speedboat tore away from my dock, sending a large wake back toward shore.
My dock rose violently.
One chair tipped over.
Coffee sloshed over my hand.
Richard looked back once.
He was smiling.
That was when the conflict stopped being ridiculous.
Over the next month, drones appeared above my property.
At first I assumed they belonged to residents filming the lake.
Then one hovered above the bridge for nearly fifteen minutes.
Another circled my house.
A week later, the HOA submitted a complaint to the county claiming my bridge might lack appropriate permits.
I produced the historical approvals and reconstruction records.
The complaint disappeared.
Then came noise complaints.
That would have been funny if it had not been so irritating.
I lived alone.
My closest neighbor was far enough away that I could barely see their lights through the trees.
One complaint alleged “repeated late-night outdoor gatherings.”
The night cited in the complaint, I had been asleep by ten.
Another claimed machinery noise before dawn.
I eventually realized they were documenting grievances.
Creating a file.
The next letter came from Mitchell Gallagher.
I knew the name.
Most people in the region did.
Gallagher worked for a large law firm whose website contained photographs of attorneys looking stern against dark gray backgrounds.