His letter was twelve pages long.
It cited navigation doctrines, shoreline access principles, nuisance law, environmental regulations, and language suggesting my bridge interfered with public use.
One section implied federal maritime jurisdiction.
I read that part twice.
Then called my lawyer.
“Did Oak Haven secretly connect to the Atlantic Ocean?”
He laughed.
“I wondered if you’d notice that.”
“It’s landlocked.”
“Yes.”
“There is no commercial navigation.”
“Yes.”
“No interstate route.”
“Yes.”
“So why are they citing maritime commerce?”
“To frighten you.”
“It’s not working.”
“It probably works on most people.”
The letters continued.
My lawyer answered them.
Richard escalated.
At a June HOA event, he reportedly told residents my bridge would be gone before Labor Day.
One of the nicer Reserve homeowners called me privately.
“You should know he’s making this personal.”
“I noticed.”
“He says you’re refusing to cooperate because you resent the development.”
“I resent bad manners.”
“I believe that.”
“Did he say anything else?”
The man hesitated.
“He said old property owners eventually learn what their land is worth.”
I understood.
They wanted my peninsula.
Not immediately, perhaps.
But the Reserve bordered most of the remaining developable shoreline.
My forty acres sat where any developer would dream of building another cluster of lakefront estates.
A troublesome old man with a bridge was inconvenient.
An elderly owner exhausted by litigation might eventually sell.
I called my lawyer again.
“You think they want the land?”
“I’ve suspected it.”
“Can they force anything?”
“Not with what I’ve seen.”
“Good.”
“Arthur.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t provoke him.”
I looked across the lake toward Richard’s house.
“I’m not the one sending drones.”
The Fourth of July weekend arrived hot and clear.
The Reserve had planned an enormous celebration.
Temporary stages.
Outdoor catering.
Live music.
Fireworks scheduled over the northern end of the lake.
By early afternoon, the water looked like an aquatic parking lot.
Jet skis.
Wake boats.
Pontoons.
Speedboats.
Music carried across the lake in waves.
I stayed home.
My wife had loved the Fourth.
After she died, the holiday never felt the same.
I planned to grill a steak, read, and watch the fireworks from the porch if I stayed awake long enough.
Around four in the afternoon, I was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes when I heard an engine unlike anything normally used on Oak Haven.
Deep.
Heavy.
Too much power for the confined water.
I set down the knife.
Walked outside.
Then saw Richard Covington’s new yacht.
Calling it a yacht seemed ridiculous only until you saw it.
Forty-two feet.
White fiberglass.
Multiple decks.
Chrome rails.
Cabin.
Large engines.
It looked as though someone had removed a coastal cruiser from Long Island Sound and dropped it into a recreational reservoir.
Music blasted from onboard speakers.
People crowded the decks holding drinks.