I parked on the public street and watched for several moments before approaching the edge of the driveway. Nothing about the scene resembled an ordinary move. The workers looked confused about what to load first, and boxes marked IMPORTANT RECORDS had been stacked beneath framed paintings and lamps. A man carrying a large wooden crate paused to ask Vivian for a destination address. She snapped that he would receive the details after the shipment cleared the local warehouse.
"Going somewhere?" I asked.
She spun around as if I had struck her. Her expression passed through surprise, anger, and something very close to fear before settling on contempt. "What are you doing here, Ezra? You don't have permission to be on my property."
"I'm on the public sidewalk. I wanted to make sure you were all right after the meeting."
"Don't patronize me. You and your little collection of complainers have no idea what you've done. I built this community, and you're encouraging ignorant people to tear it down because they don't appreciate excellence."
The movers pretended not to listen. One of them kept his eyes on a stack of boxes while Vivian advanced several steps toward me. Even now she carried herself as though the sidewalk, streetlights, and evening air were assets that belonged to her. She asked whether I thought embarrassing her in public would make my farm safe. I told her my property had never needed her permission to exist.
"You think you're protected because you've hired a lawyer," she said. "You have no idea how complicated this business is. Hartwell Meadows is part of something much larger than your forty acres."
"So I've learned."
Her eyes narrowed. "What exactly does that mean?"
I looked at the nearest box. The top was poorly taped, and several thick folders had shifted beneath the opening. Their spines carried the HOA's initials and the word CONFIDENTIAL. A second carton held small electronic storage cases bearing labels from Regional Trust's loan-document archive. I did not touch them. I simply noted what could be seen, the truck's identifying details, and the time on my phone.
"Those look like records people have been asking to review," I said.
"They're company property."
"Some may be association records. Some may belong to customers who never agreed to let you move their information."
For the first time, Vivian looked toward the workers instead of at me. She signaled to one of them to close the cartons, and he began applying tape without question. Her control over the scene was slipping, but she was still trying to conceal that from everyone watching. Across the street a few neighbors appeared on their porches. News about the special meeting had traveled quickly, and the sight of a moving truck outside the president's mansion attracted attention.
"You have become an unpleasant little obsession, Ezra," Vivian said. "I could have bought your farm years ago and left you with enough money to spend the rest of your life pretending you're a country gentleman. But you needed to make this personal."