"That's the idea," I told him.
He handed me the invoice and asked whether he should prepare an estimate to replace the remaining boards. I said not yet. My immediate goal was to restore the barrier and monitor it. I paid him, saved the receipt, and photographed the repair from both sides accessible on my property. Then I put the invoice into section four of the file.
That afternoon I mailed Diana's notice by certified mail, retaining a copy, mailing receipt, and tracking number. I wrote Sandra's name and address exactly as they appeared in the county property record. There was something almost absurd about mailing a formal notice to a person whose kitchen window faced mine across a fence, but that absurdity was the consequence of the ordinary method having failed. I had spoken to her in person. I had texted her. I had repaired the fence. Now I wanted an indisputable record that the permission was gone.
Four days later the delivery receipt returned with Sandra's signature. I scanned it and placed it in the file beside the notice. At the bottom of the chronology I wrote: Written withdrawal of all pool access acknowledged by recipient. It was the plainest entry in the entire document, and it brought me unexpected relief. A future disagreement about whether Sandra had understood that she was not allowed in the yard could no longer depend entirely on the recollections of two people who remembered our conversations differently.
Sandra did not contact me immediately. I saw her in her driveway a few times, usually carrying groceries or speaking into her phone, and she did not wave. The camera footage remained uneventful. Rosa came and went on schedule. The gate stayed locked, and the fence held. I went swimming alone on two warm evenings and was surprised by how much pleasure I took in having the water to myself again.
For three weeks, there was no incident. I checked the cameras less often. I stopped opening the folder every morning and began forgetting that the file existed at all. The summer was nearly over, and I had plans to host Marion and her family for a final weekend before school began. I bought a new patio tablecloth and several citronella candles. I began imagining that the conflict would fade into one of those regrettable neighbor episodes people remember with a sigh and a mildly exaggerated story at dinner.
Then Mrs. Harper called me on a Thursday evening. She did not usually call after seven, so I answered with concern. She assured me nothing was wrong at her house, then asked whether I had ever considered joining the neighborhood swimming-club arrangement Sandra had been talking about. I sat down.
"What swimming-club arrangement?" I asked.