Two days later, an automated reply told me my dispute had been forwarded for review. No hearing date was provided. No rule was cited. And at seven-fifteen the following morning, Vivian's BMW passed my house again, slower than ever.
That was when I began to suspect Dolores was right.
The woman in the BMW apparently believed that sunlight made any boundary negotiable. On the next Saturday, at precisely eight in the morning, my doorbell began ringing with the determination of somebody testing a fire alarm. I had been up until nearly midnight repairing emergency lighting at a distribution warehouse, and I was standing in my bedroom trying to remember where I'd left a clean shirt when Zoe shouted from the hallway, "Dad, there's a lady at the door with a measuring tape!"
I pulled on jeans and a faded T-shirt, glanced at my reflection, decided the world would have to survive my bed hair, and went downstairs. Through the glass panel beside the door, I could see Vivian Ashworth on the porch. She wore tailored cream trousers, an expensive-looking purple blazer, and enormous black sunglasses. A clipboard rested against one arm. In her other hand was a retractable tape measure. Behind her stood a young man with styled dark hair, white designer sneakers, and a red jacket covered in logos. He was chewing gum and looking at his phone.
"Good morning," I said through the closed screen door.
Vivian looked at her watch. "Mr. Rodriguez, you're late."
"For what?"
"A routine community standards inspection."
"Nobody scheduled an inspection with me."
She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. "That isn't necessary. Owners are responsible for maintaining a compliant property."
"I'm happy to discuss anything visible from the common areas, but I haven't agreed to anyone entering my yard or house. What authority are you relying on?"
Her expression sharpened. "The general maintenance provisions."
"Which section?"
The young man behind her laughed. "Dude, are you serious?"
Vivian ignored him. "I've served this community for fifteen years. We do not need to have an argument every time a resident is asked to follow standards."
"I'm not asking for an argument. I'm asking for the rule."
She stepped off the porch and moved toward the side path. I opened the main door and stepped outside, keeping several feet between us. "Please stop. I haven't given you permission to enter the side yard."
"I'm conducting official business," she said without turning around.
The young man followed her. As he passed, he gave me a lazy grin. "Nice pajamas, old man."
"They're jeans. And who are you?"
"Trevor. You should probably remember it."
Vivian announced her observations while Trevor took pictures with his phone. A hose was improperly stored, she claimed, although I'd wound it neatly on a wall rack. The trash bins were allegedly visible from the street, though they stood behind a privacy fence. A patch of oxidation on an aging window screen was apparently a neighborhood emergency. She crouched beside the driveway and photographed an oil spot no bigger than a quarter, left by the previous owner. Trevor pointed at the deck and announced that it looked like something from a cheap rental property.