He stopped a safe distance away and waited, expecting someone to notice. Nobody did. He could not see a driver, there was no indication that the car was being moved, and its position made the obstruction complete rather than incidental. Adrian checked his mirrors, parked legally at the curb farther down the block, and turned off the engine.
For nearly a minute he considered simply carrying the groceries inside and calling about the car later. The house was within walking distance, and he could get the vehicle moved by morning without exchanging a word with anyone. But an obstruction that prevented him from accessing his own driveway was not a problem that vanished because he pretended it was acceptable. A brief, courteous request was the simplest available solution, and Adrian still believed in attempting simple solutions first.
He took his keys, left the groceries in the car, and crossed the street. The visitors' laughter carried through the open doorway, mixed with the faint sound of music and the clink of glass. A man at the bottom step shifted aside as Adrian approached, and Grant turned before Adrian had reached the porch. That was when the evening stopped being about a car and became a contest Grant was determined to win.
"Excuse me," Adrian said. "I believe that's your black car across the street. It's blocking my driveway, and I need to get through."
Grant looked toward the sports car, then back at Adrian. His expression did not register concern about the inconvenience; instead, it settled into the mild annoyance of a host interrupted during a story. The men behind him quieted, though one still held a glass halfway to his lips. Grant glanced at Adrian's dark jacket and work trousers before asking, "Who is it you work for around here?"
The emphasis fell on the word work. It was a question designed to assign Adrian a position in the room before he had the opportunity to explain why he was there. Adrian recognized it, and for a moment he thought of all the occasions on which he had heard similar questions asked of other people. He kept the recognition to himself and answered the factual part.
"I live across the street," he said. "Number 7316. Your car is blocking my driveway."
"You sure about that?" Grant asked, with a faint smile that seemed intended for the benefit of his guests. "I know a fair number of people on this block. Don't recall seeing you around."
"I moved in eleven days ago," Adrian said. "The paperwork was finalized before that. I'm not asking you to know me; I'm asking you to move your vehicle."
Grant studied him with the kind of attention he usually reserved for a contractor who had questioned a deadline. The answer was direct, but not deferential, and Grant did not like either quality. He turned the key fob over in his palm, glanced toward the driveway, and appeared to make a decision about what sort of man Adrian was. It was not a decision Adrian had invited him to make.