David nodded. "Thank you for taking the time to check."
He did not tell Cole everything was fine, because it was not. He also did not blame him for every decision his partner had made. The distinction mattered to David, who had learned that fairness required judging what individuals actually did, not assigning them the actions of everyone standing near them.
Clare remained on the driveway after the officers began returning to the cruiser. David waited for her to step away. She folded her arms again, apparently unable to tolerate the possibility that the gathering would end without some final declaration from her.
"Well, congratulations," she said.
"For what?"
"You proved you bought the place. I suppose you're happy now."
"I wasn't trying to win anything, Clare. I was trying to move into my house."
"You're making me look terrible in front of the entire street."
David looked at the faces watching from their lawns. "You called the police on me. I didn't ask for an audience."
"I was protecting the neighborhood."
"From what?"
Her eyes narrowed. "From situations exactly like this."
He looked around slowly, letting his gaze rest on the Ferrari, the open front door, the moving truck, and the keys in his hand. "What situation?"
Clare's mouth opened, then closed. David gave her several seconds to answer, but she had no explanation that would not return to the one thing she had avoided saying openly. Finally, she lifted her chin and chose anger over retreat.
"You can buy your way into Hawthorne Ridge," she said. "That doesn't mean you belong here."
The words carried farther than she intended. Helen Carter inhaled sharply across the street, and Cole stopped halfway into the patrol car. Even Turner turned around and looked at Clare. David felt the last of his anger drain into a cold, familiar sadness.
"Then this was never about the Ferrari," he said.
Clare looked away. David turned toward his house, choosing not to spend another minute arguing about whether his existence required her approval. Behind him, the cruiser engine started, and the assembled neighbors began retreating to their porches as if the show had ended.
"Mr. Brooks?" Helen called from across the road.
David stopped beside the front steps. For one hopeful second he thought she would say what she had witnessed or acknowledge that she had known about the move. Instead, Helen looked down at her cooling coffee and said, "I hope the rest of your move goes smoothly."
He held her gaze long enough for her to understand that he had hoped for more. "Thank you, Ms. Carter," he replied, then went inside.
Raymond stood in the foyer beside a stack of boxes. The older mover had handled enough difficult customers and frantic moving days to recognize when a person needed a moment without being questioned. He glanced toward the window, where Clare was still standing at the edge of the driveway.
"That woman was wrong," Raymond said.
"I know."
"Want us to stay an extra hour? Make sure everything's settled?"
David was unexpectedly touched. "You've got another job scheduled after mine. Finish the inventory, and go take care of your people."
Raymond hesitated, then nodded. The crew returned to work, but their manner toward David had changed slightly. They were more careful when strangers approached the driveway, and one young mover insisted on carrying several smaller boxes David would ordinarily have handled himself. David did not want special treatment; he wanted the ordinary courtesy they had shown him before Clare walked across the lawn.