Because she was holding a heavy metal tool, and the last thing I wanted was for the confrontation to turn physical.
I kept my hands visible.
“Put it down.”
Patricia smiled.
“Or what?”
I took a controlled breath.
“Or you'll make an already serious situation worse.”
She laughed.
Then stepped toward the flower bed.
“Do you know what your problem is?”
I said nothing.
She pointed the hammer toward my chest.
“You think buying an expensive house means you can ignore this community's rules.”
I stared.
“I've lived here for three years. I've paid every legitimate assessment. I've maintained the property.”
She shook her head.
“You've been difficult since the day you moved in.”
“Because I ask for explanations?”
“Because you refuse to respect authority.”
I looked toward the broken sprinkler.
Then toward the water running across the lawn.
For a moment, I thought about the flowers.
The little row of purple salvia along the brick border.
The white roses near the patio.
The pale-yellow marigolds my daughter planted every spring.
My wife had designed that garden before she died.
And now this woman was standing in the middle of it, using a hammer to destroy the system that kept it alive.
My voice dropped.
“Patricia, leave.”
Her expression became almost delighted.
“Not until you understand something.”
She stepped closer.
Then pointed the hammer toward the flower bed.
“This is only the beginning.”
For several seconds, I didn't speak.
Patricia looked directly into my eyes.
“You're going to learn what happens when you challenge the HOA.”
She seemed to expect me to lose control.
To shout.
To threaten her.
Perhaps even to grab the hammer.
Instead, I looked past her.
Toward the side gate.
Because the gate was opening again.
A woman stood in the entrance.
She was in her early forties, with dark hair pulled back neatly, an ordinary navy-blue blazer over a pale shirt, and a professional leather case in one hand.
She was looking directly at Patricia.