Then moved the Mustang into its new garage.
For nearly two years, nobody complained.
Neighbors occasionally admired the car when he opened the garage door.
Children asked questions about the black stripes.
And one retired mechanic offered advice about maintaining the original-style interior.
Isaiah enjoyed those conversations.
But he never imagined the car would become the center of a neighborhood power struggle.
The Minions shorts entered his life because of his eight-year-old niece.
Her name was Sophie, and she had an enormous collection of cartoon toys, stickers, and clothing.
During a family birthday celebration, she gave Isaiah a pair of navy-blue shorts covered with large yellow Minions characters.
They were ridiculous.
The cartoons stretched across the fabric in bright yellow shapes.
Isaiah laughed when he opened the gift.
His sister warned Sophie that her uncle might not wear them outside.
Sophie looked offended.
"Yes, he will."
Isaiah immediately pulled them on over his trousers.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Sophie clapped.
"See? He loves them!"
From that day forward, the shorts became his Saturday garage uniform.
He wore them while washing the Mustang, checking tire pressure, and doing small maintenance jobs.
His niece loved visiting because she could help polish the chrome and pretend she was supervising an important restoration team.
Harold would have adored her.
Sometimes Isaiah imagined his father laughing at the sight of a grown engineer wearing cartoon shorts beside a valuable classic car.
The thought made him smile.
Which was why, on the Saturday Pamela Whitcomb arrived, Isaiah had been standing in his garage wearing the most unserious clothes imaginable while facing one of the most serious attempts anyone had ever made to interfere with his property.
The contrast would later become one of the neighborhood's favorite details.
But at the time, nothing about the confrontation felt funny.
Pamela Whitcomb became HOA president eight months before the confrontation.
Her election wasn't particularly dramatic.
Hawthorne Estates had one hundred eighty-four homes, a modest community clubhouse, two landscaped entrances, and a private association responsible for maintaining common areas. Most residents cared about their properties but had little interest in attending lengthy meetings about landscaping contracts and maintenance reserves.
Pamela understood that.
She had lived in the neighborhood for almost seven years and spent much of that time volunteering for social committees, holiday decorations, and welcome events. She was outgoing, confident, and skilled at making ordinary homeowners feel that she cared about protecting their property values.