"Enough to demolish my stone wall and remove two peach trees."
He stared.
Then whispered, "Good Lord."
I leaned back.
"Why is she so determined to build this overlook?"
He hesitated.
Then opened another document.
It was an internal proposal summary.
Near the bottom, I found a line I hadn't seen before.
Phase Two Development Opportunity.
I looked up.
"What is Phase Two?"
He shook his head.
"Nobody's supposed to know yet."
I waited.
He continued.
"There's a developer looking at the wooded acreage beyond your northern pasture."
My stomach tightened.
"Behind my property?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"The HOA president has been telling people the community can help secure pedestrian access through the southern boundary."
I stared at him.
That corridor crossed my land.
Without it, the proposed development would need a different access arrangement.
One that might be considerably more expensive.
Suddenly the pieces began to fit.
The violation notices.
The pressure to remove trees.
The beautification project.
The altered boundary map.
The repeated attempts to portray my orchard as a nuisance.
The fruit thefts.
If the HOA president could provoke me into a public confrontation, she might be able to characterize me as hostile and unreasonable.
If she convinced the neighborhood my property endangered residents, she could build support for aggressive legal action.
And if the association accepted the false boundary, she might get the construction corridor she needed.
I looked toward the accountant.
"Does her family have any connection to the developer?"
He hesitated.
"I think so."
"How?"
"Her son has been attending the planning meetings."
I opened the business registration again.
The landscaping consultant.
Her son.
The proposed overlook.
The development opportunity.
I finally understood why she had been so persistent.
She wasn't trying to steal peaches.
She was trying to create a paper trail that would help her take control of land she didn't own.
I thanked the accountant.