I looked up from trimming a branch.
"Morning."
She smiled nervously.
"Are you the gentleman who owns these trees?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She looked toward the peaches.
"They're beautiful."
"Thank you."
She hesitated.
"I wanted to apologize."
I set down the pruning shears.
"For what?"
"I believed what the president said about you."
I studied her.
"What did she say?"
The woman looked embarrassed.
"That you were trying to take advantage of the neighborhood."
I almost laughed.
"By refusing to give away my property?"
She smiled sadly.
"I know. It sounds ridiculous now."
I waited.
She continued.
"She told us you were hostile. That you threatened residents. That you were interfering with a public improvement."
I shook my head.
"None of that was true."
"I understand."
She looked toward the stone wall.
"My husband used to grow peaches when we lived farther north."
Her voice softened.
"He died last year."
"I'm sorry."
She nodded.
"Thank you."
For a while, she stared at the fruit.
Then asked, "Would you sell me a few?"
I smiled.
"Sure."
I picked six ripe peaches from an untreated, ready-to-eat section of the orchard and placed them in a paper bag.
She opened her purse.
"How much?"
I looked at her.
"These are on me."
Her eyes widened.
"Oh, no. I couldn't."
"Consider it a neighborly welcome."
She smiled through tears.
"Thank you."
Before leaving, she looked at the warning sign.
"Are these the spicy ones?"
I laughed.
"No, ma'am. These are ready to eat."
She laughed too.
Then walked away.
For some reason, that brief conversation stayed with me longer than the HOA board meeting.
The entire dispute had begun with someone deciding that a piece of land, a tree, and the man who owned them were obstacles to be controlled.
Now an ordinary neighbor had approached the same wall with respect.
She asked.
I answered.
We shared a laugh.
No letters.
No fines.