No attorneys.
No cameras.
Just a conversation.
That's how it should have been from the beginning.
Summer returned.
The orchard produced one of its strongest harvests in years.
The old peach tree was heavy with fruit.
Its branches bent beneath the weight.
I hired two local teenagers to help gather peaches.
We set up tables beside the driveway.
Sold fresh fruit.
Made preserves.
Donated extra baskets to a community food pantry.
The roadside stand that the former HOA president once called an eyesore became a small neighborhood gathering place.
Families stopped on weekends.
Children asked questions about the trees.
Parents bought jam.
Retired residents brought gardening advice, some useful and some questionable.
I enjoyed all of it.
One afternoon, the retired accountant arrived carrying a folding chair.
He set it beside my produce stand.
I looked at him.
"What are you doing?"
He grinned.
"Supervising."
"Nobody hired you."
"Good. I'd be expensive."
I laughed.
He sat beneath the shade.
After a while, he looked toward the stone wall.
"Hard to believe all that trouble started here."
I shook my head.
"It didn't start here."
He glanced toward me.
"What do you mean?"
"It started when someone decided the rules only applied to other people."
He considered.
Then nodded.
"Fair point."
We sat quietly.
A family purchased two baskets of peaches.
A little boy waved.
I waved back.
The accountant looked toward the new community walkway, now redesigned to remain outside my boundary.
"They've elected a new president."
"I heard."
"Different kind of person."
"How so?"
"He listens."
I smiled.
"Good start."
"He also wants to discuss creating a voluntary neighborhood orchard day."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Voluntary?"
The accountant laughed.
"Very voluntary."
I considered.
"That might be nice."
He stared.
"After everything?"
I looked toward the trees.
"My grandfather used to give peaches to neighbors."
"Even difficult ones?"
I laughed.