Valerie folded the notice.
“You have been difficult from the day you arrived.”
“I moved here nine months ago.”
“Exactly.”
Daniel smiled faintly.
She realized too late how ridiculous that answer sounded.
He continued.
“In nine months, you've cited me for a flag bracket, a garden hose, my niece's car, my truck, a contractor's ladder, and a trash can that was outside fourteen minutes after your preferred time.”
“The rules exist for everyone.”
“The flag bracket was approved.”
“That documentation arrived later.”
“It was in the association records.”
Valerie ignored him.
“The contractor’s ladder was visible from the street.”
“He was standing on it.”
“That doesn't make it attractive.”
Daniel laughed.
Actually laughed.
Valerie’s cheeks reddened.
“See? This.”
“This what?”
“The contempt.”
“For what?”
“For this community.”
Daniel stopped smiling.
He looked past her.
Across the street, sprinklers clicked across a lawn.
Children rode bicycles at the end of the block.
A man washed an SUV.
American flags stirred weakly in the warm evening air.
Daniel had chosen Briar Glen because it seemed boring.
After fourteen years of deployments, relocations, temporary apartments, base housing, airports, training grounds, and sleeping in places where doors sometimes existed mainly to slow down explosions, boring had sounded perfect.
He bought the modest four-bedroom house because of the maple tree in the backyard and the workshop attached to the garage.
He liked neighbors who waved without requiring conversation.
He liked mornings where nothing happened.
He liked sleeping without boots beside the bed.
Valerie had somehow managed to turn suburban administration into a campaign.
Daniel looked back at her.
“I like the community.”
“You don't respect its standards.”
“I don't respect invented standards.”
“I represent the association.”
“You represent yourself remarkably often.”
She stepped toward the doorway.
Ranger stood.
Daniel raised one hand toward the dog.
Ranger remained motionless.
Valerie noticed.
Some of her confidence returned.
“You think your military background means people should be intimidated by you.”
Daniel’s face changed.
There it was.
He had never mentioned his service to her.
She had learned from somebody else.
Probably neighborhood gossip.
Daniel lowered his voice.
“My military background has nothing to do with my truck.”
“You advertise it.”
“How?”
“The plates.”
His truck carried veteran plates.
Nothing decorative.
No unit stickers.
No branch decals.
No slogans.
Daniel stared.
Valerie sensed she had gone too far but did not retreat.
“I’m simply saying you project a certain image.”
“What image?”
“You know.”
“No.”
Daniel stepped fully into the doorway.
Not toward her.
Just upright.
“Say it.”
Valerie swallowed.
“I don't need to.”
“Then don't bring it up.”
For the first time, she looked slightly uncertain.
Daniel closed the door halfway.
“Anything else?”
“This notice remains active.”
“I’ll appeal it.”
“I am the appeal officer.”
“No.”
Valerie frowned.
“I chair the compliance committee.”
“And the bylaws require appeals to be heard by two members who didn't issue the original violation.”
Her expression froze.
Daniel had printed the bylaws.
Read all seventy-eight pages.
Twice.
Mostly because insomnia had not completely left him after retirement.
Valerie said:
“You have an obsession with technicalities.”
“Rules are technicalities when they stop helping you?”
She shoved the paper toward him.
Daniel did not take it.
“Email it.”
“This constitutes service.”
“Great.”
Valerie dropped it onto the porch.
“Don't say you weren't warned.”
Daniel looked at the notice lying between them.
“About my truck?”
Her eyes locked on his.