She took a breath.
"And somebody still has to make them right."
For a moment, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Then I smiled faintly.
"You're one stubborn woman."
Eleanor returned the smile.
"Accountants usually are."
The special homeowners' meeting took place that Monday.
Eleanor didn't attend in person.
After speaking with investigators and her attorney, she decided it would be safer to provide her statement through the appropriate arrangements rather than appear publicly while the suspected food-tampering investigation was still developing.
But she didn't withdraw her request.
And neither did the homeowners who supported her.
The clubhouse was packed.
People stood along the back wall.
Several residents had brought copies of violation notices, budget summaries, and photographs of the drainage areas behind their homes.
The meeting was called to order by a board member who had agreed to oversee the discussion under the association's procedures.
Vivian wasn't present.
Her attorney had informed the board that she wouldn't participate while the allegations against her were being investigated.
But her absence didn't prevent the residents from speaking.
The first person to approach the microphone was a seventy-one-year-old white homeowner whose basement had flooded during the previous autumn storm.
He carried photographs of ruined furniture and water-damaged walls.
He explained that he'd paid HOA assessments for twelve years.
He wasn't asking the association to guarantee that storms would never damage his property.
He wanted to know whether the reserve funds collected for infrastructure maintenance had been used for their intended purpose.
Then another resident spoke.
A young Black mother described how her backyard remained flooded for days after ordinary rainfall.
She'd repeatedly requested information about drainage maintenance.
The responses were vague.
Then a retired engineer asked why the association's records listed completed work at locations where the drainage channels still appeared obstructed.
The questions were specific.
Reasonable.
And impossible to dismiss as simple personal hostility toward Vivian.
I stood near the back beside Leah.
For a moment, I thought about our cookout.
The food.
The reserved plate.
And the fear that had followed.
Then the board member invited me to speak.
I approached the microphone.
For several seconds, I looked around the room.
These were my neighbors.
People I'd passed while walking Jasmine to school.
People whose dogs I'd helped return home.
People who had attended birthday parties, borrowed tools, and waved across our driveways.
Some had defended Vivian.
Others supported us.
But all of us depended on the same neighborhood infrastructure.
I took a breath.
"I'm not here to ask anyone to decide what happened in my backyard."