And, if I was fortunate, room for the kind of swimming pool I had dreamed about since childhood.
I had spent almost twenty years building my business.
At twenty-three, I started working as an apprentice electrician.
By twenty-eight, I had earned the qualifications needed to supervise larger projects.
At thirty-two, I began contracting independently.
My first customers were small business owners who needed reliable electrical installations and maintenance.
I worked long days.
Drove an aging pickup.
Prepared estimates at my kitchen table.
And sometimes worried whether I had made a terrible mistake leaving steady employment.
But the business grew.
I hired a technician.
Then two.
Then a project manager.
Eventually, my company specialized in electrical infrastructure, commercial security systems, and building automation for hospitals, warehouses, offices, and high-end residential developments.
I wasn't a celebrity.
I wasn't secretly the owner of every company in Arizona.
I was a contractor who understood his field, treated employees fairly, and had been fortunate enough to build a profitable business.
I also believed in buying things only after I could reasonably afford them.
That's why I waited until I was forty-one to purchase the house.
The pool needed repairs.
The kitchen needed updating.
And one section of the backyard fence had weather damage.
But I loved the property.
I bought it.
Moved in.
And spent the first month making it my own.
My younger sister visited often.
She was thirty-six, a nurse with two children and an opinion about almost everything.
The first time she saw the backyard, she stood beside the pool and laughed.
"You finally did it."
I smiled.
"Did what?"
"Bought yourself a vacation."
I looked toward the water.
"Something like that."
She stepped closer.
"Where's the pool furniture?"
"Coming."
"And the grill?"
"Next week."
"And the outdoor speakers?"
I laughed.
"Are you moving in?"
She grinned.
"Depends how nice the guest room is."
For the first time in years, my life felt settled.
I had work I enjoyed.
A home I was proud of.
Family nearby.
And enough financial stability to spend a weekend relaxing without feeling guilty.
Then I met Patricia Holloway.
She appeared at my front door on a Tuesday afternoon carrying a clipboard.
I had just returned from a construction site.
My boots were dusty.
My work shirt was untucked.
And I was carrying a bag of groceries when the doorbell rang.
I opened it.
Patricia stood on the porch wearing a cream-colored blazer, expensive sunglasses, and a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Mr. Reed?"
I nodded.
"That's me."
"I'm Patricia Holloway, president of the Cedar Ridge Estates Homeowners Association."
I smiled politely.
"Nice to meet you."