“No, it doesn’t.”
She pointed toward him.
“You were sent three notices.”
“For my pool.”
“Correct.”
“And you are not standing beside my pool.”
The HOA president turned toward the large rectangular swimming pool behind her.
Clean blue water.
Stone coping.
Two lounge chairs.
A covered outdoor kitchen.
She looked around with the confidence of someone expecting the surroundings to rearrange themselves to protect her dignity.
Then she walked toward the small black metal safety gate separating the patio from the water.
It was latched.
She grabbed the handle.
Locked.
The homeowner called through the fence.
“Do not touch that.”
She pulled again.
Nothing.
Then she lifted one bare foot and kicked the lower part of the gate.
Once.
The latch jumped.
A second kick forced it open.
The homeowner’s expression changed.
“That was locked.”
The HOA president pushed through.
“It was improperly secured.”
“You just kicked it open.”
“That proves it wasn’t secure.”
He stared at her.
“You cannot possibly believe what you just said.”
She picked up a folded white towel from a lounge chair.
Looked at it.
Then tossed it onto another chair as though clearing a work surface.
The homeowner walked along his side of the fence toward the shared corner.
“You need to get out.”
She pulled a test strip from the pouch.
“Your chlorine records are incomplete.”
“They aren’t my chlorine records because that isn’t my pool.”
“You’ve used that excuse enough.”
The homeowner stopped.
“Excuse?”
She crouched beside the water.
“Yes.”
The homeowner looked toward the house behind her.
The patio doors were closed.
Curtains partly drawn.
His neighbor’s county vehicle was gone from the front driveway that morning.
The homeowner had assumed the man next door was working.
He had no idea whether anyone else was inside.
He called louder.
“Listen to me. You crossed the wrong fence.”
The HOA president dipped the test strip into the water.
She shook it once.
Then held it up to the light.
“Free chlorine is low.”
The homeowner rubbed both hands over his face.
“Of course it is.”
She looked toward him.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“My neighbor was draining part of the system yesterday to service his filter.”
She paused.
Just slightly.
The homeowner saw it.
There.
The first crack.
But pride rushed in before curiosity could.
She stood.
“Then that’s another violation.”
The homeowner laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
She walked toward a poolside control panel.
“Where is the equipment permit sticker?”
“Ask the owner.”
“I am.”
“No.”
He pointed toward the brick house.