“The owner is in there or at work. I am next door.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You expect me to believe you suddenly don’t own this property after months of fighting pool compliance?”
The homeowner’s voice sharpened.
“My pool is on the other side of that fence.”
She turned.
For the first time, she really looked.
Beyond the cedar boards, another raised roofline.
Another patio pergola.
The homeowner pointed.
“My yard.”
Then toward her feet.
“His yard.”
She glanced back toward the house.
A faint concern appeared.
Then disappeared.
She straightened.
“Well, then your fence configuration is confusing.”
The homeowner almost choked.
“My fence configuration?”
“You share an adjoining line.”
“Yes.”
“That creates reasonable ambiguity.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“It creates a reason to check the address before committing trespass.”
She turned toward the pool.
“I am not trespassing.”
That was the moment the patio door opened.
Neither of them heard it at first.
The homeowner saw movement behind her.
His expression changed.
The HOA president noticed.
“What?”
He said nothing.
The patio door slid fully open.
A tall white American man in his early fifties stepped outside wearing dark uniform trousers and a light undershirt beneath an open county sheriff’s uniform shirt.
He had clearly been in the middle of getting ready for work.
Badge attached.
Duty belt not yet fastened.
His face carried the confused irritation of a homeowner who had heard banging in his backyard and expected to find a raccoon, contractor, or perhaps the neighbor’s dog.
Instead, he found a woman in a blue floral swimsuit standing beside his pool holding an HOA test strip.
The sheriff stopped.
The HOA president slowly turned.
For perhaps two seconds, nobody spoke.
The homeowner on the other side of the fence almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
The sheriff looked toward the broken-open pool gate.
Then at the towel she had thrown.
Then at the wet test strip in her hand.
Then at her.
“Can I help you?”
The HOA president opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The homeowner called from behind the fence.
“I tried.”
The sheriff looked toward him.
“What happened?”
The homeowner pointed toward the woman.
“She thought this was my yard.”
The sheriff looked back at her.
The HOA president recovered.
Not fully.
But enough to return to what had always protected her before.
Authority.
She straightened.
“I’m the association president.”
The sheriff looked around his own backyard.
Then back.
“Congratulations.”
The homeowner had to bite the inside of his cheek.
The HOA president’s face tightened.