The first thing the homeowner heard was metal striking metal.
Not the harmless click of somebody trying the wrong latch.
Not the soft rattle of wind against the black aluminum gate separating his backyard from the narrow community walkway.
This was deliberate.
Hard.
Repeated.
CLACK.
CLACK.
CLACK.
He lifted his head from the water.
For nearly twenty minutes, the private backyard had been silent except for the filtration pump and the faint rush of traffic beyond the subdivision wall. The afternoon sun reflected off the blue surface of the pool. A folded towel rested on the nearest lounge chair beside his phone, sunglasses, and a bottle of water.
He had chosen bright orange swim trunks because his niece had laughed at him the week before and said every pair he owned looked like something a retired lifeguard would wear.
He had told her orange was fashionable.
She had told him he was forty-one and therefore legally prohibited from using that word.
He had been smiling at the memory when the third metallic crack sounded.
CLACK.
He turned toward the gate.
A woman was leaning over it.
Platinum-blonde hair.
Large black sunglasses.
Hot-pink sleeveless polo.
White capri pants.
And a pair of red bolt cutters hanging from one hand.
Even from the pool, he recognized her immediately.
The HOA president.
Of course.
For fourteen months, she had found reasons to appear near his property.
First the mailbox.
Then the fence stain.
Then the hedge height.
Then the exterior light temperature.
Then the ridiculous complaint about his garbage bins being visible from the street for eleven minutes after collection.
Now she was standing outside the locked entrance to his private backyard with bolt cutters.
The homeowner slowly moved toward the shallow end.
“What are you doing?”
The HOA president stopped pulling at the latch.
She looked over the gate as though surprised to find him in his own pool.
“Emergency inspection.”
He stared.
“What emergency?”
“Water-quality complaint.”
“This is a private pool.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then why are you trying to break into it?”
She straightened.
“I’m not breaking into anything.”
The bolt cutters swung from her hand.
He looked at them.
Then back at her.
She followed his gaze.
“These are maintenance tools.”
“For the lock?”
“For any obstruction interfering with HOA access.”
The homeowner placed both hands on the edge of the pool and climbed out.