The transporter carefully unloaded the Phoenix and rolled it into my workshop.
Two neighbors watched from across the street.
One was a retired airline mechanic who immediately recognized the shape as an unusual 1960s performance car. The other was a teenage boy who loved automobiles and asked whether it was a Mustang.
I explained that it was an experimental vehicle built by a smaller American manufacturer.
The retired mechanic came closer.
He studied the front grille.
Then frowned thoughtfully.
"Never seen one like that."
I smiled.
"Not many people have."
He asked whether it ran.
I told him the engine had been preserved in operating condition, but I wasn't planning to drive it casually.
He nodded.
Then asked whether I ever showed it at exhibitions.
"Working on that."
The teenage boy grinned.
"That's awesome."
I laughed.
For the first time since my father's death, talking about the car felt more exciting than painful.
I thought the neighbors would enjoy knowing something unusual was being preserved in their community.
Then the HOA president drove past.
She slowed her white SUV.
Looked toward the open garage.
And stopped.
She approached wearing a cream-colored blouse, tailored trousers, and enormous sunglasses.
Her expression changed as she studied the Phoenix.
"What is that?"
I turned.
"Good afternoon."
She ignored the greeting.
"That car."
I looked toward the garage.
"An old prototype I'm preserving."
She frowned.
"Prototype of what?"
I explained briefly.
The manufacturer.
The year.
And the museum project.
She didn't seem interested.
Instead, she examined the vehicle's unusual bodywork.
The wide rear panels.
The low roofline.
The old-style wheels.
Then she crossed her arms.
"Well, it's certainly not attractive."
The retired mechanic looked surprised.
The teenage boy stopped smiling.
I remained calm.
"It's a historic development vehicle."
She gave a dismissive laugh.
"People call all kinds of junk historic these days."
I felt a small flash of irritation.
Then let it pass.
She didn't know the car.
And I didn't need her approval to appreciate it.
I told her it would remain inside the garage.
She nodded stiffly.
"See that it does."
Then she returned to her SUV.
As she drove away, the retired mechanic looked toward me.
"Does she always talk like that?"
I smiled faintly.
"Still getting to know her."
He shook his head.
"Good luck."
At the time, I thought he was exaggerating.
The first violation notice arrived eleven days later.
It claimed that I was storing an unregistered, inoperable vehicle on my property in violation of the association's appearance standards.
I read it carefully.