“And yet you're refusing a pool party.”
“I like pools.”
“You don't like parties.”
“Correct.”
Rachel laughed.
“Come anyway.”
Simone did.
Willow Creek felt different without Brenda circulating.
Not magically better.
People still complained about dogs.
Parking.
Noise.
Tree roots.
Teenagers.
Packages delivered to wrong addresses.
Normal suburban conflict survived.
Good.
The difference was that nobody carried a binder around like a weapon.
At Rachel's party, an older white homeowner named Susan approached Simone.
They had never spoken.
Susan held lemonade.
“I owe you an apology.”
Simone looked confused.
“For?”
“I thought you were difficult.”
Simone smiled slightly.
“Maybe I am.”
Susan laughed nervously.
“No.”
“I mean before all this.”
“I used to see your emails in the neighborhood forum.”
“You always challenged Brenda.”
“I thought, why doesn't she just let it go?”
Simone waited.
Susan continued.
“Then I found out Brenda entered my daughter's yard last year.”
“She never told me.”
“Because she thought nobody would believe her.”
Simone looked toward the pool.
Susan said:
“I realized I called you difficult because you were willing to do something I didn't want to do.”
“Fight.”
Simone corrected:
“Document.”
Susan laughed.
“See?”
“You even correct apologies.”
“That one needed help.”
They both laughed.
Susan lifted her cup.
“To documentation.”
Simone touched her glass to it.
“To people reading the documents.”
Years later, Simone would remember the red bucket more clearly than Brenda's face.
That surprised her.
Objects became symbols accidentally.
For months, neighborhood children jokingly referred to any unnecessary container as “the Brenda bucket.”
Parents eventually stopped them.
Mostly.
A new family moved into Brenda's old house the following spring.
Two teachers.
Three children.
Golden retriever.
They introduced themselves to Simone while she was trimming herbs.
“We heard you're the person to ask about the HOA.”
Simone closed her eyes.
“Who told you that?”
“Our realtor.”
“Fire your realtor.”
They laughed uncertainly.
Simone smiled.
“I'm kidding.”
Mostly.
The husband asked:
“Anything we should know?”
Simone looked toward Martin's house.
Then toward her pool gate.
“Yes.”
“Read the covenants.”
“Ask questions.”
“Don't ignore letters.”
“And don't assume the HOA is your enemy.”
The wife looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Simone continued.
“An HOA is paperwork.”
“People decide what the paperwork becomes.”
She looked toward the clubhouse.
“Participate before somebody else decides participation for you.”
They nodded.
The golden retriever tried to eat Simone's basil.
Conversation ended.
Two years after the confrontation, Simone ran for the board.
Kendra accused her of losing her mind.
Simone agreed.
She won anyway.
Not president.
Treasurer.
Numbers.
Records.