My face turned red.
“Does my car really bother you that much?”
My neighbor stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, then looked me up and down.
“Let me be clear with you, sweetheart. Maybe people like you don’t belong in a neighborhood like this. Normal, wealthy people live here. Not single moms in rusted-out Chevrolets.”
Then looked me up and down.
I was livid!
“My daughter and I live here now,” I said. “You’ll have to get used to the view.”
“We’ll see about that.”
She walked off, her heels clicking, and I stood there staring at a water bill until my hands stopped shaking.
I didn’t know Olivia had heard until dinner.
***
My daughter was pushing peas around her plate when she looked up and asked, very calmly, “Mom, why does that lady hate us?”
“We’ll see about that.”
“She doesn’t hate us, sweetheart.”
“She said we don’t belong.”
I set my fork down. She was so young, and she’d already learned to read between grown-up lines.
“Some people think a nice view is more important than being nice,” I told her. “That’s their problem, not ours.”
“But you looked sad.”
“I wasn’t sad. I was thinking.”
“She said we don’t belong.”
Olivia chewed slowly. “About what?”
“About how proud Grandpa would be that we live in his house.”
That got a small smile out of her, and I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
***
The following afternoon, Harold came up the walk with a plate of cookies wrapped in cling film and the world’s most conspicuously casual expression.
I thought that was the end of it.
“A small welcome to the neighborhood gift,” he said, holding them out. “My late wife’s recipe. She’d want the new neighbors to have them.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know. Can I sit for a minute?”
I waved him toward the porch steps. Olivia was inside coloring, but I noticed her ear tilt toward the screen door the second Harold sat down.
“Can I sit for a minute?”
“So,” he said, setting his hat beside him. “Valerie.”
“You heard.”
“Ma’am, half the street heard. She’s not exactly a whisperer.”
I laughed in spite of everything.
“She’s done this before,” Harold continued. “Two families in five years. Both left. She has a way of making people feel like renters in their own homes.”
“Wonderful.”
“She’s not exactly a whisperer.”
“Here’s the thing.” My new neighbor glanced at me sideways. “That balcony of hers? Not permitted. The stone wall along her side yard? Sitting three feet into the public easement land. Those fancy statues by her walkway? Also on the easement. Her contractor doesn’t have a license in this state.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because I’ve been keeping a file, ma’am. I was your dad’s friend for 30 years. He asked me once to keep an eye on things over here if anything ever happened to him. I’ve been documenting everything for years.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Mr. Harold…”
“Just Harold’s fine.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He picked up a cookie, examined it, then put it back down.
“Because you’re going to need it. Document everything, Samantha. Every conversation. Every look. Get it time-stamped. Don’t confront her. Don’t yell. Just record it.”
I nodded slowly.
From inside the house, I heard a crayon stop moving.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Harold stood up, and tipped his cap at me. Halfway down the walk, he turned back.
“And keep parking that Chevy right where it is. That’s your driveway.”
I did. What else was I supposed to do? Park it on the road?
***
That night, I sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed, tucking her quilt under her chin the way she liked.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby.”
He turned back.
“I’ve been thinking,” my daughter started.
“That’s dangerous.”
She giggled, then went quiet. Her eyes had that focused look she got when she was working something out.
“I have an idea,” she said.
“About what?”
“About the lady.”
I brushed her hair back. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to worry about the lady. That’s my job.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I’m not worried,” Olivia yawned, big and theatrical. “I just had an idea.”
“Olivia, what idea?”
But she’d already rolled toward the wall, pulling the quilt up over her shoulder, and within ten seconds her breathing had gone soft and even.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the back of my daughter’s head, wondering what on earth an eight-year-old could be planning. Kevin croaked with curiosity.
“I’m not worried.”
***
Friday’s traffic had been brutal. All I wanted was to peel off my work shoes and pour myself something cold.
I walked up our street, waving to my colleague Denise as her Corolla pulled away from the corner. Harold had walked Olivia home from the bus stop, as he’d been doing all week.
Then I saw the truck.
A concrete mixer sat rumbling in front of my house, its chute swung out over my gravel driveway.
Harold had walked Olivia home.
Gray sludge was already sliding down onto the hood of my Chevrolet, spreading across the windshield in a slow, ugly wave!
I stopped in the middle of the road. For a second, I honestly thought I was hallucinating from exhaustion.
Then I saw Valerie.
She stood at the edge of her lawn in a different silky robe, as if she were watching a garden show.
I lunged forward so fast that I almost tripped over my own purse.
Then I saw Valerie.
“What are you doing?!” I shouted.
Valerie smiled.
“I guess you’ve finally learned your lesson,” she said. “Now you’ll park that junk somewhere else.”
My hands were shaking so hard that I fumbled my phone twice while pulling it out. I was about to call 911 when the screen door of my house creaked open behind me.
“What are you doing?!”
Olivia stepped out onto the porch, holding a juice box.
