“That railing’s about ready to give up on life. I’ve got tools. You just say the word.”
“Retired contractor, ma’am. If I don’t fix things, I go stir-crazy.”
I laughed, and some of the tension eased.
Then I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck when someone is watching you.
I looked up the slope.
The house next to mine sat higher than the rest of the street. It was large and beautiful, and on the second-floor balcony overlooking the lake stood a woman in a silk wrap, holding a cup as if it were a scepter.
The woman didn’t smile or wave. She just stared at my Chevrolet in the driveway as if it had personally insulted her mother.
“Morning,” I called up, trying to be polite.
She took her time answering.
“Could you park it somewhere else?” she asked finally, gesturing at my car with two fingers. “It’s ruining my view of the lake.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry, but this is my driveway. I have nowhere else to park.”
“That’s Valerie,” Harold muttered beside me.
Valerie tilted her head, unimpressed.
“Well,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I don’t care. Park that piece of junk somewhere else. I don’t want to see that eyesore from my balcony.”
Then she turned and walked back inside, sliding the balcony door shut with a soft, deliberate click.
It was clear that my new neighbor immediately hated me.
I stood there holding my car keys, feeling that quiet, uneasy tug in my stomach that told me a complaint from a woman like that was never going to be the end of it.
***
