“No.”
A murmur moved through the small crowd.
She stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m fishing.”
“You are trespassing.”
“No.”
“If you refuse to leave, I will call security.”
“Okay.”
She blinked.
People usually became nervous when she said security.
This man looked almost bored.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
He adjusted his line.
“I think the bass aren’t biting.”
Her face flushed.
The man in the golf shirt behind her whispered something to another neighbor.
More people were watching now.
That changed the President’s posture.
She stood straighter.
Public authority required public performance.
She raised the phone.
“Security.”
The Homeowner continued fishing.
“Yes,” she said into the phone. “We have an unauthorized individual at the east shoreline.”
The Homeowner smiled faintly.
Unauthorized individual.
Not neighbor.
Not resident.
Not homeowner.
Interesting.
She continued.
“He is refusing to leave.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Gray shirt. Orange shorts.”
She glanced toward him.
“No, I don’t recognize him.”
The Homeowner actually laughed.
The President lowered the phone slightly.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re being deliberately disrespectful.”
He looked at her.
“I haven’t raised my voice.”
“That does not mean you’re being cooperative.”
“I’m not required to cooperate with a false claim.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You people always think rules don’t apply when someone questions you.”
The lawn became silent.
Even the Homeowner’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“You people?”
The President immediately realized the phrase had landed badly.
“I mean trespassers.”
“You’ve already decided I’m one.”
“You refuse to identify yourself.”
“You never asked my name.”
She opened her mouth.
Stopped.
The Homeowner continued.
“You asked whether I lived here.”
“That is identification.”
“No.”
“It’s classification.”
The President folded her arms.
“This conversation is over.”
“Good.”
She stared.
He turned back toward the lake.
A security cart appeared around the curve.
Two uniformed private security officers rode inside.
Behind them came another vehicle.
A white security SUV.
The Homeowner noticed immediately.
Supervisor.
Better.
The golf cart stopped.
A younger Security Officer stepped out first.
The Supervisor followed from the SUV.
Mid-forties.
Professional posture.
Tablet in one hand.
He had worked in Briarwood Shores almost three years.
He recognized the Homeowner.
That fact became obvious immediately.
“Good morning, sir.”
The HOA President turned sharply.
“You know him?”
The Supervisor looked from her to the fisherman.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How?”
The Supervisor hesitated.
“He’s a resident.”