“I relocated an obstruction,” she said. “And I am protecting an asset. If you had a car like this, you would understand. You don’t. So you can pick yours up at the impound when the meeting is over. The fee is your problem. You parked where the board needed access.”
There was no access issue. The community center had a door on the other side of its own lot. Our driveway did not lead to the pool gate. It led to our kitchen. I said that. She rolled her eyes, a heavy sigh I would come to know the way you know a neighbor’s wind chime, and told me I was interrupting important neighborhood business. She walked only as far as the opener on the wall, pressed it, watched the door try to come down on her trunk, and stopped it with the heel of her hand.
“Leave it up,” she said. “I’ll be two hours. If you scratch the paint moving anything, the board will bill you.”
My wife came to the side door in her robe. She took in the white car, the empty driveway, the woman in the blazer. She did not raise her voice. That has always been worse, with her, than shouting. “Whose car is in our garage?” she said.
“The association’s interest,” Karen said, which was not an answer. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make a scene. People are arriving.”