The Black Homeowner had been outside for exactly twenty-three minutes when the HOA President decided he was a problem.
He knew because the timer on his phone still read thirty-seven minutes remaining.
The Saturday morning had been almost embarrassingly peaceful.
Warm sun.
Low humidity.
A clean breeze moving across the landscaped lawns of the gated North Carolina community.
The large stone fountain near the center green produced a steady rush of water that covered most of the distant sounds from the street.
The Black Homeowner sat in a dark green folding chair beneath the edge of an old maple tree.
He wore navy swim shorts, sunglasses, and nothing else.
A folded towel lay beside him.
A bottle of sparkling water rested in the grass.
A slim black leather folder sat beneath the chair.
His house stood less than sixty yards away.
Three stories.
Brick front.
White columns.
Dark shutters.
One of the largest homes facing the green.
He had moved into it six weeks earlier.
Most of his boxes were finally unpacked.
The dining room still needed furniture.
Two framed prints remained leaning against the hallway wall because he had not decided where to hang them.
But the house was his.
The mortgage company certainly knew it.
The county tax office knew it.
The title company knew it.
The homeowners association had accepted his first quarterly payment.
And the security gate had been programmed with his vehicle registration three weeks earlier.
That should have been enough.
Apparently it was not enough for the HOA President.
He first noticed her because of the sound of heels striking the paved walking path.
Sharp.
Fast.
Deliberate.
He opened his eyes behind the sunglasses.
A blonde white American woman in her early fifties was coming across the grass toward him.
Bright pink blazer.
Matching tailored trousers.
Cream blouse.
Gold necklace.
Expensive sunglasses.
Leather handbag tucked beneath one arm.
She looked less like someone taking a morning walk and more like someone arriving to terminate a meeting.
The Black Homeowner had seen her twice before.
Once near the clubhouse.
Once at the gate.
They had never been formally introduced.
He knew her role because her photograph appeared on the association website beneath the words:
BOARD PRESIDENT.
He closed his eyes again.
Maybe she was going somewhere else.
She was not.
Her heels stopped three feet from his chair.
“Excuse me.”
He opened his eyes.
“Yes?”
She looked down at him.
Then at the towel.
Then the water bottle.
Then the chair.
Her expression tightened.
“Can I ask what you’re doing?”
He glanced around.
The question seemed unusually difficult to misunderstand.
“Sunbathing.”
The HOA President did not smile.
“This is private property.”
“Yes.”
“This green belongs to residents.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
She waited.
Perhaps she expected something else.
When nothing came, she crossed her arms.
“Which resident are you visiting?”
The Black Homeowner slowly removed one earbud.
“I’m not visiting anyone.”
Her expression changed instantly.
There it was.
The conclusion.
“I see.”
He almost smiled.
Apparently she did not.
She looked toward the gate.
“How did you get in?”
“My car.”