I didn't tell anyone in Briarwood Glen that I was the chief. I wear jeans and a UGA cap on weekends. I drive a 2014 F-150 with the original tailgate dent from a Lowe's parking lot. I keep my badge in my glove compartment. The Cedarvale PD station is 15 minutes east.
None of the new neighbors recognized me, and I didn't see a reason to introduce myself with a title. I'd come to Briarwood Glen to be quiet. Marguerite was a quiet person. I was trying to be more like her. Hadley Lockwood introduced herself 2 weekends after I closed on the house.
She drove a pearl white Mercedes GLE, the same color as the Mustang in my garage, which she would later tell me was providential. She brought a key lime pound cake from the Publix bakery on a flowered porcelain plate. She wore a coral blouse and white capris and gold sandals. She told me she had been HOA president for 9 years and that we just love welcoming new families to Briarwood Glen. I thanked her.
I took the cake. I told her my son and I would enjoy it. She didn't ask what I did for a living. She did ask, twice, about the car in my garage. The first time I told her it was a rebuild project I'd done with my son.
The second time I told her it wasn't for sale. She smiled the way some women smile when they've already decided you're going to change your mind. Three weeks after the pound cake, Hadley's son walked into my garage, uninvited. I was changing the front sway bar bushings on the Mustang. The garage door was up because Georgia in late August does not negotiate temperature.
A muscular kid in white tennis shorts came up my driveway, stopped at the open bay, and said, "Whoa, is that a '68?" His name was Bryson Lockwood, 19, tall, blonde, the kind of boy who walks into rooms expecting people to look at him. I told him it was. I told him I was busy. He stood at the edge of my driveway for 9 more minutes asking me what year the rear end was and whether the carburetor was original. I gave one-word answers.
He left. That evening, Hadley sent me a text. "Sterling, Bryson is obsessed with the Mustang. He turns 19 next month. Whit and I would love to talk about a fair purchase.
Could we come over Saturday?" I wrote back, "Not for sale. Thank you for the cake." She wrote back 9 seconds later. "Sterling, every car is for sale. Let's just have a conversation." I didn't reply. She came to my door anyway on Saturday morning with Whit.
He was bigger than I remembered. Mid-50s, salt and pepper, polo over khakis. He had the wide, calm handshake of a commercial real estate developer who's used to closing deals at the country club. He told me he'd be willing to write a check that day for $25,000. I told him the car wasn't for sale.
He raised it to 35. I told him it wasn't for sale. He paused. He nodded slowly. He smiled the way men smile when they're about to start charging interest.