Lily waited until Vanessa disappeared.
Then whispered:
“I don’t like her.”
“Neither do I.”
“Can I say that?”
“Only quietly.”
Lily nodded seriously.
“I quietly don’t like her a lot.”
That was day one.
By day five, Vanessa had placed three small signs along the water.
PRIVATE SHORELINE — COLE PROPERTY
One stood less than ten feet from my dock.
I took a photograph.
Then pulled it out.
The next morning, it was back.
This time set in concrete.
I called her.
She answered immediately.
“Claire.”
“You put a concrete marker in my yard.”
“On the boundary.”
“You don’t know where the boundary is.”
“I do.”
“Then send me the survey.”
Silence.
“I don’t need to provide you with my private property documents.”
“You do if you’re putting signs on what appears to be mine.”
She sighed.
“You’re making this unnecessarily adversarial.”
I almost laughed.
“You poured concrete beside my hydrangeas.”
“They’re barely hydrangeas.”
I looked at the sad little bushes.
That was unfortunately true.
Still.
“Send me the survey.”
“I’ll have my attorney contact you.”
She hung up.
That afternoon, I received an email.
Not from an attorney.
From something called the Cedarbrook Shore Property Association.
It informed me that my “unauthorized use of disputed waterfront” had generated complaints.
It recommended that I “voluntarily suspend lake access” until ownership could be confirmed.
At the bottom was the name:
Vanessa Cole, Association President.
Of course.
I called the association number.
Vanessa answered.
Of course.
My father had kept documents.
Too many documents.
Receipts from 1998.
Manuals for appliances we no longer owned.
Fishing licenses.
Tax notices.
Handwritten lists of people who owed him twenty dollars.
Finding an original property survey should have been easy.
It was not.
I searched the desk.
The attic.
A metal filing cabinet in the basement.
Nothing.
What I did find was a photograph of Dad standing beside the dock twenty-six years earlier.
Beside him stood Vanessa.
Younger.
Dark hair then.
Smiling.
Her arm around my father’s shoulders.
I stared at it.
That changed something.
The next day I carried the photograph next door.
Vanessa opened the door but did not invite me inside.
