The unauthorized vehicle was my truck. The common area was my driveway.
I read the letter twice, once standing in the doorway and again at the kitchen counter beside a cup of coffee. The wording was impressive in its impersonation of inevitability. It did not explain why a private driveway constituted common area, identify an actual recorded easement, or enclose the rule it claimed I had broken. It simply informed me that the fact had been established and the money was owed.
For almost thirty years I had worked with documents drafted by people who hoped the appearance of certainty would substitute for evidence. A demand looks stronger when it is printed on heavy paper. A signature looks more official when the ink is blue. A laurel wreath on a letterhead can persuade a frightened person that the person writing beneath it has rights she has not actually been given. I recognized the technique, even if I did not yet understand why someone wanted to use it against me.
I found the association packet from the closing and laid it beside the notice. The copy of the recorded subdivision plan showed the road, the pool, the narrow landscaped median near the entrance, and the small neighborhood park as common elements. My driveway was drawn entirely within my property boundary. The declarations described restrictions on parking certain kinds of vehicles, but nothing I read remotely suggested that the association owned my driveway or could forbid the homeowner from unloading an ordinary pickup truck on it.
I could have sent a letter that afternoon. I could have called Patricia Voss and asked her to point to the exact language she believed gave her that authority. Instead, I set the papers in a folder labeled PROPERTY and decided to finish inspecting the house before I spent another hour arguing over the meaning of words. It was a practical choice that turned out to be wise for reasons I could not have imagined.
I had not opened the garage since the inspection before closing.
During that inspection the door had been lowered, the power was disconnected temporarily, and a representative of the seller had assured us that the contents would be removed before possession. The final walk-through had been rushed because the listing agent was late and the air-conditioning was out. I had seen the garage from the doorway, noticed several indistinct shapes beneath covers, and accepted the written promise that the space would be empty when I arrived. Looking back, I cannot explain why I accepted that. Years of practice teach you to distrust assertions; buying a house apparently persuades you to forget the lesson.
The garage door climbed its tracks with a long mechanical complaint. Morning light came in from behind me, slid across the concrete floor, and illuminated a room that looked nothing like the storage space of a house awaiting its new owner. A white golf cart with a green stripe sat directly in the center, facing outward. Behind it stood plastic tubs stacked four high against the back wall. A folding table was leaned beside six metal chairs, a pressure washer, two swimming-pool skimmers, and a stack of artificial greenery shaped like Christmas wreaths.
There was a full-size refrigerator against the side wall.