"Oh, I found something," I said, handing him the paper.
He squinted at it. "Let me guess: says she's not allowed within ten miles of sanity?"
"Close enough," I said. "Turns out the developers signed away any right to touch this road decades ago. The HOA's been trespassing on a legal no-go zone since day one."
Derek let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned. You planning to frame that?"
"Frame it? I'm going to laminate it, make copies, and mail one to every HOA house with a Christmas card!"
We both burst out laughing.
That afternoon, I decided it was time for a personal delivery. I tucked the laminated copy into a manila folder and drove down toward the Whispering Pines gate.
There she was: Clare Phillips, standing by her mailbox in a pressed linen outfit, talking loudly on her phone about property rights and community vision. When she saw my truck, her smile faltered.
I stepped out, calm as a preacher on Sunday. "Morning, Clare."
She straightened, voice dripping with sugar. "Mr. Rogers, I hope you've come to apologize for the destruction you caused."
"Actually," I said, pulling the folder out, "I brought you something better: a little history lesson."
I handed it to her. She took it with suspicion, flipping through the first page. Her lips moved silently as she read the title. Then her face froze.
"What... what is this?"
"The original easement contract," I said. "Signed in 1976. States that your development had to build its own road and couldn't use mine. Ever."
She looked back at the page like it might rewrite itself if she glared hard enough. "This can't be valid. This... this is ancient!"
"It's notarized," I said. "And still legally binding. County confirmed it this morning."