"I imagine you do."
"Open the garage."
"That's my garage, Derek. My property, my deed, my locks. You cut my padlock, moved my tools, damaged my motorcycle, and parked three vehicles inside without my knowledge or permission. Some people would call that breaking and entering. I'd call it all three."
His face went from confused to burgundy. "Wendy got a resolution. The board voted."
"Two of seven board members voted. That's not a quorum, that's a coffee date with a clipboard. The resolution is void on its face, and your trucks are trespassing on private property."
"You can't keep my trucks locked up."
"I'm not keeping your trucks locked up, Derek. I'm securing my property. What happens to be inside at the time of securing is a matter for you and your wife to sort out with the judge."
He set the coffee mug down hard enough to slosh over the rim. "You've got 1 hour."
"I've got as long as I want. It's my garage."
He left.
15 minutes later, Wendy arrived. She was in full regalia: white silk blouse with French cuffs and pearl cufflinks on a Saturday morning in a neighborhood where most people were still in bathrobes; tailored cream trousers; Valentino Garavani Rockstud heels in nude patent leather; diamond studs; a Cartier Tank watch; and the Hermès Kelly bag—not the Birkin, the Kelly, the one named after a princess because of course. Tucked under one arm alongside a leather-bound clipboard, she looked like she'd stepped out of a Milan fashion editorial and into my front yard.
Except nothing Wendy did was an accident. Every outfit was a weapon; every accessory was a statement. And the statement was always the same: I am above you, Cole.
"Honey, I think we've had a little miscommunication." She tilted her head with the practiced sympathy of a woman who had rehearsed this smile in front of a mirror and rated it an 8 out of 10. "The board authorized temporary use of your auxiliary structure while you were away. It's all documented. I'd be happy to walk you through it."
"Wendy, I've read the bylaws cover to cover three times. There is no provision for commandeering a private garage. There is no auxiliary structure designation anywhere in the CCNRs. And your resolution was passed without a quorum, without notice, and without notifying the property owner. It's not just invalid, it's fraudulent."
The smile flickered, like a flawless diamond catching an angle that reveals the first scratch. Then it came back wider, more weaponized: the smile of a woman who has spent her entire adult life winning arguments with beauty and authority, and has never once considered the possibility that someone might be immune to both.
"I'm sure we can work this out like adults, Cole. How about I have Derek come by this afternoon?"
"Your husband already came by. He threatened me on my own porch. Here's what I want you to understand, Wendy: your husband cut my padlock, he pushed my workbench and gouged my concrete, he knocked over my tool cabinet and broke my grandfather's marking gauge, he scratched the fuel tank on a motorcycle I've been restoring for 3 years, your family's three trucks are sitting on top of my grandfather's tools right now, and you're standing on my porch in $4,000 shoes and a purse named after a dead princess asking me to be reasonable."
The smile didn't come back this time. What replaced it was the cold porcelain fury of a woman not accustomed to the word no—a woman who treats it when it arrives as a personal insult from someone who doesn't understand the natural order.
"You're going to regret this, Cole. I promise you that."