Karen Proudly Called Wildlife Officers on My Fishing — Her Face Dropped When They Shook My Hand
Chapter 2
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After the funeral, I turned in my badge, drove back to Blackwater Hollow, and didn't leave for two months. I fished. I sat on the dock Connie loved and watched the water change color with the sky.There's a family of great blue herons that nest in the dead sycamore on the north shore. Connie called them the bishops because they stood so still and tall, like they were presiding over the lake. I'd watch them hunt in the shallows at dawn and feel like she was still there, just out of sight, just past the treeline.I let my beard grow. I wore the same canvas jacket until the seams split. I looked like exactly what Brenda Faulkner assumed I was: a broke old hillbilly with a fishing rod and no future.That's when Ridgewater Commons showed up.Three years ago, a Nashville development company called Crestline Properties bought two hundred acres of soybean fields on the ridge above my east fence line and turned it into a gated luxury subdivision: Ridgewater Commons. Sixty-two homes, stone facades, heated garages, HOA fees of $550 a month. They got a saltwater infinity pool, a yoga pavilion, and a clubhouse with a bourbon bar.What they didn't get was a lake.And mine was right there. Visible from every lot on the east slope, sparkling through the treeline like a secret the marketing brochures forgot to include.Brenda Faulkner knocked on my door on a Wednesday morning in March. She introduced herself as the president of the Ridgewater Commons Homeowners Association: blonde highlights, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head, linen blazer over running shoes, clipboard in one hand, and a realtor smile that never reached her eyes. She smelled like lavender hand cream and HOA regulations."Mr. Mercer," she said, leaning past me to look into my kitchen like she was pricing the cabinets. "The residents of Ridgewater Commons would love shared recreational access to your lake: kayaking, paddleboarding, catch-and-release fishing. It would really elevate property values for everyone."I told her no, politely. The lake is on my deed. It's spring-fed from my own land. It's not a community amenity; it's my home.She looked me up and down—the frayed canvas jacket, the mud on my boots, the coffee stain on my collar—and her smile tightened. "You're sitting on something the entire community could enjoy, Mr. Mercer. One old man with a fishing pole hoarding a whole lake. That's not very neighborly."She turned and walked back to her white Range Rover without waiting for an answer.The next morning, I found a laminated sign zip-tied to my gate:Ridgewater Commons Lake Access Trail. The arrow pointed straight down my private road.I cut the zip ties, snapped the sign over my knee, and put it in the burn barrel. Didn't call anyone. Didn't file a complaint. Just made a mental note and went back to my coffee.