She grinned as our cars were towed, certain she’d won her little war of suburbia. But by sunrise, she stood frozen on her porch, staring down the fallout of a $25,000 mistake she’d never forget.
Jack and I had only spent one night in the rental—a modest, single-story home in a sleepy suburb. Tan bricks, green shutters, a lawn that hadn’t seen a sprinkler in months. It was nothing permanent, just a temporary spot for a work assignment. We barely had the coffee maker unpacked when the doorbell rang.
Jack groaned. “We don’t even have curtains yet.”
At the door stood a woman in a pastel pink cardigan, headband to match, and a tray of chocolate chip cookies so pristine they looked store-bought. Her smile was bright, but her eyes were working overtime, scanning behind me like she expected a crime scene in our kitchen.
“I’m Lindsey, from across the street! Just wanted to welcome you two!” she chirped.
We thanked her, but the cookies came with a side of control. “Just a quick thing,” she added, sweetly, “our HOA only allows one car in the driveway per household. It’s about keeping the neighborhood tidy.”
