Chapter 1
All I wanted was a quiet place where my daughter and I could finally feel at home. Instead, after moving in, I found myself facing someone determined to make our lives miserable.
The moving truck pulled away just after 2 p.m. I stood in the driveway with a cardboard box balanced on my hip, staring up at the little house that was suddenly mine.
The paint was peeling in soft curls along the siding. The porch sagged on the left side as if it were leaning in to hear a secret. It wasn't much, but it was ours.
The moving truck pulled away.
My eight-year-old daughter, Olivia, had already kicked off her sneakers and was running barefoot through the tall grass out back. Her arms stretched wide as if she were greeting the lake itself.
"Mom, there's a frog," she yelled. "A real one! I named him Kevin!"
"Kevin the frog stays outside," I called back, laughing. "He's a wild animal."
"He's my best friend now!"
"I named him Kevin!"
I set the box down on the porch step and let myself breathe.
My dad had left the lake house to me when he passed away six months earlier. For the first time in years as a single mother, I wasn't writing a rent check to someone else.
We'd lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment for so long that Olivia thought a hallway was a luxury.
Now she had a yard, Kevin, and a room with a window that faced actual trees.
I wasn't writing a rent check.
The gravel driveway crunched under my sneakers as I walked back to the car.
It ran narrow along the side of the house, just wide enough for my old blue Chevrolet. The driveway was the only place to park. No garage. No side lot. Just that strip of gravel.
"Well, look who finally got here."
I turned and saw an older man in a faded cap leaning on the fence between our yards.
It ran narrow along the side.
He had a kind, weathered face and an easy stance.
"Hello, I'm Harold," he said. "Your dad and I used to fish off that dock back there. He talked about you all the time. He mentioned you'd get the house."
"Samantha," I said, walking over to shake his hand.
"And that barefoot tornado is Olivia."
"He talked about you all the time."
"She's a keeper," my new neighbor said with a smile.
He nodded toward the porch.
"That railing's about ready to give up on life. I've got tools. You just say the word."
"You don't have to do that."
"Retired contractor, ma'am. If I don't fix things, I go stir-crazy."
I laughed, and some of the tension eased.
Then I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck when someone is watching you.
"You just say the word."
I looked up the slope.
The house next to mine sat higher than the rest of the street. It was large and beautiful, and on the second-floor balcony overlooking the lake stood a woman in a silk wrap, holding a cup as if it were a scepter.
The woman didn't smile or wave. She just stared at my Chevrolet in the driveway as if it had personally insulted her mother.
"Morning," I called up, trying to be polite.
She took her time answering.
The woman didn't smile or wave.
"Could you park it somewhere else?" she asked finally, gesturing at my car with two fingers. "It's ruining my view of the lake."
I blinked.
"I'm sorry, but this is my driveway. I have nowhere else to park."
"That's Valerie," Harold muttered beside me.
"Good luck with that one."
Valerie tilted her head, unimpressed.
"It's ruining my view."
"Well," she said, rolling her eyes, "I don't care. Park that piece of junk somewhere else. I don't want to see that eyesore from my balcony."
Then she turned and walked back inside, sliding the balcony door shut with a soft, deliberate click.
It was clear that my new neighbor immediately hated me.
I stood there holding my car keys, feeling that quiet, uneasy tug in my stomach that told me a complaint from a woman like that was never going to be the end of it.
"I don't care."
***
Sure enough, three days after that first balcony exchange, I was checking the mailbox at the end of my gravel driveway when I heard heels crunching behind me. I already knew who it was before I turned around.
Valerie had swapped the cup for a designer tote, but the expression was the same.
"We need to talk about your vehicle," she said.
"We really don't," I replied, pulling a stack of envelopes out of the mailbox. "It's parked on my property."
I already knew who it was.
"It's hideous," Valerie replied.
My face turned red.
"Does my car really bother you that much?"
My neighbor stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, then looked me up and down.
"Let me be clear with you, sweetheart. Maybe people like you don't belong in a neighborhood like this. Normal, wealthy people live here. Not single moms in rusted-out Chevrolets."
Then looked me up and down.
I was livid!
"My daughter and I live here now," I said. "You'll have to get used to the view."
"We'll see about that."
She walked off, her heels clicking, and I stood there staring at a water bill until my hands stopped shaking.
I didn't know Olivia had heard until dinner.
***
My daughter was pushing peas around her plate when she looked up and asked, very calmly, "Mom, why does that lady hate us?"
"We'll see about that."
"She doesn't hate us, sweetheart."
"She said we don't belong."
I set my fork down. She was so young, and she'd already learned to read between grown-up lines.
"Some people think a nice view is more important than being nice," I told her. "That's their problem, not ours."
"But you looked sad."
"I wasn't sad. I was thinking."
"She said we don't belong."
Olivia chewed slowly. "About what?"
"About how proud Grandpa would be that we live in his house."
That got a small smile out of her, and I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn't.
***
The following afternoon, Harold came up the walk with a plate of cookies wrapped in cling film and the world's most conspicuously casual expression.
I thought that was the end of it.
"A small welcome to the neighborhood gift," he said, holding them out. "My late wife's recipe. She'd want the new neighbors to have them."
"You didn't have to."
"I know. Can I sit for a minute?"
I waved him toward the porch steps. Olivia was inside coloring, but I noticed her ear tilt toward the screen door the second Harold sat down.
"Can I sit for a minute?"
"So," he said, setting his hat beside him. "Valerie."
"You heard."
"Ma'am, half the street heard. She's not exactly a whisperer."
I laughed in spite of everything.
"She's done this before," Harold continued. "Two families in five years. Both left. She has a way of making people feel like renters in their own homes."
"Wonderful."
"She's not exactly a whisperer."
"Here's the thing." My new neighbor glanced at me sideways. "That balcony of hers? Not permitted. The stone wall along her side yard? Sitting three feet into the public easement land. Those fancy statues by her walkway? Also on the easement. Her contractor doesn't have a license in this state."
I stared at him.
"How do you know all that?"
"Because I've been keeping a file, ma'am. I was your dad's friend for 30 years. He asked me once to keep an eye on things over here if anything ever happened to him. I've been documenting everything for years."
"How do you know all that?"
"Mr. Harold..."
"Just Harold's fine."
"Why are you telling me this?"
He picked up a cookie, examined it, then put it back down.
"Because you're going to need it. Document everything, Samantha. Every conversation. Every look. Get it time-stamped. Don't confront her. Don't yell. Just record it."
I nodded slowly.
From inside the house, I heard a crayon stop moving.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Harold stood up, and tipped his cap at me. Halfway down the walk, he turned back.
"And keep parking that Chevy right where it is. That's your driveway."
I did. What else was I supposed to do? Park it on the road?
***
That night, I sat on the edge of Olivia's bed, tucking her quilt under her chin the way she liked.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, baby."
He turned back.
"I've been thinking," my daughter started.
"That's dangerous."
She giggled, then went quiet. Her eyes had that focused look she got when she was working something out.
"I have an idea," she said.
"About what?"
"About the lady."
I brushed her hair back. "Sweetheart, you don't need to worry about the lady. That's my job."
"That's dangerous."
"I'm not worried," Olivia yawned, big and theatrical. "I just had an idea."
"Olivia, what idea?"
But she'd already rolled toward the wall, pulling the quilt up over her shoulder, and within ten seconds her breathing had gone soft and even.
May you like
I sat there for a long time, staring at the back of my daughter's head, wondering what on earth an eight-year-old could be planning. Kevin croaked with curiosity.
"I'm not worried."
