The daily fines kept accumulating.
A neighbor named Doyle Hurst, who lived in the second house uphill from my line and waved at me almost every morning, stopped by that week.
“Is it true they’re fining you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous. Half the board is scared of Celeste.”
Then, on his way back toward his car, Doyle asked if I knew anyone who could look at his water heater.
It had been cutting out on cold nights.
The pilot never seemed happy.
I told him it sounded like it could be a supply or regulator issue and said I would look at it if his supplier gave him trouble.
Doyle thanked me and drove away.
Neither of us said anything about where his fuel came from.
He did not know.
And I still had not decided how much of the situation was mine to explain.
The fines ran for six weeks before I did anything significant.
By the middle of February, the ledger the management company mailed to me showed a balance of $4,800.
The statement was itemized, which I found almost admirable.
The original assessment appeared on the first line.
Every following day had its own row, date, and $100 charge, marching down two full pages like a fever chart.
Along with the statement came a demand letter containing four directives.
Each one bothered me more than the fine itself.
Cease all use of the fuel-storage system.
Disconnect the piping associated with it.
Remove all commercial equipment, materials, and vehicles from the property-line area.
Provide the association’s agent access to the rear of the parcel for an inspection within ten days.
I want to be careful here because people often tell stories like this and turn the other side into cartoons.
Celeste was not stupid.
She ran meetings on time.
She published minutes.
She had gotten the retention pond dredged after two previous boards kept postponing it.
There were residents of Cedar Hollow who genuinely liked her.
That was part of what made her dangerous.
Every step she took against me arrived as paperwork with a section number attached.
Certified mail.
Logged records.
Board votes.
Summaries handed to people who trusted her because reading the underlying documents was tedious and Celeste was very good at telling people what she claimed those documents said.
When she finally decided to describe me publicly, she did it during a regular monthly association meeting.
The agenda item was one she had written herself.
I attended that meeting.
I had never gone to one before because I did not pay Cedar Hollow dues and did not vote in Cedar Hollow elections.
But the notice at the mailbox cluster listed Item Seven as “Fuel Storage Nonconformity at the Southern Boundary.”
I decided I would rather hear what was said than hear about it afterward.
The clubhouse smelled like carpet glue and coffee.
About thirty people sat on folding chairs.
Three board members sat behind a card table at the front, while Graham Pike remained off to one side with his laptop open.
I took a seat in the back row wearing a clean flannel shirt.
Tessa Monroe gave me a small nod I could not interpret.
When Item Seven began, Celeste stood.
She was the only board member who stood for any agenda item all night.
She told the room the association had been working patiently with the owner of the adjacent parcel for more than two months.
She said the property was being used as what she called a “makeshift commercial fuel operation” directly beside a residential community.