Richard’s harassment became part of the rhythm of summer.
Letters.
Complaints.
Surveyors near boundaries.
One contractor tried entering my property to “inspect navigational clearance.”
I sent him away.
Then Richard arrived personally.
Late May.
Beautiful afternoon.
I sat on my porch with coffee.
His silver speedboat entered the cove too fast.
He stopped near my dock.
Did not tie up.
Engine idling.
“Hastings!”
I stayed seated.
“What?”
Richard held up a checkbook.
“I’m trying to solve this.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Ten thousand was insulting.”
“I understand.”
“It wasn’t insulting.”
“It was irrelevant.”
He ignored that.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“No.”
“Fifty.”
“No.”
Richard stared.
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t remove that bridge for fifty thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like the bridge.”
That seemed to offend him more than any legal argument.
Richard looked toward the island.
“You barely use it.”
“I use it enough.”
“You’re obstructing the lake for everybody because of sentimentality.”
“No.”
“I’m refusing to destroy private property because strangers bought oversized boats.”
His face reddened.
“This lake belongs to the community now.”
I stood.
“No.”
“That is where you and I disagree.”
Richard laughed.
“You think because your family was here first, you own the water?”
“No.”
“I think because I own this land, I own this land.”
He pointed toward the bridge.
“That thing is coming down eventually.”
“Not while I’m alive.”
“We’ll see.”
Then he accelerated away.
His wake slammed my dock.
Coffee spilled across the porch rail.
I watched him disappear.
That was the first time I took the original 1928 deed from the basement chest and reread the hydrological clause.
Not because I planned revenge.
Because Richard had finally convinced me he would not stop.
The Fourth of July gala proved it.
The Reserve spent money as if subtlety were illegal.
Floating lights.
Outdoor stage.
Caterers.
Temporary bars.
Fireworks scheduled after dark.
The marina filled with boats.
Music echoed across the lake.
I stayed home.
By four in the afternoon, I had closed most of the windows.
Then I heard the engine.
Large.
Deep.
Far too large for the southern cove.
I walked outside.
The yacht appeared around the point.
Forty-two feet.
Twin engines.
White hull.
Chrome railings.
Upper sun deck.
Dozens of people aboard.
I actually laughed when I first saw it.
It looked absurd.
Like someone had placed a coastal cruiser into a farm pond.
Then I saw Richard at the controls.
My amusement disappeared.
He was heading directly toward the bridge.
I went to the shoreline.
“Richard!”
No response.
“Turn around!”
People on the yacht looked toward me.
Richard did too.
“You won’t clear it!”
Richard slowed slightly.
Then accelerated again.
I cannot prove what he intended.