By the time we reached our porch, two couples were already walking home.
A few minutes later, another neighbor left carrying a folding chair.
Vanessa’s barbecue hadn’t ended, but the mood had.
For about 40 minutes, I felt wonderful.
Then I started wondering what Vanessa would do after losing in front of half the neighborhood.
For about 40 minutes, I felt wonderful.
The answer began with petty things.
A complaint about Irvin running the lawn mower at noon. An anonymous note about our trash cans being visible from the street. Irritating, but harmless.
Then the real threat arrived.
I stood in my kitchen and read the letter twice.
Vanessa had found a way to hit me where it hurt. I had to stop all commercial food operations from our property pending a compliance review.
The answer began with petty things.
My bakery.
I had food permits. I had passed inspections.
What I didn’t have, I discovered after several frantic phone calls, was approval to use the converted garage itself for commercial activity.
Irvin had renovated it for me years earlier.
A contractor had handled the work, and we had both believed the paperwork was complete.
“I thought it was done,” Irvin said, pale as he held the letter. “Claire, I swear.”
My bakery.
