The Man in the Old Farmhouse
Three weeks earlier, Cynthia Vale had no idea who I was.
I preferred it that way.
My name is Daniel Mercer.
I was sixty-one years old, and for most of my adult life, people in the county knew me because of the courthouse.
On the bench, I was Judge Mercer.
At home, I was simply Daniel.
And the old farmhouse west of Cedar Ridge was home in a way no other place had ever been.
My great-grandfather, Samuel Mercer, bought the first piece of that land in 1919 after returning from World War I.
It wasn't forty-six acres then.
It was barely twenty.
Over the decades, he bought neighboring parcels whenever farmers decided to sell. My grandfather added another twelve acres. My father kept the property together through droughts, storms, recessions, and every developer who promised him enough money to make a farmer reconsider the meaning of ownership.
By the time the property passed to me, it covered forty-six acres.
There was a creek near the southern boundary.
Old oak trees lined the county road.
A barn leaned slightly east because of a storm in 1987.
And the two-story farmhouse looked worn from the road but remained structurally sound.
My father lived there until the final year of his life.
After he died, I kept the property but spent less time there.
Work was demanding.
Settling his estate was worse.
For nearly two years, I visited mostly on weekends.
Grass grew high.
Paint peeled from the porch columns.
A section of fence collapsed during a storm.
From the polished entrance of Cedar Ridge, I suppose the Mercer farmhouse looked abandoned.
But looking abandoned and being abandoned are not the same thing.
Neither are looking poor and being poor.
Cedar Ridge had been built decades after my family purchased the land.
Large brick houses.
Stone monuments.
Decorative street lamps.
Landscaped medians.
A clubhouse with a resort-style pool.
Homes there sold for prices my great-grandfather would have considered insane.
When Cedar Ridge was first developed, my father dealt with the builders.
They wanted to purchase our land.
He refused.
Then they wanted an access easement.
He refused that too.
The developers eventually redesigned the neighborhood so its western edge stopped at our property line.
The recorded subdivision plat showed it clearly.
There was never a dispute.
Not until Cynthia.
I moved back into the farmhouse in early spring.
I wasn't retiring.
I simply decided I was tired of visiting my family home like a guest.
The first few days were peaceful.
Then, on my fourth morning, I was replacing a rotten fence post when a white SUV slowed on the county road.
The vehicle stopped beside my driveway.
A woman stepped out.
Early fifties.
Perfectly styled blond hair.
White blouse.
Dark slacks.
Large sunglasses.
Clipboard.
She walked toward me without introducing herself.
Her eyes went first to my muddy boots.
Then my old Ford pickup.
Then the farmhouse.
"Are you the caretaker?"
I looked up from the level in my hand.
"No."
She waited.
"The contractor?"
"No."
Her eyebrows tightened.
"Then who authorized you to work here?"
"Nobody."
That answer made her smile.
Not warmly.
Triumphantly.
"That's what I thought."
I set the level on the fence rail.
"Nobody authorized me because nobody needs to."
Her smile disappeared.
"I'm Cynthia Vale."
She paused.
"President of the Cedar Ridge Homeowners Association."
"Daniel Mercer."
She waited for recognition.
It never came.
She gestured toward the fence post.
"You can't make exterior structural changes without architectural approval."
"This property isn't part of Cedar Ridge."
"Everything inside our development boundary is subject to community standards."
"Show me the boundary."
Her expression changed.
"Excuse me?"
"You said I'm inside your development boundary. Show me."
She laughed.
"I don't carry subdivision plats around in my vehicle."
"Then how do you know?"
"Mr. Mercer, I don't have time to educate you on property law."
That line nearly made me smile.
I'd spent twenty-seven years practicing law before becoming a judge.