Concrete.
Tile border.
Concrete coping.
A separate filtration system.
The project was expensive enough that I kept the invoices in a separate folder.
The county required permits, inspections, drainage review, electrical approval, and a final inspection.
I completed all of it.
The pool was finished in June.
I remember the first evening I swam in it.
The sun was setting.
The concrete was still almost new.
The water was cold enough to make me gasp.
I stood in the middle of the pool and looked toward the house.
For the first time since buying the property, the backyard felt complete.
The pool became part of my life.
Summer dinners.
Weekend mornings.
Friends coming over.
Quiet evenings when I sat on the edge with a book.
I hired a professional pool company to service it every week.
I paid for chemicals.
Filters.
Repairs.
Winterization.
Spring opening.
Nothing about the pool was informal.
Nothing about it was shared.
Then Sandra Fielding moved into 16 Cloverfield Road.
She arrived nine years after I had bought my house.
I remember seeing the moving truck.
She had two children, both under ten, and a husband who seemed to work long hours.
Sandra herself was energetic.
Friendly, at first.
She introduced herself.
She brought over a plate of cookies.
She asked about the neighborhood.
She asked where the nearest grocery store was.
She asked who handled garbage collection.
Normal neighbor questions.
Three months later, she knocked on my door on a Saturday morning.
Her children were standing behind her.
"Rachel?"
"Hi."
"I wanted to ask you something."
"Sure."
She smiled.
"The kids saw your pool."
I already knew where this was going.
"They'd love to swim."
I waited.
"Would you mind if they used it sometimes?"
I should have understood the danger in the word sometimes.
Instead, I thought like a reasonable person.
I imagined two children swimming for an hour on a hot Saturday afternoon while their mother watched them.
So I said:
"Occasionally, with you supervising them, that's fine."
Sandra smiled.
"Really?"
"Sure."
"You're wonderful."
I shrugged.
"It's a pool. I don't mind."
She thanked me.
Two days later, she came back.
"Just checking," she said, "when would be a good time?"
I told her weekends were easiest.
The first few times went exactly as I expected.
Her children swam.
Sandra sat nearby.
They left after an hour or two.
No problem.
Then something changed.
By July, they were coming four days a week.
Sometimes Sandra knocked.
Sometimes she didn't.
One afternoon I came home from work and found her children already in the pool.
I stood at the back gate.
Sandra looked up.
"Oh, hi!"
"Hi."
"We were already here."
I looked at the children.
Then at her.
"Okay."
She smiled.
"I hope that's okay."
I said nothing.
I should have.
But I was not interested in creating tension.
That decision would cost me later.
By August, five days a week had become normal.
Then she began bringing other people.
Her sister.
Her sister's children.
Friends.
Neighbors.
People I had never met.
The pool had quietly changed from something I had permitted occasionally into a neighborhood amenity that Sandra apparently believed she was entitled to distribute.
One Saturday, I returned home and counted eleven people in my backyard.
Eleven.
I stopped at the gate.
Sandra saw me.
"Oh, Rachel! You're back!"
I stared.
"Who are all these people?"
She laughed.
"Some friends."
"You brought eleven people into my backyard?"
"They're just swimming."
I looked around.
There were towels on my patio furniture.
Food wrappers.
Plastic cups.
Someone had placed a speaker beside my pool equipment.
I felt something inside me harden.
"Sandra."
She smiled.
"What?"
"This is too much."
Her expression changed.
"Too much?"
"This was supposed to be occasional."
"It is occasional."
"No."
I pointed toward the pool.
"This is almost every day."
She looked annoyed.
"I thought you didn't mind."
"I don't mind the children swimming sometimes."
"They're children."
"That's not the issue."
She crossed her arms.
"What is the issue?"
"The access."
Sandra looked at me as if I had said something unreasonable.
"I have a key."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"The gate key."
"You have a key?"
"You gave it to me."