Mercer Point

When developers first began buying land around Lake Alder, they came to my grandfather with money.

They came once.

Then again.

Then again.

Each time, the number grew larger.

My father thought Grandpa was being stubborn. My mother thought he was being sentimental. I was sixteen, and I thought he was simply impossible.

Grandpa never argued with them.

He would listen, thank them for the offer, and walk them back to their cars.

Then he would stand at the edge of the lake with his hands in the pockets of his old work jacket.

One afternoon, after another developer had driven away in a black SUV, I asked him why he kept refusing.

He looked across the water.

“A lake teaches you what people are willing to ruin for a view.”

I laughed.

“I don't understand.”

“You will.”

I didn't.

Not then.

Mercer Point was not impressive by modern standards.

It was nearly two hours from the city, on the western bend of Lake Alder. The shoreline was rough and natural. Pines crowded the bank. Wild grass grew almost to the water. There was an old cedar boathouse with a roof that leaked whenever it rained hard.

There were no stone walls.

No decorative lights.

No paved roads.

No security cameras.

No luxury docks.

Just trees, water, silence, and an old dirt road.

Grandpa loved it that way.

He taught me how to fish there. He taught me how to repair fences, patch the boathouse, read a weather front, and tell the difference between a harmless storm and one that could bring down trees.

But his most important lesson was one he never formally taught.

He kept records.

Every deed.

Every survey.

Every tax receipt.

Every boundary description.

Every agreement.

He kept copies of everything in a metal filing cabinet inside the boathouse.

When he died years later, Mercer Point passed into the family trust and eventually to me.

By then, I lived two hours away and worked as a project consultant for commercial developments.

My days were filled with budgets, schedules, permits, subcontractors, engineering plans, change orders, and construction disputes.

I knew how projects worked.

More importantly, I knew how expensive assumptions could become.

That was why what happened at Mercer Point still shocks me.

I paid the property taxes.

I maintained the insurance.

I checked the property several times a year.

Otherwise, I left it alone.

That was what Grandpa wanted.

Quiet.

Natural.

Unimproved.

Protected by trees, distance, and paperwork.

For years, that was enough.

Then Holloway Shores arrived.

And with it came Linda Holloway.

The Woman Behind the Vision

Holloway Shores was the kind of community that advertised itself with photographs instead of addresses.

Wide private roads.

Stone entrance pillars.

Perfect lawns.

Custom-built houses.

A clubhouse.

Tennis courts.

Decorative lighting.

Expensive landscaping.

And, of course, a promise of an exclusive lakeside lifestyle.

There was only one problem.