I did not think anything of it beyond that. I should have known better, perhaps. In a neighbourhood like ours, anything that draws the eye also draws attention, and not all attention is friendly. But on that first afternoon, with Rachel home and the sandwiches on the kitchen table and the Porsche gleaming in the drive, I was not thinking about the association or its board or its rules. I was thinking about how Margaret would have loved to see Rachel pull in like that, proud and sure of herself, and how she would have said, "Look at our girl," in that soft voice she used when she was proudest.
That evening, after supper, Rachel and I sat on the screened porch with iced tea, and she told me about the company. Eighteen trucks now, she said, and a new dispatcher who was working out well, and a contract renewal coming up that she felt good about. She talked about her drivers the way I used to talk about my crew, with affection and a little worry, the way you talk about people you are responsible for. She mentioned Marcus Bell, one of her drivers, who had been with her for six years and who she trusted with the hardest calls. She talked about the county roads, the storms, the long nights. She did not brag. She never has. She just told me what was true, and I listened, and I was proud in the quiet way a father is proud when his child has become a steady adult.
"How long can you stay?" I asked.
"A week," she said. "Maybe a little more if the office holds together. I told the dispatcher not to call unless a truck is on fire, and even then, only if it's a big fire."
"That sounds like a fair rule," I said.
We sat there until the mosquitoes found us, and then we went inside, and Rachel went to the spare room, and I went to my own room, and the house felt less empty than it had in a long while. I slept well that night, the way you sleep when something you have been waiting for has finally arrived.
The next morning, day two of her visit, I was out in the front yard with a broom, sweeping the oak leaves off the walk, when I heard the sound of sensible shoes on pavement and a clipboard tapping against a palm. I looked up, and there she was: Carol Beckett, president of the Harbor Pointe Estates homeowners association, walking up my driveway with the air of a woman on official business. She was fifty-eight, neat as a pin, hair set, sunglasses perched on her head, a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. She had been president for four years, and she had a way of making a routine visit feel like an inspection. She had once been a real-estate office manager, and she still carried herself like someone who was about to show you a house you could not afford.
"Good morning, Tom," she said, with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Morning, Carol," I said. I leaned the broom against the porch rail. "What brings you by?"
She glanced at the Porsche, and her smile tightened a fraction. "I see you have a visitor," she said.
"My daughter Rachel," I said. "She's here for the week."
"Yes," Carol said. "I noticed the vehicle." She made a note on her clipboard, with a pen that clicked loudly. "Tom, I'm afraid I need to bring something to your attention. The association has a rule about luxury vehicles on display in driveways. A vehicle of this type, parked in full view of the street, is considered a display, and it is not permitted under the community standards."
I blinked. "A display?" I said. "Carol, it's my daughter's car. She drove it here. It's parked in my driveway, where cars are parked."
Carol nodded as if she understood, and then she carried on as if I had not spoken. "The rule is in place to preserve the character of the neighbourhood and to avoid attracting unwanted attention. We have had complaints."
"Complaints from whom?" I asked.
She waved a hand, vague as smoke. "Residents have expressed concern. I am not at liberty to name them, but the board takes such concerns seriously."
I looked at the Porsche, and then I looked at Carol, and I tried to keep my voice even. In the fire service, you learn to stay calm when somebody is telling you something that does not make sense, because raising your voice never puts a fire out faster. "Carol," I said, "I have lived here eleven years. I have read the rules. I do not recall any rule about what kind of car a visitor can park in a driveway."