Chapter 5 - The Man Who Wanted a Perfect ViewBrent's attorney arrived on Monday morning.
He drove a black SUV and carried a leather briefcase. His name was Michael Reeves, and he wore the expression of a man who had never lost an argument in a conference room.
Brent met him at the property line.
They walked along the fence, stopping every few yards to examine the garden.
Dad kept working.
He was tying tomato vines to stakes when the two men approached.
“Mr. Lindqvist,” Reeves began, “I'm here to discuss a possible resolution before this matter becomes more complicated.”
“Good morning.”
“My client has concerns about the use of your land.”
“So I've heard.”
“Perhaps we can find a way to reduce the activity.”
Dad tied another vine.
“What activity?”
Reeves glanced toward the driveway.
“The frequent arrivals. The crates. The distribution of produce. The storage of materials. This is a residential neighborhood.”
Dad stood.
“People come here, take vegetables, and leave. Nobody pays me. Nobody works for me. What's the problem?”
“Your neighbor purchased his property based on reasonable expectations about the surrounding environment.”
Dad looked at Brent.
“What expectations were those?”
Brent folded his arms.
“Quiet. Privacy. A maintained neighborhood.”
Dad gestured toward the garden.
“It's quiet most days. There's no music, no machinery, no late-night noise. The vegetables are maintained.”
“It's visibly agricultural,” Brent replied. “That is the problem.”
I had come outside carrying a bucket of harvested potatoes.
I stopped beside Dad.
“Then why did you buy a house next to farmland?”
Brent looked at me.
“The property wasn't being operated this way when I bought mine.”
“It was exactly this way.”
He turned back to Dad.
“I'm trying to be reasonable. If you agree to stop distributing produce from this location, I'll withdraw my private complaints.”
“You can't make the county withdraw its notice,” I said.
“No. But I can stop filing additional complaints.”
Reeves lifted a hand.
“Let's keep this productive.”
Dad rested both hands on the top of his hoe.
“Suppose I stop. What happens to the food?”
“I'm sure there are organizations equipped to handle that.”
“Which ones?”
Reeves hesitated.
Dad continued.
“Teresa drives to three different towns every week. The senior center doesn't have the money to replace everything we grow. The pantry has limited cold storage. Some of these people can't drive.”
“Those are operational questions,” the attorney replied.
“They're human questions,” Dad said.
For the first time, Reeves seemed to have no prepared answer.
Brent looked past us toward the rows of tomatoes.
“You're making this personal.”
“You started it by calling the garden an eyesore.”
“I described what I saw.”
Dad nodded.
“Then look harder.”
The attorney closed his briefcase.
“My client is prepared to consider a temporary accommodation, provided you sign an agreement limiting the number of visitors and restricting organized distribution.”
“How many visitors?” I asked.
“Five per day.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
“There are forty-seven households.”
“Then they'll need to make alternative arrangements.”
Dad stared at the lawyer.
“No.”
Reeves raised his eyebrows.
“No to the proposal?”
“No to pretending this is a scheduling problem.”
Dad pointed toward the vegetables.
“Those plants don't care about anybody's property value. They don't know a wealthy family from a poor one. They grow when you give them water and sunlight.”
He paused.
“If you want me to stop, you'll have to do it through the proper process. But don't ask me to make hungry people disappear so someone can enjoy an empty view.”
Brent flushed.
“You are deliberately making me sound cruel.”
“No,” Dad replied. “I'm telling you what stopping this would actually mean.”
The attorney gathered his papers.
“We'll proceed through formal channels.”
They walked away.
I thought the meeting was over.
Then Reeves stopped beside the mailbox and turned toward us.
“One other matter. My client has commissioned a property survey because he is considering improvements along the boundary.”
“Improvements?” I repeated.
“A retaining wall and privacy landscaping.”
Brent gave a thin smile.
“Something appropriate for the neighborhood.”
The survey stakes arrived that afternoon.
They appeared along the edge of Dad's property, painted bright orange, with little ribbons snapping in the wind.
I found Dad studying them after dinner.
“Can he build a wall there?”
“Depends on the property lines and the permits.”
“Would it block the garden?”
“Part of it.”
“How much?”
He pointed toward the eastern rows.
“Those beans. The lower tomato beds. Maybe the irrigation line.”
I felt anger rise in my chest.
“He knows exactly what he's doing.”
Dad looked at the stakes.
“Maybe.”
“You can't keep giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.”
He bent down and pulled a weed from the soil.
“Your mother used to say that people often do the worst things when they're frightened of looking weak.”
“And what do you say?”
He tossed the weed into a bucket.
“I say being frightened doesn't give you permission to hurt people.”
That evening, I noticed a light on in Brent's kitchen.
A woman stood near the window, holding a framed photograph.
For a second, she looked toward the garden.
Then she drew the curtains.
I recognized the photograph.
It showed an elderly woman with silver hair sitting on a hospital bed.
Agnes Whitaker.
Brent's mother.
May you like
The next morning, I would discover why the new neighbor had been so determined to keep the garden out of sight.
And it had nothing to do with the vegetables.
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