“Sign these papers right now, or you’re finished.”
Karen Whitmore stood on the edge of the gravel driveway, her hands planted firmly on the hips of her cream-colored blazer. Behind her stood two other members of the Magnolia Heights Homeowners Association, looking like backup muscle in golf polos.
“I’m not signing a damn thing,” the man replied. He didn't even look up from the engine block of the ancient, rust-eaten tractor he was tinkering with. “You and your thugs get off my land.”
Karen’s jaw tightened. She thought she was dealing with a stubborn old dirt farmer. She was wrong, but she wouldn't figure that out until it was far too late.
To Karen, the situation was black and white. She was the president of the Magnolia Heights HOA, a luxury subdivision where homes ranged from $700,000 to well over a million dollars. The streets were lined with pristine magnolia trees, the lawns were manicured to millimeter perfection, and the facades were immaculate brick.
But right in the dead center of it all sat Daniel Reeves.
His farmhouse was a two-story wooden structure with peeling white paint and shutters hanging crooked on their hinges. Behind it, an old red barn leaned slightly to one side, its paint almost entirely weathered away. Rusty farm equipment sat on cinder blocks in the tall grass. To Karen, it looked like a junkyard. It was a cancer on her beautiful neighborhood, destroying property values and embarrassing her every time she drove past.
“We have offered to subsidize your renovations, Mr. Reeves,” Karen said, her voice dripping with artificial patience. “The original developers offered you two million dollars to leave. Now, the HOA is prepared to take legal action. The county just passed the Neighborhood Standards Act. You are in violation. I suggest you sign the agreement to list the property.”