I'm not the only one working out of the house here."
"And what's that supposed to mean? You're going to turn me in?"
"Of course not."
"What, then?"
"Nothing."
"Then why'd you bring it up?"
"Because they're not applying the rules fairly, because they are singling me out."
"So what are you going to do? Sue them over it?"
"Threaten them with it at least. You're right, it is selective enforcement. And maybe if I play my cards right I can get a waiver."
He had Maureen call Chuck Shea, her association buddy, to feel him out, to see if something could be arranged, a sort of don't-ask-don't-tell policy that would allow him to continue working at home, but Chuck said the work rule was hard and fast. The only exceptions were those explicitly spelled out in the C, C, and Rs ; specifically real estate agents and accountants, who were not allowed to meet clients at home but were allowed to do paperwork--which was why Maureen had not been cited in the letter. Barry was the first writer to live in Bonita Vista, and it was conceivable that there could be an exception made for his occupation in the future, but Chuck said the matter would have to be brought before the voting membership at the annual meeting in September. Until then, he would have to abide by the rules.
"Not selective enforcement after all," Maureen told him after relaying the message, and wasn't that a hint of triumph in her voice?
No. He was being paranoid. He was angry at her, though he didn't really have any right to be, and he went upstairs to the kitchen to get himself something to drink and to calm down before he said something he might later regret.
Afterward, he called Ray, who was of the same opinion as Mike:
underneath all the sympathy and sincerity and heartfelt offers of assistance, the association people were loving this.
"Think I should talk to a lawyer?" Barry asked.
He could almost hear Ray's shrug over the phone. "It's your call. But if I were you, I'd save my money. These C, C, and Rs have been challenged in court too many times to count, and they've survived every attempt made on them. You might go over the regs yourself with a fine-tooth comb, see if you can figure out a loophole, but my guess is that they've got you on this one."
"What are they going to do if I refuse, if I just ignore the letter?"
Ray chuckled grimly. "You're opening up a whole other can of worms there. What they'll do first is hit you up with fines. That'll go on for quite a while, until the total is an outrageous sum that's almost impossible to pay. Then they'll call in then- lawyer and put a lien on your property--"
"Can they do that?"
"Oh yeah."
"Are you speaking from experience?"
"They haven't done it to me. Not yet. But it's been done around here and I've known the people. Believe me, it's not pretty. If you can't find a legitimate loophole or find some way to argue your way out of this with the board, I suggest you start office hunting."
Barry spent the rest of the afternoon poring over their copy of the C, C, and Rs but to no avail. He called Mike that night, who called someone else who supposedly knew someone on the board, and though neither waivers nor petitions of appeal were mentioned in the association handbook, he was hoping to find someone in authority willing to let him slide.
No such luck.
He went to bed that night angry and frustrated. If he'd known he wouldn't be able to write in his own home on his own property, they never would have bought a house in Bonita Vista, he told Maureen. No matter how beautiful the scenery might be, this defeated the entire purpose of moving here, and if they hadn't already sunk so much money into it, he'd put the damn place up for sale and put Utah in his rearview mirror.
She didn't argue, didn't agree, remained silent, and they fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not touching.
In the morning, Barry once again tried to wade through the dense doublespeak of the C, C, and Rs , hoping the fresh perspective of a new day might grant him insight and allow him to see something he hadn't before, but if anything, the association's case looked even more airtight than before.
Maureen put a hand on his shoulder. "Find anything?" she asked.
He touched her hand, gave it a squeeze, last night's simmering hostility forgotten. "Not yet," he said.
"So what's the plan?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
Jeremy was a lawyer, and Barry considered calling his friend for some free advice, but he thought about what Ray had said and decided to hold off for now.
He had a sneaking suspicion that he might be needing a lot of legal advice in the future.
Barry put away the handbook and stared out the window at the trees. He wondered if he might be able to set up a little office in their storage unit, and he drove down to Corban to check. As he'd known, the small space was completely full, piled high with boxes and furniture and all the extraneous crap they could not fit into the house. He stopped by the office on his way out and asked the old man behind the counter if it would be possible to rent another space and use it as a work room.
The old man shrugged. "No law against it, I guess. But you'd have to keep the door closed except when loading and unloading. Company policy. And there's no lights inside and no electrical outlets. Gets pretty hot in there come June and July." He squinted as if visualizing something and shook his head. "Now that I think on it, maybe it ain't such a good idea."
Barry nodded.
"Not a bad thought you come up with, though. Storage units rented for office space. Somebody could make a fortune. Not here, though, not in Corban. Maybe in St. George or Cedar City ..."
"Thanks for your time," Barry told him.
He got into the Suburban, looked out the dusty windshield for a moment, thinking. Realistically, there was only one option open to him, and he drove down to the real estate office, poked his head inside the trailer. "Is Doris here?"
The skinny woman seated behind the desk nearest the door called out, "Boss?" and a second later a familiar face peeked around the corner of the conference room.
Doris saw him and smiled. "Hey!" she said. "How's it going?"
"Fine."
"Give me a minute, will you? I'm sending a fax to one of the sellers.
You can sit down at my desk there." She pointed. "Or you can--"
"That's okay," he told her. "I'll stand."
"I'll just be a minute."
Barry glanced around the office, saw an autographed photo of Pat Buchanan in a frame on one of the desks, amateur paintings of fish and wildlife on the paneled walls.
Doris emerged from the back room. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Is this business or pleasure?"
"Uh, business," he said, caught off guard.
"Just teasing. So how do you like living in Bonita Vista?"
"We love it," he said.
"No problems?" She smiled. "How do you like the homeowners'
association?"
"Well..."
"Sorry I had to soft-pedal that, but it's my job."
"That's kind of what I'm here about."
"What can I do for you?" she asked sweetly.
"I need an office. The homeowners' association says I can't work at home, it's against their rules and regulations, so I have to find someplace else to write. I was wondering if there's a small room or something I can rent in town, maybe a--"
She put a hand on his arm. "Oh, I've got just the place! It's, right in back of the coffee shop. Used to be a teapot museum, if you can believe that. Old Man Pruitt, who owned a lot of land in these parts some years back, had a wife who collected teapots. Antique teapots, china teapots, teapots from Russia and all over the world. Well, she got this idea in her head that she wanted to open up a teapot museum. I