The homeowners' association didn't care about these objections and intended to continue with their display no matter what. The final quote in the story was from his old pal Neil Campbell. "We're not just doing this for the benefit of Bonita Vista," Campbell stated. "These fireworks will be able to be seen for miles and everyone will be able to enjoy them. They're our present to the town of Corban and the people living in this area. Happy Fourth of July!"
Barry looked up and grimaced. "I need some coffee," he said.
Maureen motioned toward the coffeemaker. "I figured you would."
"Jesus. Not only was it stupid from a PR standpoint, but it was dangerous on top of that."
"And the fireworks sucked besides."
"According to Ray, we don't even have any fire hydrants up here. One of the few things the association's actually supposed to do, take care of public safety, they can't be bothered with. It's more important to fine us over the color of our garden ties than make sure we can fight off a forest fire."
"Typical," she said.
Barry poured himself a cup of coffee. "Are you still enamored with your precious homeowners' association?"
"I was never enamored."
"But you're a little less happy with them now than you used to be, aren't you?"
She scooped up a pile of hash browns, then placed a fried egg next to the potatoes on the plate. "Here," she told Barry. "Breakfast's ready. Eat."
The writing had stopped.
Barry still went down to his office each day, still fired up the old computer, still sat in his chair in front of the screen and attempted to finish the novel that was rapidly approaching its deadline ... but nothing came.
This time, he conceded, it might be writer's block.
His inability to progress any further with his story coincided precisely with Ray's death. He'd taken a few days off because he hadn't felt like working, then the weekend of the Fourth had arrived and he never worked on a holiday weekend. But when he finally went down to his office the following week, he discovered that the well had run dry.
He knew exactly what was going to happen next in the narrative--he'd plotted out in his mind the events that were to take place in the current chapter and all he really had to do was fill in the blanks--but he just couldn't seem to get from A to B. He was stymied, stuck.
And he'd been stuck now for almost a week.
Logically, there was no reason this should have occurred. He'd been under deadline two years ago when his mom had died, and he'd managed to finish that book on time. Hell, he'd found the writing process therapeutic, and he'd ended up finishing the novel ahead of schedule, focusing on it to the exclusion of nearly everything else. And his mom had certainly meant more to him than Ray.
But still the writing had stopped.
He'd said nothing to Maureen, had been pulling a Jack Torrence on her, but oddly enough he'd found himself confiding in Hank and Bert and the gang at the coffee shop. They'd been cool to him after the debacle of the fireworks, unable this time to completely divorce him from the actions of Bonita Vista, but he assured them that he was just as outraged as they were, and he described the way he and Maureen had been awakened by the blasts and had had no idea where they'd been coming from.
His explanation was accepted, but there was not the wholesale wholehearted forgiveness that had accompanied his protestations of innocence after the dog death. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time once too often, and it was clear to him that if it happened again, suspicion would definitely be directed his way.
It was not fair... but he understood it. He might not condone the actions of the association, but he lived in Bonita Vista, paid his dues, and bore some of the responsibility. And as much as he tried to disassociate himself from his neighbors and align himself with the townies, the fact was that there was no rationing in the gated community. The realities of the water shortage did not affect him, and he felt a little like a condescending nobleman assuring the poor populace that he sympathized with their plight and understood their feelings. Even now, over a week later, he still sensed some residual resentment--not on the part of Hank or Lyle or any of the core group, but from some of the casual coffee shop patrons--and while he didn't like it, he could not really blame them.
Once again, he spent the morning in front of his computer. He tried to concentrate on the unfinished novel before him, but as usual his mind wandered to other things: an old girlfriend, the movie he'd watched last night on HBO, the groceries he needed to buy on the way home today, what he'd do with the money if he sold his next novel for ten million dollars.
He usually ate lunch around noon, but nothing was happening here and he closed up shop shortly after eleven, heading over to Bert's. It hadn't rained yesterday--the first time in over a week--and the air was hot and dry. Grasshoppers jumped up from the path before him, and several bounced off his jeans.
Bert, his daughter, and a youngish, short-haired man Barry didn't recognize were the only ones in the coffee shop, but Joe arrived soon after Barry sat down and ordered his iced tea, and fifteen minutes after that, the regulars were all in place.
Lyle was the last to show up, and he had news. "Word is," he said, sitting in his usual seat, "that the water restrictions are going to be lifted if we have one more week of monsoons."
"Who told you that?"
"I was down at the office paying my bill and I overheard Shelly talking to Graham in the back."
Hank snorted. "About time."
"I guess," Joe said loudly, "that Bert can start serving water again without charging, huh?"
"Don't hold your breath," Bert called out from behind the counter.
Ralph Griffith glanced over at Barry. "You know, I was heading down the ranch road yesterday when I saw this Lexus come out of the gate at Bonita Vista, all shiny and just washed. There was water still dripping off the hood."
"Hey," Barry said good-naturedly, "I haven't washed my Suburban in months. You can go out back and check."
They all laughed.
"I wasn't saying anything against you" Ralph said. "I
was just commenting that some of those rich guys in Bonita Vista are washing their cars right before a rainstorm while I can't even fill up my little boy's plastic pool with water."
The laughter died down.
"Face it," Hank said. "There are selfish pricks everywhere. And if the situation was reversed and we had water and Bonita Vista didn't, you can be damn sure that there'd be people washin ' their cars and waterin' their lawns and flauntin ' it. It's human nature."
"But don't you think there are more of them in Bonita Vista?" Ralph pressed.
Barry jumped in. "Probably."
"Don't try to take it out on Barry," Hank said.
"I'm not, I'm not. I just..." Ralph shook his head. "It's just that those assholes make me so mad sometimes. I wanted to ram that guy's car yesterday."
"Any of you ever been up there?" Joe asked. He grinned. "Barry, you're excluded."
Hank shook his head slowly. "You know, I never have. Never cared enough to until they put in that gate. Now I can't."
"I never been up there either," Lyle said. "Old Al the roofer told me every house has a view and the views are amazing, but I ain't seen it for myself."
"Why don't you all come up and take a peek?" Barry said.
Lyle looked surprised. "What?"
"Yeah. I'll get you through the gate. We'll head up to my house, have a few drinks. I'll show you what you're missing." He smiled at Ralph.
"Give you a peek at the enemy camp."
The other man reddened.
"That's a mighty nice offer, but..." Lyle trailed off.
"But what?"