The first thing Patricia Weller noticed was the briefcase.
It sat beside the lounge chair under a striped blue umbrella, its dark
leather surface too formal for a man wearing swim shorts and a plain
gray T-shirt. The man himself was reading a paperback with one ankle
crossed over the other, looking so comfortable that Patricia felt
personally offended by it. She had lived in Briarstone Reserve for
fourteen years, served on the homeowners association board for nine, and
considered herself an authority on who belonged in every corner of the
community. She knew the residents, their children, their housekeepers,
their regular contractors, and, in her opinion, most of the people who
had any legitimate reason to enter the gates.
The stranger was Black, probably in his early forties, tall and
athletic, with close-cropped hair and a calm expression. Patricia had
never seen him at the pool before. That was enough for her to decide he
was out of place. She glanced toward the clubhouse, where the front desk
attendant was helping an older couple, then looked back at the man. He
had not even noticed her watching.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The man lowered his sunglasses. “Good afternoon.”
“Are you a resident?”
“No.”
Patricia waited for an explanation. When none came, she tightened her
grip on the clipboard tucked beneath her arm. “Then you need to tell me
who invited you.”
“My name is Jordan Ellis. I’m here for a meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“With the association.”
Patricia almost laughed. “The association doesn’t hold meetings at the
pool.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“Then why are you here?”
Jordan closed his book and placed it on the small table beside him. “I
arrived early. The clubhouse meeting room wasn’t open yet, and the
security desk said I could wait here.”
Patricia looked at the briefcase. “What is in there?”
“Documents.”
“What kind of documents?”
“Property records.”
Her expression sharpened. “Are you a real-estate agent?”
“I’m an attorney.”
Patricia’s eyes moved over him again, taking in the inexpensive watch,
the folded T-shirt, and the paperback. “For whom?”
Jordan gave her a polite, measured smile. “I don’t discuss client
matters with strangers.”
Patricia’s cheeks colored. “I’m not a stranger. I’m Patricia Weller,
vice president of the Briarstone Reserve Homeowners Association.”
“Then you probably know the meeting is scheduled for four-thirty.”
She checked her watch. It was 4:07.
“I know every meeting on the association calendar,” she said. “Your name
isn’t on it.”
“Perhaps you should check with the president.”
Patricia crossed her arms. “I don’t need to check anything. This is a
private facility.”
“I understand.”
“And you are not a member.”
“Correct.”
“Then you cannot use the pool.”
Jordan glanced toward the clubhouse. “I haven’t been swimming. I’m
waiting for my appointment.”
Patricia looked at him as if he had deliberately misunderstood a simple
instruction. “You need to leave the recreation area.”
“I’m happy to wait in the lobby when the desk attendant is available.”
“Now.”
Jordan put the book down. “Ms. Weller, I’m not trying to make this
difficult. I was told I could wait here. If that’s changed, I’ll move.”
Patricia disliked how reasonable he sounded. She had expected
embarrassment, perhaps an apology, maybe a hurried explanation. Instead,
he was treating her like a person whose request could be considered and
declined. She stepped back and took out her phone.
“I’m calling security.”
Jordan nodded. “That’s fine.”
She walked several yards away and dialed the community’s private
security number. When the desk did not answer immediately, she called
911 instead.
“There is an unfamiliar man using our private pool,” she told the
dispatcher. “He refuses to explain who he is.”
The dispatcher asked whether he had threatened her.
“No.”
“Has he approached you aggressively?”
“No.”
“Is he damaging property?”
“No.”
“Does he have a weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what is the emergency?”
Patricia glanced back. Jordan was still seated, calmly putting his book
into the briefcase. “He doesn’t belong here, and he won’t tell me which
resident invited him.”
The dispatcher asked whether she was an employee or authorized security
officer.
“I’m on the HOA board.”
“That does not make you a law-enforcement officer, ma’am. If there is no
immediate threat, you should contact the property’s security office.”
Patricia ended the call before the dispatcher could say anything else.
Jordan had heard enough to understand what had happened. He stood,
lifted his briefcase, and waited beside the chair. He did not approach
her or raise his voice. The quietness of his response only seemed to
irritate her more.
“You actually called the police?” he asked.
“I have every right to report suspicious activity.”
“You do.”
Patricia relaxed slightly.
Jordan continued, “And they have every right to ask what crime you
believe has occurred.”
Her expression tightened again. “You think you’re clever.”
“No. I think we’re both wasting time.”
Before she could answer, a little girl came through the clubhouse doors
carrying a pink backpack and a paper cup. She was about ten, with dark
curls tied into two loose puffs and a yellow sundress over her swimsuit.
She spotted Jordan and hurried toward him.
“Dad, are we still going to Grandma’s?”
Jordan’s expression softened. “After my meeting, sweetheart.”
The girl looked at Patricia, then at the briefcase. “Is this the meeting
lady?”
Jordan gave a small nod. “This is Ms. Weller.”
The girl offered a polite smile. “Hi.”
Patricia barely returned it. “Are you his daughter?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “I’m Zoe.”
“Does your father live here?”
Zoe looked confused. “No. Grandma does.”
Jordan gently touched her shoulder. “Go wait inside with Daniel for a
minute.”
Zoe nodded and walked back toward the clubhouse.
Patricia seized on the answer. “So you admit you don’t live here.”
“I never said I did.”
“Then why are you using the facilities?”
“Because the resident who invited me is entitled to have a guest, and
the security desk confirmed that I could wait here.”