"No." Frank turned. "I didn't say anything." "You were thinking loudly." Frank looked at me.
"Marriage is surveillance." By Monday morning, Denise knew. I was loading tools into my dark metallic gray Silverado when she crossed her driveway. Cobalt blue blazer, travel mug, the usual look of somebody on her way to chair a meeting nobody knew existed. "Jack."
"Morning." "I understand you're planning another event." "Fundraiser redo." "How many people?" "Still working on that."
"I heard motorcycles." "Probably." Her eyes narrowed. "How many?" "Fifty."
She blinked. It was the first time I'd seen Denise lose control of her face all week. "Fifty motorcycles." "That's what I'm told." "You cannot bring 50 motorcycles into this neighborhood."
"I'm not bringing them." She stared at me. "They have engines." Nothing. Worth a try.
"They're bikers." "Yes." "This is a residential community." "I noticed." this isn't an event venue. "It's a fundraiser on my lawn with 50 bikers and neighbors and a pig."
She had done her homework quickly. "Yes, a whole pig." "That's generally how they arrive." Her mouth tightened. "This is exactly the kind of escalation I was trying to prevent."
I stared at her. "You sprayed my grill with a hose because you refused to be reasonable. So now more people want to help." "That isn't helping." "The rescue squad might disagree."
She stepped closer. "This will create noise, traffic, parking problems, strangers wandering through the neighborhood." "Then I'll manage those things." "And if you don't, I'll fix them." She took a breath.
I will not have this community turned into a motorcycle because you're upset about some ribs. Some ribs. Not fundraiser food, not property. She damaged. Some ribs.
I closed the tailgate. "It's not a rally." "What would you call 50 bikers?" "Hungry." I got into the truck.
"This isn't over, Jack." I figured she was right. Over the next few days, Denise did something much smarter than grabbing a hose. She started making phone calls. That's when the story stopped being funny for a while.
Mrs. Halpern from the end of the street called me first. She was 78. Jack and she says there may be hundreds of motorcycles. There won't be hundreds. She said there could be.
There could also be a marching band. I didn't invite one. She laughed then lowered her voice. She told people they may want to stay inside. "Why?"
Traffic safety. She said some motorcycle groups can be unpredictable. Bears group does charity rides. "I know." I looked them up.
And they raised money for a food bank last spring. Sounds terrifying. She laughed again. I'll see you Saturday. But Denise wasn't only calling Mrs. Halpern.
She contacted the woman who'd offered canopy tents and asked whether her homeowner's insurance covered a large organized motorcycle event. Another neighbor wanted to know whether the HOA could find him for bringing coolers. Then Pete called your HOA lady contacted me. What did she want? To know whether I'm operating a commercial food business at a private residence.
What'd you tell her? That I'm not. Then what? She asked whether the pig roaster is safe. It is.