As I set the box down on the bottom step of the porch, a woman walked across the manicured green lawn from the grand stone house next door. She wore oversized designer sunglasses that obscured half her face, and her beige trousers were tucked into tall leather boots that clicked against the gravel.
“You must be Clara,” she said, her voice carrying a sharp, practiced warmth that did not reach her mouth.“I don’t care where you put it, but that eyesore cannot remain in my line of sight,” Valerie said, her tone dropping the neighborly disguise entirely.
“I don’t have another place to park it,” I said, looking her in the eyes.
“You should find one,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp. “People like us expect a certain standard around here.”
She stood there for a moment, waiting for me to apologize or offer to move it, but I simply picked the heavy box of plates back up. Without another word, Valerie turned and walked back across the manicured green grass of her lawn toward her stone estate.
Inside the kitchen, the yellow walls felt small and damp in the evening chill. The room smelled of old wood and the faintly sweet scent of dry maple leaves that had blown in through the back door.
