“They think east pasture is community property?”
“They think words change deeds.”
“What do you want?”
“Keep the bulls secured away from the people.”
“That sounds normal.”
“I’m still hoping today stays normal.”
Miguel smiled.
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
We moved livestock farther east and made sure the interior fencing was secure.
Whatever Karen did, I did not want anyone accidentally wandering into a bull enclosure.
By ten, music reached the farm.
Not distant country music.
Pop music.
Loud.
A speaker somewhere was pumping bass hard enough that I could feel it against the porch rail.
Then cars arrived.
SUV after SUV.
A convertible.
Two minivans.
People carrying coolers.
Blankets.
Folding chairs.
A white tent.
Children running.
And then Karen.
White sundress.
Huge sun hat.
Megaphone.
I actually laughed when I saw the megaphone.
Nate texted me.
She brought a DJ.
I answered:
Naturally.
At 10:42, Karen stepped onto my pasture.
Not near it.
Onto it.
Through a section of fence someone had pulled loose.
Behind her came more than twenty people.
Blankets unfolded.
Coolers opened.
Champagne popped.
One man set up a portable grill.
Someone launched a bubble machine.
Children chased balloons.
A woman posed beside my barn for photographs.
Karen lifted the megaphone.
“Welcome to Willowbrook’s first annual Community Meadow Picnic!”
People cheered.
First annual.
That implied she had already decided there would be a second.
I set my coffee down.
Walked off the porch.
Crossed the pasture.
Karen saw me coming.
Her smile widened.
“Cole!”
I stopped ten feet from her.
“What are you doing?”
She raised her drink.
“Community spirit.”
“You’re on my property.”
Her smile did not move.
“Technically, we’re using open green space adjacent to Willowbrook.”
“No.”
A few conversations nearby quieted.
Karen tilted her head.
“Excuse me?”
“This is not open space.”