Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Tuesday?” I ask hopefully.
“Can you be here at nine a.m.?”
“Yes. Please put me down for that.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries, which are painful to me as I’m still stewing about this stupid injunction that awful man filed. I leave the law firm and proceed to knock out my other errands, starting with the post office to grab my package.
Normally a shipment of supply stock is enough to throw me into an almost giddy mood. Unpacking a big box of paints, brushes, masking fluid, sponges, and rough textured paper usually floats my boat. I’ve been gorging on art supplies almost my entire life, given that my parents were both artists. They’re my tools to create beauty with and feel like an inherent part of me. It’s like calling to like.
But right now, I have no excitement for the big box I heft into the back of my Subaru Outback. My mood gets blacker and blacker, so by the time I finish at the grocery store and pharmacy, I’m in no state for lunch with Hayley.
While she’s one of my dearest friends, I can’t deal with her bubbly happiness and naturally perky personality. And frankly, I don’t want to bring her down. I shoot her a quick text that I can’t make it and promise to reschedule soon.
I sulk the entire way home, wondering just how good of a legal claim this man has to stop my easement. I’ve done everything by the book. I got the property rezoned for commercial use, which wasn’t something most people would bother with out here in rural western Pennsylvania. While I intend to sell art from my studio, it’s mostly a place other aspiring artists can come to create and learn. It’s not going to be a bustling commercial shopping mall.
As I come around a corner, my driveway looms closer. Just one more curve, and then a hundred yards ahead I’ll come to Coen Highsmith’s driveway.
I wonder if I could talk some sense into him.
Maybe I could even buy his cooperation, as the money from my parents’ life insurance policies set me up so I essentially don’t have to work another day in my life if I don’t want to. I live simply, without a lot of frills or luxuries. I bought this property with some of the proceeds, and I’ll build my little artist studio with my little driveway and still have over a million and a half dollars left to pay for my living expenses for years and years. Of course, I hope to make a profit on my studio, but I really don’t need much. I can definitely spare some money to bribe this asshole into letting me have my driveway.
Yes, I need to try to reason with him.
I cruise past my driveway and instead pull into his. Even though our properties sit adjacent to each other, the fact he lives around a curve means the back of his property butts up against the side of mine. I’ve never really paid much attention to the cabin as it sits deep within the natural wooded area that buffers the main road.
As I drive toward the house, I note a large silver truck pulled under a carport, which I assume means he’s home. My heartbeat picks up because I don’t like confrontation, but I have my dreams driving me. I’ve come too far in this process and invested too much of my heart to give up and let Mr. Highsmith walk all over me.
It’s so quiet as I make my way up the porch steps. His house is a full scribe cabin, otherwise known as a log cabin, where logs are stacked horizontally and secured with cut grooves. Because those notches are made by hand, these homes are not inexpensive.
The door looks to be made of the same cedar as the house and has a large beveled and frosted glass oval in the center that dates the style as early nineties, which is when I’m guessing this was built.
I press the doorbell and look around as I wait for him to answer. When I hear his heavy footsteps nearing, my pulse jackhammers, and then I see his approaching form through the opaque inset.
The door swings open, and his face is already set into a hard mask of impassivity. He doesn’t say a word but just stares at me.
“Um… I thought maybe we could talk,” I say, realizing how lame that sounds. “About… the driveway.”
“Nothing to talk about,” he says and starts to shut the door.
“Wait,” I blurt, my arm swinging out to push against it. “Just five minutes.”
“Thirty seconds,” he counters, and I know the clock has started.
I yammer, no cohesion to my words. I’m fifteen seconds in when I realize I’ve made a mistake about pointing out the legality of the easement as his expression slackens to one that screams, “I don’t give a fuck about legalities.”