The Little Kingdom on the Hill: A Novel

ONE

R andy Peterson stopped at the gated entrance of the golf course.

I’m sorry Mr. Peterson, but I don’t see your name on the list of authorized attendees. There’s a turnout lane over on your right; you can park while you make a call.

Randy dialed Lincoln Bosworth’s mobile number.

Lincoln, Randy Peterson. My name is not on the list again. Stop playing these damn games. I am a board member and I’m tired of being hassled.

A voice on the other end of the phone said, I’ll call the guard at the gate, and the connection was broken.

You condescending snob.

The golf course provided a room for the board meeting of the Austin Hills’ Homeowners Association. The timing, 4:00 PM on the last Sunday of the month, discouraged most and those who were interested balked when they learned the board made it a requirement that they register in advance for admission.

Randy drove the winding streets to a conference room that adjoined the clubhouse. Inside, three folding tables formed a u-shape on a raised pedestal. There were twenty folding card table chairs in front of the pedestal to accommodate the registered homeowners. Randy took a seat at one of the side tables.

Lincoln Bosworth, president of the board of Austin Hills Homeowners Association, sat alone at the center table. He was tall and thin with a short nose, a baldhead, and very little chin. This was his tenth year as president.

Sylvia Jenkins sat to Lincoln’s right. She was young by Austin Hills’ standards. Cosmetic surgery preserved some of her youth and surgeons added what Mother Nature had not provided. She carried herself with a regal bearing and spoke with a soft voice. If Lincoln was the King of Austin Hills, then Sylvia was the Queen.

Wayne Wheeling sat next to Sylvia facing Randy. He was short, a little rotund, with jet-black hair and an olive complexion. He was an accountant with a small office. In better times, he made good money preparing tax returns, but large national firms and do-it-yourself software had squeezed his business of late. His cronies knew Wayne for his explosive temper. Randy knew him for the lawsuit between him and his neighbor.

The seat that Lucille Ashley would occupy next to Randy was empty. She was always late.

Lincoln Bosworth called the meeting of the Austin Hills Homeowners Association board to order at two minutes after four. Sylvia stood up. She was dressed in a see-through blouse that revealed a black bra. Bangs on her forehead helped shorten her long face and shoulder-length hair swept forward to embrace a small, straight mouth line. Sylvia brushed the hair back on the right side of her face, dropped her hand over her heart, and led the flag salute.

As she took her seat, Lincoln said, Thank you, Sylvia, a wonderful job as usual.

Sylvia cocked her head and smiled sweetly at the admiring man at the head of the table. She teased and taunted him and he seemed indifferent to the fact that his infatuation was a hopeless fantasy.

Randy heard a noise at the entrance door. He looked up as Lucille Ashley entered. She was puffing, slightly out of breath, and her face was red. She took two candy bars from her purse the size of a small suitcase, put them on the table, and looked around.

Sorry I’m a little late everybody, did I miss anything?

No, Lucille, we’re ready for you to read the minutes of the last meeting, said Lincoln.

Lucille was in her late fifties. A stubby nose lay submerged between two round cheeks and multiple chins folded over the turtleneck blouse she wore. She put her purse under the table. Let me catch my breath. Then she found her place and read the minutes.

"The board of directors of the Austin Hills Homeowner Association met the last Sunday in May at four p.m. at the Quail Ridge Country Club. The Board read and approved the minutes of the previous meeting. There was no old business. Sylvia Jenkins moved to accept the proposal submitted by the Reynolds Construction Company for work on two culverts. Lucille Ashley seconded the motion. After a thorough and complete discussion of the project, the board approved the contract award by a vote of four to one. The meeting was adjourned at four-eighteen p.m."

Lincoln asked, Are there any additions or corrections to the minutes?

Randy lifted his hand. Those minutes don’t reflect what happened at the last meeting. There was no discussion whatsoever about that project and the minutes don’t reflect the fact that Sylvia issued a secret contract for over a quarter of a million dollars to do that work three months before the meeting. I move that the minutes be revised to reflect what actually happened at the last meeting.

Is there a second for Mr. Peterson’s motion?

Lincoln knew there would be none and aside from some giggling, the room was silent. A broad smile came over his face.

The motion fails for lack of a second. The minutes are approved as read. The agenda for tonight reflects no old business and therefore we shall move on to new business.

Randy looked out toward the audience of twenty people.

What’s the matter with you people? Those minutes are a charade. Some of you were here last month. You know those minutes are a cover-up for insider contracts.

He looked around the silent room and thought he could feel the darts and daggers thrown at him.

Lincoln was quick to silence his adversary. Mr. Peterson, you’re out of order. Please allow us to return to today’s agenda.

Randy put his face in his hands and stared at the table in silence.

Sylvia Jenkins raised her hand but did not wait for Lincoln’s acknowledgement.

I propose that the board of directors authorize spending in the amount of a hundred thousand dollars for road repairs on Linden Avenue and that we accept the Reynolds Construction proposal.

I second the motion, came from Wayne Wheeling.

Lucille Ashley added, I call the question.

Randy put his hands on the table and stood at his seat.

This is crazy. I’ve never seen a proposal from Reynolds Construction. Just because Marv Reynolds is a homeowner and your friend doesn’t mean he should get every contract. It’s time for us to introduce some competitive bidding and put our costs under control.

Thank you, Mr. Peterson, your objection is noted. However, Lucille called the question, and we shall now move to a vote. All those in favor of awarding the contract as proposed please raise your hand.

Lincoln pointed at Sylvia, then Wayne and finally Lucille and each raised their hands in approval.

Those opposed, said Lincoln.

Randy raised his hand.

Lincoln responded like a judge in a courtroom as he pounded his gavel on the table.

The motion is carried. Mrs. Jenkins is hereby authorized to enter into a contract with Reynolds Construction for road repairs.

Randy’s face was red. "I’d like to see a copy of that proposal."

Lincoln looked at a woman in the front row. Stella Watson was the president of TMC, the management company for the association. She was readily identifiable by her extraordinarily long black hair that she wore in organized piles on her head.

Stella, would you please see if you can find a copy for Mr. Peterson? It appears he has lost the copy he was given.

Randy leaned forward to see around Lucille. Lincoln, I never received a copy and you know it.

A woman in the front row, with a face reminiscent of Popeye stopped taking notes. She wore khaki pants, a polo shirt, and men’s oxford shoes. Brenda Renfro was the hatemonger who seemed to have no role in life other than to file complaints on homeowners and keep Lincoln informed of the latest gossip.

She cupped her hands to her lips. Booooo! Others in the audience followed with hissing. From the back of the room came a robust voice.

Randy, if you don’t like the way we do things, move off the damn hill.

Lucille unwrapped her second candy bar and Lincoln quieted the audience. Is there any more new business Mr. Peterson? It appears you are standing to get attention.

Yes, I propose that we move our meeting date to seven p.m. on the first Wednesday of the month. These Sunday afternoon meetings discourage the homeowners from attending. I counted only twenty people here tonight. There are fifteen hundred parcels in this association and this board spends nearly two million dollars a year. We need to get the homeowners involved.

Sit down, Randy, came a baritone voice from the back of the room. The audience took up the taunt.

Sit-down-Randy-sit-down.

Randy saw his three supporters get up and leave and Lincoln was again all smiles as he pounded his gavel.

Well, the people have spoken. There being no more business for the board, this meeting is adjourned.

Lincoln, Lucille, and Sylvia left the platform and mingled with the audience. Most of the group went through the double doors that led to the clubhouse bar. Some would stay for drinks and a few would remain for dinner. Reynolds Construction would host the evening’s cocktails. Randy left in disgust.

•  •  •

Randy put his car in his garage and went directly to the kitchen. His wife, Susan, took one look and knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. Well, how did it go tonight?

Her hands were in soapy water in the sink. She was cleaning feeders for her hummingbirds. Randy came over and kissed her on the cheek then sat at the large bar that separated the kitchen from their family room. He looked at Susan with great affection.

Every physical feature of Susan’s petite frame was subordinate to her radiant smile. Her blue eyes seemed to dance in unison with a brilliant, warm face that invited trust. She wore her hair short and pushed back in a brush cut. The blond hair was changing to gray.

Susan loved people. She talked to checkers at the supermarket and in a line to check out, she shared her life with whoever might be in front of her, told every detail of her life to her hairdresser; she’d never met a person she didn’t like. She believed that everybody was ninety-nine percent good and she ignored the one percent. She rationalized it when people took advantage of her and invented some justification for them. Such trust left her vulnerable.

Well, I guess I know exactly how you felt when they kicked you out of all the ladies clubs.

Susan looked at Randy and they both recalled Susan’s grief from three years earlier.

Susan had walked into his office at their house, her face streaked with tears, lips quivering, and pain filled her face. "I’ve been fired! I picked up our voice mails and there was a message from Denise and Mollie. They said that they were my friends and they wanted to be the ones to tell me. They said they thought it best if I didn’t attend any more bunko or bingo meetings. They said that they might be able to reconsider once all this stuff was over. Randy had held her close and between sobs she asked, What did I do?"

Randy had offered comfort as best he could. He told her they really didn’t want to hurt her; they were hurting her to punish him.

Now, he looked at her across the bar. I remember how those nasty bitches hurt you. Today, I was heckled, booed, and told to get off the hill. I’m either a moron or a masochist. Only about twenty homeowners showed up, all but three were Bosworth’s cronies. Same steamroller tactics. They refused to consider changing meeting dates. My name was not on the access list again. I don’t think I can take much more of this.

Did they give away more money this month? Susan asked.

Sure as hell did. Last month Reynolds got a contract for over two hundred fifty thousand to install two culverts. This month he got a contract for a hundred thousand for road repairs around Bosworth’s house.

You look really discouraged. Want a drink?

No, I think I’ll pass on the drink. I’m going flying early tomorrow morning. Maybe that will help me understand what’s happening.

TWO

S usan stood inside the hanger in the pre-dawn of Monday morning. She listened as Randy’s helicopter went through preflight at Stewart Airport. The rotors turned and the dark blue helicopter lifted to a hover. The strobe light on its belly flashed a brilliant, intermittent red. The chopper glided toward the north-south runway with it skids two feet above the tarmac.

She watched her husband turn right and align himself with taxiway one-eight. She listened on her handheld radio as Randy broke radio silence on frequency 122.8: "Stewart Traffic, helicopter Two Eight Zero Kilo Papa, making southbound departure from taxiway one eight."

•  •  •

Randy tilted the cyclic slightly forward and the helicopter accelerated. Translation lift boosted speed at about twenty-five knots and the helicopter rose smoothly while turning on course two seven zero. He followed the terrain and watched the edge of the escarpment that marked the upwelling of the coastal foothills come into view. Southern California’s coastal plain lay to the west. To the east lay the rural scenery that made up Austin Hills.

The first streaks of sunlight slid over the top of Idyllwild Mountain and light streamed across the foothills that framed Franklin County, California. The quiet beauty of the rural landscape and its pastoral calm restored Randy’s faith in nature—but not in man. Randy enjoyed a moment of incredible beauty and he was richer for it. The scene always swamped him with a feeling of humility and smallness. He climbed to two thousand feet and turned to the west to put the sun behind him. Below him lay the ten thousand acres of land that comprised Austin Hills. The source of so much initial hope had become a source of heartbreak and growing despair.

He set the friction on the collective a bit tighter, and used the trim button on the cyclic to keep the helicopter stable. He rolled the chopper slightly left and took pictures as he traveled high above the roads and streets. He photographed his house, and the houses of those he knew. At home, he would download the pictures onto his computer and store them by date. He’d done this for seven years and amassed a history of how new homes had consumed vacant land. Austin Hills was still a rural community but it was no longer remote.

Flying over Broward Boulevard, Austin Hills’ main thoroughfare, he noted one thing that had not changed. Inbound and outbound passing lanes converged at the crest of a rise: Four lanes of traffic collapsed into two lanes. He photographed the area and took a close up of the skid marks from the most recent accident; this year alone that location had been the site of four mishaps.

•  •  •

It was impossible to tell from the air where Austin Hills began or where it ended. There were neither fences nor walls to enclose it and its boundaries merged seamlessly into the surrounding forests. Ribbons of paved streets and roads crisscrossed the area where once there were only dirt roads. Power poles and yellow fire hydrants now appeared at regular intervals. Development had come to Austin Hills, and stubborn resistance, in the form of Lincoln Bosworth met it head on.

•  •  •

Susan watched Randy approach the airport from the west and monitored the air traffic. Randy hovered at the north end of the airport and then moved sideways to his hanger. He went through the cool down checklist and slowly the rotors stopped turning.

Randy was physically undistinguished except for the fact that he was just plainly … plain. He was less than average height, had a weak build, and a small paunch. He was bald and had a mouth that turned down slightly. He never inspired to greatness, and was a stumbling speaker who got tied up by his emotions and a punishing sense of insecurity.

He grew up in abject poverty, and by thirteen his smile had disappeared and a serious countenance filled his face. Raised in indifference and disinterest, he learned to rely only on himself.

Randy had another quality that seemed to set him apart from all other men. He could piss people off and alienate others without saying a word. Before he spoke, people seemed poised to make him wrong, no matter what he might say.

Randy had set up his defenses. He built his life around principles–things he observed and concepts he understood. He could calculate how far a baseball would travel when struck by a bat, but he could not calculate people.

He retired from the Navy and taught himself computer programming. Together he and Susan, his best friend, shared the agony and toil of building a small company. They were able to sell it during the dotcom boom and net enough money to retire.

•  •  •

Randy stepped onto the left skid and unplugged his headset from the rear panel of the cockpit. With his headset loosely about his neck, he walked slowly toward the hanger.

How was the flight? Susan asked.

I took lots of pictures today. Saw some fresh skid marks on Broward; looks like there was another accident. You can bet the members won’t be told about it.

Ready for breakfast? I’m hungry.

Sure. Let me finish up and we’ll go over to the café.

He put the helicopter up on its wheels. Sweat dripping into his eyes reminded him of his advancing years. It took every bit of his strength and a couple of lunges to roll the ground wheels down into place. The helicopter balanced nicely and Susan pushed the tail assembly around to guide it as Randy put his shoulder to the task of pushing thirteen hundred pounds of flying machinery into the hanger and then he handled the post flight paperwork.

•  •  •

While he was posting his hours in his flight log, Susan came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. She gave him a big hug and put her head against his back.

She and Randy had met in high school, gone to the same university, gotten married and raised four boys. They were best friends long before they were lovers. Theirs was an ongoing love affair that had never lost its luster. Wherever Randy went, Susan was by his side. She knew how the stress of the recent years had taken their toll on her husband and she hated what was happening to him.

Randy turned around, put his arms around Susan, and held her tight. He saw tears in her eyes and. reached down and gently wiped them away. Susan clung to him and put her head on his chest unwilling to let go. They stood in an embrace for several moments.

Let me pack my flight bag and put the camera away then we’ll go over for breakfast.

Susan watched him and memories flooded back; he was not the same Randy who’d moved to Austin Hills. Pessimism had replaced optimism and disappointment with people had robbed him of the ability to trust. He was deeply hurt and constantly on his guard.

Randy treasured truth more than any other virtue throughout his life. Randy was, some said, a realist; others said he was an idealist, and all said he was a perfectionist. Now his eyes looked tired and the sparkle was fading. He walked with a greater forward tilt every day. The picadors of Austin Hills had kept a steady flow of darts at Randy and like a bull trapped in an arena; his head was taking a lower set.

He put the keys to the helicopter in his pocket. Susan flipped the switch and closed the hanger door and they drove from the runway area and turned left toward the Flight Line Café.

•  •  •

Rita, a bubbly redheaded waitress with a face full of freckles, seated them. Susan slid in first and instantly asked Rita about her son, who was in college. Rita beamed as she shared her son’s recent progress. Susan and Rita carried on for several minutes.

After Rita left with their order, Susan asked, So, why were we up at the crack of dawn this morning? I much prefer the more civilized nine-thirty.

The board meeting last night was more than I could take. I needed to get in the air and do some thinking. I’m not making any progress. Sylvia makes contracts in secret and the management company sanitizes the board minutes to cover the corruption. Hell, if you read the association documents, it looks like they do everything right. They are so damned careful not to leave a paper trail that I know there’s some serious thievery going on.

Susan said, We’ve both been hurt; we thought we found friends up here. On the surface, they looked okay. I know you don’t believe me, but I still say pure jealousy is the issue. There was a time when most homeowners believed everything Bosworth said. Then you started asking questions and little by little, he started to look like the fraud he is. He hates you for that and the bunch that surrounds him spreads the hate like a virus.

Randy paused for thought, That sounds too simple. There has to be more to it than that. Anyway, the die is cast now.

They finished breakfast and over a second cup of coffee Randy asked, Okay, what do you think we should do?

You already know what I think. I’m willing to pull up stakes and leave this place.

So, because of one egomaniac we just up and sell our place, take a financial bath, and downscale our lives? Do we let him drive us out? he asked; sure she wouldn’t agree.

Okay, forget it. I know you won’t run away. So what’s your plan?

Right now, it’s their game, their rules, and their ball. The great-unwashed mass of homeowners doesn’t seem to take anything seriously. Appeals to them are useless. But, tell you what: Let me try one more approach. If we can’t bring about some changes, then we’ll move out.

Susan took his hand. So, what is your new plan? Sounds like the court of last resort.

Randy let out a deep breath. That’s just what it is, a last resort.

They waved goodbye to Rita and walked to their car.

"Tom Berman is a reporter for the Inland Valley News. I read one of his articles. Then, I read his bio on the Web and found out he loves to fly. He owns an older Cessna. When he writes a story, he really digs deep–I was impressed. I sent him an email and asked if he had ever had a flight in a helicopter. He wrote back that he hadn’t and I volunteered to expose him to the wonders of flying windmills. It turns out that he also lives in an association and he’s upset with his directors. I’m trying to get him to write a series of articles exposing the problems with associations, starting with Austin Hills."

So, is he going to do it?

Right now, I don’t know. He says the story is interesting but there isn’t enough personal focus to get reader interest. Tom says we need something dramatic that will grab his readers.

So, your last resort just bailed out?

THREE

F ourth of July morning, Randy rummaged through his closet and located a pair of cowboy boots. He put on some Levis, a Western shirt, and found a dusty cowboy hat up on a closet shelf. When he came into the kitchen, Susan looked up and laughed.

Oh, God, don’t tell me we’re going to that silly parade again?

Randy looked up with a big grin on his face. Every year there was a funky morning parade of old cars, kids on bicycles, one or more fire trucks, and horses of uncertain temperament. Rowdies along the route came equipped with water cannons and balloons, and the kids came with empty sacks to collect the candy thrown out by those on makeshift floats.

Don’t worry. We won’t stay very long. We’ll watch the tail end of the parade, go over to the picnic, and make ourselves known. Then we’ll come home. Are you going?

Of course I’m going. You know that if you go I’ll be there right beside you. I won’t like it very much but I’ll be damned if I’ll let those bitches drive me away.

•  •  •

Marchers in the Austin Hills Fourth of July parade appreciated the tree-shaded route. A cool June had given way to a searing summer heat that had temperatures above 100°. Years ago, the Fourth of July picnic was a festive event. There’d been a kid’s talent show, the fire department trainees sold hamburgers, and some Mexican charros put on an impromptu show of roping tricks on their horses. Now, politics was the selling staple.

Randy and Susan parked near the end of the parade route and saw most of the floats. Then they walked along the dirt road to the picnic area. There was not a breath of air and unless you brought your own shade, you were doomed to swelter in the sun.

•  •  •

This year the trainees from the fire department were absent and a pair of teenagers stood behind a charcoal barbecue hawking hamburgers and hotdogs under a tree. They