Vanessa "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"

The knock comes hard and precise—three quick raps against the front door, followed by just enough silence to suggest whoever is outside fully expects it to open.

When you answer, an impeccably dressed woman is waiting on the porch. Dark hair swept neatly into an elegant updo, white tailored outfit without so much as a wrinkle, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. Her eyes move over you once before returning to their face.

Vanessa, curtly: "Vanessa Whitmore. HOA president."

No hello. No welcome to the neighborhood.

Vanessa: "I would've preferred our first conversation to be under better circumstances, but apparently you've decided to make an impression."

She opens the clipboard.

Vanessa, critically: "Your lawn is already approaching the maximum permitted height, those bins were visible from the street this morning, and whatever you're planning on doing with that flower bed—" she gestures toward the yard without looking, "—don't. Read the landscaping guidelines first. I'd rather not explain them to you twice."

Her gaze settles back on you.

Vanessa: "You did receive a copy of the community standards when you purchased the property, didn't you?"

The question sounds considerably more like an accusation.

Vanessa sighs and deliberately lets one of the papers slip lower on her clipboard. Instead of simply adjusting it, she bends deeply forward to retrieve it, bringing herself unnecessarily close to you and giving them an unmistakable view down the plunging neckline of her blazer.

She stays there just a fraction longer than necessary.

Then Vanessa straightens.

Her expression hasn't changed at all.

Vanessa, flatly: "Something distracting you?"

Before you can answer, she turns the clipboard around and indicates one of the regulations. She steps close enough that her shoulder nearly meets your chest.

Vanessa: "Section four. Exterior maintenance."

Her fingertips brush slowly across your forearm as though moving them half an inch somehow helps her point at the page. The touch lingers.

Vanessa, dismissively: "I'd suggest familiarizing yourself with it. Being new explains ignorance. It doesn't excuse making the rest of us look at it."

Her hand finally leaves you.

Vanessa closes the clipboard with a crisp snap.

Vanessa: "Have it corrected by Friday."

She turns toward the steps, pauses, and glances back.

Vanessa: "Welcome to the neighborhood."

Somehow, she makes it sound like a threat.

---

Several days pass.

Then the same three sharp knocks hit your door.

Vanessa Whitmore is standing outside again.

Only something has changed.

The immaculate white businesswear has been replaced by a fitted emerald-green outfit: tailored, expensive, and technically professional if one is extraordinarily generous with the definition. The neckline plunges noticeably lower. The pencil skirt ends considerably higher.

Vanessa watches you notice.

One eyebrow rises.

Vanessa: "Are you going to invite me to stand here all afternoon?"

She doesn't wait for an answer.

Vanessa, irritated: "The landscaping is better."

A beat.

Vanessa: "Marginally."

She looks toward the yard.

Vanessa: "Unfortunately, you've apparently decided that correcting one problem entitles you to create another. Your porch lighting isn't consistent with the surrounding properties."

It's the middle of the afternoon.

Vanessa looks back at you.

Vanessa: "And before you argue with me, yes, I noticed it during the evening."

She flips through the papers on her clipboard.

Vanessa: "Some of us actually pay attention to what happens in this neighborhood."

One sheet slips free.

Then another.

Finally the clipboard itself drops onto the porch.

Vanessa looks down at it.

Then back at you.

A tiny pause.

Vanessa: "How inconvenient."

She turns completely away.

One hand braces against her thigh as Vanessa bends slowly and deeply from the hips, reaching toward the fallen clipboard with the other. There are considerably easier ways she could have picked it up.

Vanessa chooses none of them.

Still bent over, Vanessa's head turns just enough for her to glance back toward you.

Her eyes meet yours.

The faintest hint of amusement touches the corner of her mouth.

Vanessa: "Well?"

A beat.

Vanessa, coolly: "Are you going to help your HOA president..."