Chapter 6 - Setting the Trap
Word traveled like wildfire through the manicured hedges of Oakridge Valley.
By Tuesday afternoon, rumors were swirling that Julian Hayes had retained one of the most aggressive civil litigation teams in the state. Kristin had taken to Instagram, posting a photo of herself in her neck brace sitting beside a vase of white lilies, accompanied by a lengthy caption about ‘elderly entitlement, unprovoked violence, and healing from trauma.’
The post had tens of thousands of likes. Sympathetic comments from local socialites flooded her page: *Stay strong, Kristin! Time to clean out the dead weight at the club!*
I spent Tuesday tending to my hydrangeas.
My gardener, Hector, looked at me nervously over the hedge shears. “Mrs. Vance, they’re saying at the maintenance shed that Mr. Hayes is going to have the police waiting at the club tomorrow.”
“Let him hire the marching band while he’s at it, Hector,” I replied, clipping off a wilted blossom. “Noise never won a war, Hector. Positioning does.”
At four o’clock, Robert came up the driveway, his convertible idling as he stepped out. His face was lined with anxiety. He walked up to my porch, holding a manila folder.
“Eleanor, you need to settle this before tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice tense. “Julian called an extraordinary session of the board for four o'clock sharp. He’s stacked the quorum with his young cronies from the real estate syndicate. They have the votes to strip your membership permanently and ban you from the grounds for life. They're going to make a public spectacle out of you.”
“Robert, sit down and have some lemonade,” I said calmly.
“I don’t want lemonade, Eleanor! I’m trying to protect you! You don't understand how ruthless Julian is. He’s already talking to the county prosecutor about pressing misdemeanor battery charges against you. You’re seventy-five years old. Do you really want to spend your golden years sitting in a deposition room answering questions about a torn evening gown?”
“Julian is playing checkers, Robert,” I said, pouring two glasses from a crystal pitcher. “He thinks the game is about who has the loudest voice and the most Twitter followers.”
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“And what game are you playing?” he demanded, staring at me.
“I’m not playing a game at all,” I replied, looking out across the emerald grass toward the distant clubhouse roof. “I am foreclosing on his fantasy.”
