“No.”
“How far over?”
“At the nearest point, about thirty-seven feet. At the main basin, more like forty yards. They didn’t nick your line. They crossed it with confidence.”
He showed me the overlay. The old stone fence aligned with the documented boundary. The spring channel was mine. The basin was mine. The damaged trees were mine. There was no interpretation that made Brent and Laurel’s lake belong to them.
Harold drafted a formal notice that afternoon. We sent it certified mail. Stop work immediately. Restore the land to its prior condition. Remove unauthorized structures or improvements. Eighteen days.
I believed, foolishly, that facts would settle it.
Facts do settle many things among people who respect them. But facts are less effective against pride with a lawyer attached.
A week later, a letter arrived from a Nashville law firm. Cream paper. Heavy envelope. Language polished smooth enough to hide the insult. Brent and Laurel had relied on a licensed survey. They had acted in good faith. Their contractor had verified the site. Any claim of encroachment was disputed. Any attempt to interfere with their project would be treated as harassment and pursued accordingly.
