Dort was livid.
“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered under her breath, fingers hammering her keyboard with enough force to rattle the coffee mug beside her laptop. “Complete and utter horse hockey with a capital H.”
The letter open on her screen deserved better than her usual professional and polished platitudes. Some insufferable busybody named “Concerned in Connecticut” had written to Dear Dottie about her neighbor’s “inappropriate lawn decorations” and “excessive noise levels that disrupted the peaceful ambiance of their community.”
Dort’s jaw clenched. The topic hit a little too close to home and she found it infuriating. She was becoming a vessel filled to overflowing with righteous indignation.
Her fingers flew across the keys, composing a scathing retort she knew her editor would never let see the light of day in her syndicated advice column:
Dear Concerned,
Have you considered minding your own business? Revolutionary concept, I know. Your neighbor’s lawn gnomes aren’t plotting against you, though frankly, I’d understand if they were. I’d be planning a revolt too if I had to wake up to your judgmental face looking through my windows every morning.
Let me get this straight: you’re losing sleep over lawn decorations and noise levels? Honey, the world has real problems. Brown children are being ripped from their mother’s arms by ICE agents who weren’t hugged enough when they were children. Women are losing their body autonomy and dying in hospitals because of pregnancy complications while you’re out here clutching your pearls over a plastic flamingo and excessive television volume.
Here’s my advice: Invest in noise-canceling headphones, blackout curtains, and a hobby that doesn’t involve keep track of every move your neighbor makes. Might I suggest knitting? Meditation? Literally anything that keeps you inside your own house and away from the rest of the world. You are not fit for public consumption.
Better yet, try this wild experiment. Try waving at your neighbor instead of documenting their every move like you’re building a legal case against them. Bake them cookies. Have a conversation that doesn’t start with “I couldn’t help but notice...” because yes, you absolutely could help it. You just chose not to.
Your neighbor’s wind chimes aren’t a personal attack on your peace. Their recycling bin being out hours past the pickup isn’t a war crime.
The peaceful ambiance you’re so desperate to preserve? You’re the one destroying it by turning your neighborhood into a surveillance state. You’re not concerned, you’re bored. And you’ve decided to make that everyone else’s problem.
Go get a life, buy one if you have to,
The Crone
P.S. - If you have this much free time to monitor your neighbors, might I suggest volunteering at a local food bank? They could really use someone with your attention to detail, and you’d actually be contributing something useful to society instead of manufacturing petty drama where none exists.
Feeling the rage dissipate, Dort let out a hot breath. Then read the response aloud to the pair of sugar gliders in the enclosure in her sunroom. “Cheechy? Chong-a-long? What do you think?” She shifted back in her seat, admiring her work. It was much more satisfying than the sugar-coated nonsense she’d been forced to publish for years during her illustrious career at the Omaha World-Herald that had earned national syndication in the late eighties.
From the enormous habitat occupying half her sunroom, Cheech chittered. His fur was a light silver color with a taupe stripe running down his back to his long tail. He clung to the mesh wall, his dark eyes fixed and sharp. “Esa señora needs to calm down, for real. Tell her to get a Ring doorbell like every other chismosa on the block. At least then she’d have proof when she finally goes loco.”
Chong, his best friend, made no noise to indicate he was listening. He was dark grey with a stripe running down his back and currently consumed with tearing a toilet paper roll into confetti.
“Chong?”
Wanting to keep his mistress happy, he scrambled up beside Cheech, cardboard fibers still stuck to his fur. “You should tell her the gnomes in her yard have been cursed by an ancient prophecy and on the next full moon will come to life to smother her in her bed.”
“If only that were true.” She let out a pained sigh.
Stranger things had happened in Aura Cove, since last July, when fishermen reported a funnel of swirling light gathering above the waters just off the coast where the legendary Castanova Compound was situated. At first, it was dismissed as a thunderstorm because of the accompanying lightning, but several hours later, the vortex only grew stronger. It was thought to be the epicenter of a supernatural event and ever since the strange and unusual had become common place in the tiny town of Aura Cove. Dort experienced the magic first hand when she awoke the morning after the storm and Cheech and Chong could vocalize in complete sentences. She also learned while they preferred the habitat, they could now be trusted out in the open and wouldn’t become the escape artists sugar gliders reputed to be.
The vet thought she was losing it when she’d taken them in for evaluation. Of course, Cheech and Chong has refused to utter even a syllable during the examination. After a lengthy awkward pause, he insisted she needed to schedule a consult with a psychiatrist immediately. She ignored him, like she often did when she didn’t agree with someone offering her advice.
“You are terrible influences on me,” Dort said, fighting a smirk. “And I love you for it.” The sugar gliders had been a gift from her husband Ray and even though she’d initially fought adopting the tiny marsupials, they’d won her over and had the unique ability to pull her out of any funk.
“Terrible? We’re just keeping it real,” Cheech shot back. “I hate to point out the obvious, but there are some stunning parallels between Concerned’s letter and your upcoming hearing. It’s a little too on the nose. The difference is you are disturbing the peace out of spite.”
Dort let out an exaggerated gasp and pretended to clutch her trademark pearls that had become her uniform staple during public appearances. Now they were relegated to a shelf in her vanity.
“Don’t even try to deny it.”
Dort gave him a pointed look over the frames of her glasses. “Allegedly. disturbing the peace.”
“We can see you from the window, Dort. You’re not fooling nobody.”
Unwilling to admit it, she demanded, “Who buys the premium Madagascar crickets around here?”
“You do.”
“And who picks the organic strawberries?”
“You do.” They sighed in unison.
“Exactamente.” Dort slid into the Spanish she’d picked up from Ray over the years as easily as pulling on a warm sweater during a chill. “So maybe show a little respect before I switch you to pesticide-riddled ones.”
Chong gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Dort stood and stretched her arms above her head to work out the kinks in her body from prolonged sitting. Age had softened everything but her attitude. She was a statuesque woman, not the typical standard of beauty that turned heads and she had reconciled that about herself ages ago. She lifted weights at one of the clubhouses in the early mornings to avoid as many people as possible, focused on keeping her body in good working order rather than obsessing over what she looked like in swimwear. To be honest, she’d never really cared, but being in the public eye came with its own set of expectations. She’d joyfully shed them like a snake with a useless skin when they’d moved to the retirement community, Golden Cove.
Dort walked by the custom book shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling of her living room. Her husband Ray built the bookcases when they’d moved into their townhouse at Golden Cove thirteen years ago. The shelves were filled with a series of pastel books (the cutesy colors were not her choice) proclaiming the light-hearted wisdom they contained. They were filled with platitudes about honesty in communication, setting boundaries, and finding inner peace. She took a few minutes to organize and straighten the collection of books that still needed to be autographed. They would be shipped when her assistant, her granddaughter, Piper came by later.
On the opposite wall, magazine covers were framed inside matte silver frames. Good Housekeeping, Woman’s Day, Ladies’ Home Journal. They all featured various iterations of Dorothy “Dottie” Castillo’s signature warm, grandmotherly smile. The woman in those photos looked nothing like the person currently fantasizing about keying Margaret O’Malley’s new cherry red golf cart that looked more like a tricked out ‘67 Mustang.
In the corner, a life-sized cardboard cutout of herself, a promotional item from her publisher that Ray insisted have a permanent place in their home, beamed with unsettling enthusiasm. The Dottie in the cutout wore a lavender cardigan and pearls, her arms spread wide as if embracing the world. Dort had tried to throw it out six or seven times every day, but it kept reappearing. Knowing it was an exercise in futility that had become a game, she picked it up and started walking to the door.
“Corazón, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting rid of this silly thing.” Dort didn’t look up. “She’s taunting me.”
Ray’s laugh was soft, familiar as he gently led her away from the door. “You can’t. Sometimes she’s the only one of you I can talk sense into.”
“Very funny.” Dort set it down next to the kitchen table. It was white washed oak, big enough for the elaborate meals Ray cooked for holidays. Now it was buried under newspapers, printouts, and had become an impromptu shipping station.
A coffee mug appeared beside her laptop. She’d been so focused she hadn’t noticed Ray puttering around the kitchen.
“Fresh pot,” he said. “I thought you’d need the caffeine for this afternoon.”
“Don’t remind me.” Dort wrapped her hands around the mug, savoring its warmth. “This whole situation is sheer nonsense. My golf cart is not excessively loud. It’s painfully obvious that busybody, Margaret O’Malley, needs a new hobby.”
“The hearing is at two.”
“I’m aware.”
“You should probably prepare—”
“I am prepared.” Dort interrupted in frustration as she gestured at the stack of papers beside her planner. “I have documentation. Decibel readings. A witness statement from Eduardo the gardener that Margaret’s own golf cart is louder than mine.”
“Eduardo wrote you a statement?”
“He dictated it. I may have helped with the phrasing.”
Ray let out a resigned chuckle, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He wore the blue linen shirt she’d bought him for their last anniversary, sleeves rolled to the elbows. “Of course you did.”
“She claims my ‘thunderous roar’ disrupts the peaceful Golden Cove lifestyle.” Dort’s full lips twisted into a scowl as she made air quotes with her fingers. “Thunderous roar? It’s a golf cart, not a Harley Davidson.”
“Out of curiosity, when was the last time you had it serviced?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Dottie—”
“Don’t ‘Dottie’ me.” She stood, the chair scraping against tile. Her knees protested the sudden movement, that familiar ache settling into her left hip. She ignored it. “This is about control. Margaret O’Malley has decided she’s the Queen Bee of Golden Cove, and anyone who doesn’t fall in line and follow her rules gets reported to her little HOA tribunal.”
“It’s a community association hearing, not a witch hunt.”
“Same difference.”
Dort stalked to her bedroom, Ray’s presence a warm shadow following behind her. The closet was organized chaos. In it comfortable clothes hung without regard for color coordination or seasonal appropriateness. She’d stopped caring about fashion the moment she retired from public appearances ten years ago.
Her fingers bypassed the “nice” clothes, the blouses her daughter, Natalia had bought her last Christmas with the tags still attached, the slacks that required ironing. Instead, she grabbed her favorite pair of capris, worn soft from years of wear, and a t-shirt from a Kendrick Lamar concert she’d attended in Atlanta with Piper last year.
“Maybe something a little more mainstream?” Ray suggested with a wince.
Dort held up the shirt. In handwritten black lettering it read, ‘If this world were mine.’ “What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re trying to make a statement.”
“I’m always trying to make a statement.”
“I know.” His tone was patient, yet amused. “That’s what worries me.”
She changed in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror out of habit. The face that looked back lately was a stranger’s, behind the specialty glasses she now had to wear. The macular degeneration was early stage, the ophthalmologist had assured her, but she was desperate to slow it down.
When she emerged, Ray had laid out the complaint documentation on the bed. Margaret O’Malley’s flowery handwriting covered three pages, each grievance numbered and dated with obsessive detail.
January 3, 9:47 PM: Excessive noise from golf cart disturbed evening meditation.
January 8, 9:23 PM: Golf cart engine backfire startled residents during community movie night.
January 15, 10:15 PM: Loud acceleration past my residence, clearly intentional. Terrifying Mr. Peepers. Vet bill for anxiety medication $245.
“At least she was right about the last one,” Dort admitted.
Ray’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter. “I figured.”
“How was I to know she would be outside that late at night walking her cat…on a leash?”
“So you revved your engine at her?”
“I absolutely did.”
“Very mature of you.”
“I do feel bad about Mr. Peepers, but I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again if given the opportunity. We can’t all be fine, upstanding citizens of Golden Cove like Raymundo Castillo.” Dort shot back with her wide mouth set in a smirk. Truth was one of her strongest weapons and she wielded it like a sharpened spear. Over the years, Ray had become accustomed to it.
Dort gathered the papers, shoving them into her canvas tote bag alongside her wallet and reading glasses. “Are you coming to this farce?”
Ray was diplomatic. He was brilliant at being Switzerland, knowing Dort preferred to fight her own battles. “Only if you need me.”
The question landed heavier than it should have. Dort focused on zipping her bag, on checking her phone battery, on anything except the sudden tightness in her chest.
“No,” she said. “I can handle Margaret O’Malley and her flying monkeys myself.”
“I know you can.”
“Besides, you hate these things.”
“No," He emphasized, dragging the word out. "I hate seeing you stressed out.”
“Then distract me. Make us lunch.” Dort headed for the kitchen, grateful for the change of subject. “Something good. I must fortify my strength for the battle ahead.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty.” He said as they entered the kitchen where a sandwich waited on the counter. Turkey and avocado on sourdough, cut diagonally the way she preferred. Next to it, a handful of salt and vinegar chips filled the rest of the plate. After forty-six years of marriage, Ray knew his wife inside and out. Her husband’s favorite way of showing his devotion was by anticipating her needs and then employing sweet acts of service. It was the most endearing quality that made Dort fall in love with him in the first place.
She sat at the table, and he settled across from her with his own sandwich. They ate in comfortable silence, broken only by Chong’s excited chirping as he discovered a new branch in his habitat.
“You should take the scenic route,” Ray said after a while. “Clear your head before the hearing.”
“Or I could drive past Margaret’s house a few more times and gun it so she can add it to her report.”
“Dort.” His tone carried a note of warning.
“Fine. I’ll take the scenic route. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He smiled, that warm genuine expression that had first attracted her on their first date in a Nebraska diner. “Just try not to run over anyone.”
“No promises.”
After lunch, Dort grabbed her keys and headed for the garage. Her golf cart sat beside Ray’s truck, and she climbed into it.
The engine turned over with a satisfying rumble, louder than standard, maybe, but certainly not approaching anything close to a thunderous roar. Though she’s never admit it at the hearing, she’d had it modified for more power and better acceleration. Golf carts were the main source of transportation on the streets of Golden Cove. They were supposed to be slow, boring, and safe. Dort refused to be any of those things. She reversed out of the driveway and sped down her street toward the community center.
Past the steering wheel, Golden Cove spread before her in all its glory of manufactured perfection. Identical townhouses lined both sides of the street in tasteful combinations of beige and gray, each with manicured lawns and regulation mailboxes. The streets curved in careful arcs, designed to prevent speeding and encourage neighborly interaction with annoying speed bumps slowing her roll every few blocks.
Dort took the curves like a Nascar driver, her cart’s modified suspension handling them with ease. She passed the community pool, currently empty, and then the pickleball courts, where the same four couples played every afternoon. She zoomed by the dog park, populated by small creatures and their owners all in designer collars.
This was Ray’s dream. Sunshine, community, and a lifestyle of leisure. A warm place to relax after decades of building her career in the bitterly cold Midwest, managing her brand, and being the husband of “Dear Dottie” for millions of readers.
She loathed every manicured inch of it, but she loved him. Oh, how she loved him. It was the only reason she’d chosen to live in this, Dante’s tenth circle of manufactured hell.
Dort whipped the wheel to the right and gunned it. The colorful fringe Ray attached to the canopy of the cart rustled in the breeze and one of the bright tropical flowers he’d attached to the roof support rails detached and floated behind her. She let out a heavy sigh, then did a 360 and retrieved the lost flower tucking it into her bag, knowing he’d want to reattach it. The golf cart was his baby, and he doted on it like he doted on their granddaughter, Piper.
A block later, Margaret O’Malley’s townhouse appeared on her left, distinguished by its excessive flower boxes and solar-powered garden lights shaped like butterflies. Dort accelerated, her cart’s engine letting out a gratifying growl. She downshifted, then slammed the accelerator to the floor. The wheels of the cart screeched in protest then jerked forward leaving a satisfying searing trail of black rubber on the immaculate concrete behind her.
Margaret’s curtains twitched.
Dort grinned with glee and kept driving.
The scenic route took her to the edge of Golden Cove, where the cookie cutter perfection gave way to scrubby Florida wilderness. She parked beside the retention pond, killing the engine. She took a deep breath as the silence settled, broken only by birds and the distant hum of traffic from the main road. This was the only place in Golden Cove where she could breathe.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Piper: Good luck today, Grandma. Give ‘em hell.
Dort smiled. At least someone understood.
She stayed there for twenty minutes, watching an egret hunt in the shallow water, gathering her patience like armor. Then she headed over to the community center. A modern low slung building draped with an American Flag on a street that was gated off from the public.
Golden Cove loved its gates. It wasn’t an official gated community as the streets were public by law, and the guards couldn’t actually stop anyone. But between the gates and the speed bumps, every vehicle was forced to a slow crawl entering the neighborhood. The uniformed security guards posted at the entrances noted every license plate that dared to wander down the streets. It wasn’t about safety. It was about making sure everyone knew they were under surveillance 24/7—365 days per year.
Ray often waved at the guards, taking time to learn their names and ask about their families. Dort just flashed them her resident ID and kept driving. She rolled the cart to a stop and parked in the lot. Knowing inside, the Community board would already be gathered and arranging their notes, preparing for the hearing.
Dort stood. Her shoulders thrust back, her head held high, and jaw set with determination. Then she laced her arm through her bag and strode to the entrance.
It was time to remind Golden Cove who Dort Castillo really was.
Sold out
