Cedar Ridge Estates sits on the ridge above my land. A gated development that had popped up about five years ago—stone entrance sign, decorative fountain that ran even during drought restrictions, massive houses with equally massive opinions about how the landscape should look and what views they were entitled to from their multimillion-dollar properties.
“We’re not part of Cedar Ridge,” I said. “We’ve never been part of Cedar Ridge.”
“Exactly,” Mara replied.
A business card had been tucked under my windshield wiper that morning. She still had it, pulled it out of her pocket. Summit Tree & Land Management. A phone number. A website promising professional landscaping and land management services.
I called the number with hands that felt calmer than the anger building inside me—the kind of controlled rage that comes from understanding that something precious has been destroyed and that the people responsible didn’t even think to ask permission first.
