“HOA inspection,” she said, flat as a pancake. Her voice had all the joy of someone who ruins kids’ lemonade stands for fun. “We’ve received a complaint.”
I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Let me guess,” I said slowly. “Josh?”
She didn’t respond. Not a nod, not a word.
Instead, she turned on her heel and started walking around my yard like she was rating a beauty pageant for lawns. Her pen scratched against the clipboard every few steps. Her mouth stayed tight, like she was holding in something sour.
She paused at my gnome circle. Her nose twitched. She bent down to look closer at the Elvis one, then sighed like it caused her physical pain.
She pointed at my porch. “And the wind chimes,” she said. “What about them?” I asked.
“They’re non-compliant,” she answered, like I should’ve known. “Noise pollution.”
By the time she finished her slow march around my house, she handed me a citation list that was so long it curled at the bottom. It had everything—“Remove all garden figurines from public view.”
“Repaint trim to approved shade.” “
Power wash walkway.” “No hanging objects on porch.”
“No wind chimes?” I said, frowning.
“Really?”
She didn’t blink. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
She turned and walked away, heels clicking like tiny hammers on concrete. And there, in his yard, stood Josh.
Arms folded. Fresh mug of coffee in hand. Smirking like a cat in a cream shop.
That night, I gathered my gnomes quietly and moved them to the backyard. It felt like losing a little war. I sat on the porch steps, staring at the chipped paint on the siding, the wind chimes now silent behind me.
My heart felt heavy, like a stone resting at the bottom of a creek. Had I lost? The next morning, the sky was clear and the air already warm.
I dragged out the old metal ladder from the garage, its legs creaking like my knees. I set it near the porch and picked up a chipped paint scraper, ready to tackle the trim that the HOA lady had shamed me for. That’s when I saw him.
Josh walked over from his yard, slow and unsure, like he wasn’t sure I’d throw the scraper at him. In one hand, he held a small paint bucket. In the other, two clean brushes.
“I think I took it too far,” he said, his eyes focused on the paint instead of me. “Ya think?” I snapped, wiping sweat from my forehead and brushing back my hair. My voice came out sharp, but my heart wasn’t in it.
He shifted on his feet. “I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean for her to write you up like that.”
I paused and looked at him.
Really looked. His shoulders were drooping. His mouth didn’t have that usual smirk.
His voice sounded different—quiet, maybe even a little sad. “What’s in the bucket?” I asked. “White cedar mist,” he replied, holding it out like a peace offering.
“Matches your shutters.”
I stared at the bucket for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you’re climbing the ladder.”
He gave me the smallest smile.
“Fair enough.”
We painted the trim together, side by side. The sun moved across the sky as we worked, turning hot and then golden. We laughed when Josh spilled a little paint on his shoe and cursed under his breath.
We took turns on the ladder. We didn’t talk about the HOA, or the gnomes—at least, not at first. While rinsing brushes near the hose, he said, “Lost my wife two years ago.
House’s been too quiet ever since. Sometimes the silence feels like it’s pressing on my chest.”
I nodded. “This place used to feel too big.
But the gnomes made it mine, somehow. Silly, I know.”
As the sun dipped low, the house looked brighter. Like it had forgiven both of us.
“You still mad about the gnomes?” I asked. Josh shook his head. “Nah.
Maybe they’re not unlucky. Maybe they’re just misunderstood.”
I smiled. “Like you?”
He looked over and said softly, “Maybe.”
That evening, after the last streak of paint dried, I stood at the front lawn again, gnome in hand.
“Can I put him back?” I asked Josh, who leaned on the fence like he belonged there. “Let’s start with one,” he said. “Test the spiritual waters.”
“Hard to choose,” I teased.
“They all have such personalities.”
He walked over, picked up the original gnome. “Let’s go with this one. He looks like he’s seen some things.”
We placed him together, just to the right of the rose bush.
“Dinner?” Josh asked suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I can help you pick the least haunted of the rest.”
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “Sure,” I said.
“Bring the smudge sticks if things go south.”
He chuckled. “Deal.”
As we stood there, side by side, the wind shifted. The lanterns were gone.
The gnome’s smile looked less mischievous, more content. Maybe luck, like people, just needs time to be understood. And maybe peace, like paint, takes a few coats to stick.
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day. Source: amomama
