Chapter 4: The Historic Easement

David stepped further into the kitchen, the box of locks heavy in his arms. He nodded at Richard, then at me.

“Richard said you’d be here,” David said, addressing me directly. “He wants me to clear out anything that looks like yours into the garage before I get started.”

My gaze met Richard’s. He had avoided my eyes since David walked in. Now he offered a weak, apologetic shrug.

“David, perhaps you should wait a moment,” I said, my voice calm despite the rising frustration.

“Richard’s paying me good cash for this,” David replied, already setting the box down and reaching for his drill. “He said you were giving him trouble, Eleanor. But I don’t see any trouble here. Just a nice, quick job.”

He pulled out a shiny new doorknob from the box, its brass glinting under the kitchen light. He started to examine the existing deadbolt on the kitchen door.

“David,” I said, stepping away from the dining table. “Before you go any further, there’s something you need to know about this house.”

I walked back to the open safe. From a separate compartment, I retrieved a thin, parchment-like document. It was folded neatly, with a red wax seal pressed into its corner.

“This property isn’t just any house,” I explained, unfolding the document. “It’s a designated historic home. Has been since 1989.”

I held up the document. It was a municipal covenant, officially filed with the county.

“This is a historic preservation filing,” I said, pointing to a specific clause. “It stipulates that any physical alteration to the structural entry points – that includes changing locks, replacing doors, or even altering window frames – requires unanimous written consent.”

David froze, his hand still on the drill. “Unanimous consent for what?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“From all living deed holders,” I finished, my eyes steady on his. “Without that, any alterations are unlawful property damage. And you, as the contractor, would be personally liable.”

David stared at the document, then at me, then at Richard. The new brass doorknob slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. His drill, once so confidently held, now seemed a dead weight in his hand.

He dropped it onto the kitchen counter with a thud.

“Richard, what is she talking about?” David asked, his voice strained. He took a step back from the door, his face pale with sudden realization. “You didn’t say anything about this.”

Richard stood still, his shoulders slumping. He had painted a picture of a simple, straightforward eviction. Now, his plan was crumbling.