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making out the stop-work order as he tacked it to the wall of what was going to be my new bathroom.
    “Wait a second, there’s no need to be hasty,” I said. “Surely there’s a way we can work this out.”
    “You have two choices. You can comply with my order, or you can sell this place and move,” Charlie said.
    “Now are you ready for me to tell you what you can do?” Bill growled.
    “Bill. Leave. Please.” I added the last bit as my husband directed his glare to me.
    He scowled at Charlie a second, and I could tell he was getting ready to fire another volley at the man. I quickly stepped between them and whispered to him, “Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”
    Instead of an answer, he grunted, but to my husband’s credit, he did exactly as I asked and walked out of the shop.
    Charlie was still writing something on his clipboard when I turned to him. In my gentlest voice, I asked, “Now, can we talk about this like two rational adults?”
    “The time for talking is over. If you don’t agree with my order, you can always appeal it.”
    “To Pete Young? You’re kidding, right?” Pete ran the building inspection department for Maple Ridge, and he was known unaffectionately around town as Pucker-Up Pete. The man would say no to his mother, if she were ever foolish enough to give him the chance, and it appeared that Charlie was following closely in his mentor’s footsteps.
    “Mr. Young is my supervisor, and I’d appreciate it if you would treat him with respect.”
    This was getting me nowhere. “I’m sorry. Charlie, I need this bathroom. As it is, I barely have running water in the place.” Bill and I had decided to save some money by redoing the bathroom ourselves. My husband had put his latest furniture order on hold and had gleefully ripped out the old sink and toilet. He’d been in the process of expanding the bathroom’s narrow confines when Charlie had gotten wind of our remodeling. We hadn’t even realized we’d need a permit to start moving walls and fixtures around, but evidently the building code for our little Vermont town was taken straight from Big Brother’s manual on harassing do-it-yourselfers. We were in an historic district that took the town’s bylaws rather seriously, and I was beginning to see the world through the eyes of an owner instead of a renter.
    “I can’t help that,” Charlie said. “It’s not my problem.”
    “What can I do?” I was frantic about solving this.
    “You can get a permit. Until then, I’d advise you to do as I say and stop this construction.”
    “How long does it take to get a permit?” I imagined running home every time I had to go to the bathroom, not a pleasant thought at all, and I didn’t even want to think about what I would do with my customers. Would I have to send them to Kendra? What a headache.
    Charlie said, “It takes as long as it takes.”
    He left, and I was getting ready to lock the shop so I could go after the coveted permit when I heard shouting out front.
    Bill hadn’t gone far, and it appeared that he and Charlie had moved right into Round Two.
    “You’re not going to get away with this,” Bill shouted at Charlie. Their noses were barely six inches apart as they screamed.
    “Look around. I already did. That permit’s going to be stuck in molasses, and you better believe it.” It was pretty clear that Charlie was just as mad as Bill.
    “If I can’t go around you, then I’ll go straight through you,” my husband shouted at him.
    I had to stop this. There was only one thing to do. I forced myself between them and turned my back to Charlie so I could face Bill. “Go home.”
    “But—”
    “Go home,” I repeated. There was not a whisper of love or affection in my voice as I said it.
    Bill turned and stormed off, and before I could apologize to Charlie yet again, he left as well. There was quite a crowd gathered along the River Walk, and I could only imagine how fast the story of the fight would