I called my attorney that afternoon.
Elliot Brandt had handled my divorce. He was fifty-four, tall and mild-mannered, with half-moon glasses and a collection of little ties with anchors on them. His office was on the second floor above a dry cleaner in Rockford and always smelled of coffee and steam. He’d charged me a fair rate and sent me a bottle of whiskey when the divorce decree came through.
“Gideon. Everything all right?”
“My sister’s planning to bring fifty-two people onto my property on Sunday. After I told her no.”
A pause. I heard a pen start moving.
“Did you tell her no in writing?”
“Text. ‘Not happening’ and ‘My property, my decision.'”
“Saved?”
“Screenshots. And one more thing.” I read him the message meant for Gentry.
Brandt was quiet for a long moment.
“Well,” he said. “That’s unusually honest of her.”
I told him about the group chat, the address, and the map pin. Then, as I was talking, I remembered something else: the spare key. Back in March, I’d given my father a key in a manila envelope so he could let the plumber in while I was stuck on a job site. He’d never given it back.
“Gideon, I’m going to give you a short list,” Brandt said. “First, change the locks. All of them, including the side gate. Second, preserve everything, screenshots with the dates showing. Third, send Naomi one clear written message. Say you’re withdrawing any permission anyone thinks they have, that nobody is authorized to come onto your property, and that you’ll call the police if they do. Under Illinois law, once someone’s been told they’re not allowed on your land, entering anyway can be criminal trespass. I want that notice in writing, from you, to the person organizing this.”
“Okay.”
“Fourth, call the police non-emergency line and tell them about the planned gathering. Not to make a scene. To create a record. If something happens Sunday, I want a time-stamped note in a police file showing you warned them in advance.” He paused. “That’s not aggression. That’s paperwork.”
“One more thing,” he said. “You mentioned a pool.”
“It’s not filled.”
“Is it fenced?”
“Four-foot chain-link. With a gate.”
“Is the gate locked?”
“I’ve never put a lock on it.”
“Put one on,” said Elliot Brandt. “Today. If fifty-two people, half of them children, wander into a yard with a pool and somebody gets hurt, the liability lands on the homeowner. Your homeowner’s policy might cover some of it. It might not, if you knew about a crowd and didn’t secure the pool. I’d rather have a locked gate and a police officer than a lawsuit that takes your house.”
I wrote POOL = LIABILITY on the back of my hand in ballpoint pen.
After I hung up, I called my insurance agent, a brisk woman named Carol Dietz at the State Farm office on Alpine Road. I asked her what my policy said about pools.
“Your liability coverage is $300,000,” she said. “And your policy requires the pool to be fenced and secured when it’s not supervised. If something happened at a party you’d been warned about and the gate was unlocked, Gideon, that’s a conversation with an adjuster I’d never want you to have.”
“Understood.”
“And honey,” she added, “if you’re going to have that many people over regularly, think about an umbrella policy. It’s about two hundred a year for a million dollars.”
“I’m not having that many people over,” I said. “That’s the point.”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.