Heads up, fair reader — I’m making this the final installment of the series because I tried something a little different, and I’m not completely convinced it paid off. If it did, let me know. All of these HOA shenanigans are based on true stories that occurred between 2007 and 2026, and I have enough material to keep this neighborhood dysfunctional for years. All that to say, remember their names and personalities so I don’t have to waste valuable time reminding you down the road.
If you’ve made it this far into this saga, congratulations! (Catch up on past Chronicles by clicking here.) You now know more about the quasi-fictional residents of The Enclave at Sunset Lake than most people know about their own real-life neighbors. Or even their extended family.
When we last left off, HOA president Sharon Whitaker had wandered toward the Holly Springs fire truck, thirst-trapping in head-to-toe Lilly Pulitzer.
At that moment, every nosy neighbor on the block knew the truth. For once, the young millennial couple with the baby, the Bennetts, had taken their Xanax and resisted calling the authorities over a recreational fire. It was Sharon. And no one was less surprised than her neighborhood nemesis, Craig Milford.
Now, before we continue, it’s important to understand that Craig has spent the better part of a decade believing Sharon is personally responsible for everything wrong with the neighborhood. The HOA dues? Sharon. The new mailbox regulations? Sharon. That weird mulch color that made Craig spit out his Busch Light? Somehow also Sharon. Watching this unfold was, for Craig, the Super Bowl.
Sharon made enough small talk to convince absolutely no one that she was concerned about fire safety. The very married firefighter, meanwhile, had responded to three actual emergencies before dinner and was done explaining Duraflame logs to flirty retirees. Sharon laughed a little too hard, and the firefighter nodded politely in the way customer service employees do when they know they’re never coming back. Then he climbed into the truck, and just like that, the evening’s leading man disappeared with zero intention of attending Sharon’s next lasagna night.
The fire was extinguished and neighbors slowly retreated back into their homes, fully convinced Sharon’s estradiol patch was working overtime (iykyk). Case closed.
Or so everyone thought.
The next morning, the neighborhood Facebook page looked exactly like you’d expect. Comments galore. A suggestion to ban all backyard fires and Yankee transplants. A Yankee transplant defending their existence. Melanie, the neighborhood Dog Mom, somehow steering the conversation into a debate about how smoke affects anxious dogs and Fourth of July fireworks.
Despite all the noise, the unspoken consensus was that Sharon had made the call for an excuse to flirt with someone other than her husband, Mike. But later that week, the truth came out. It happened in the bowels of Craig’s garage, the unofficial town hall of The Enclave, each loiterer holding a beer while pretending not to enjoy each other’s company.
Somewhere between discussing the humidity and complaining about the monstrosity being built on Dickens Road, Mike let it slip.
He’d made the call. And he had no ragrets.
Mike hadn’t called because he thought the fire was dangerous. Despite who he’s married to, he’s not a narc. Nor had Sharon asked him to do it, though no one would’ve questioned it if she had. He’d called because he’d been standing at the grill when Sharon walked outside and announced she had “a few things” she’d like to tackle together before dinner.
Mike did the math. In Sharon’s world, “a few things” could mean a last-minute trip to Home Depot for the mulch Craig would inevitably complain about, entertaining a couple she met at Niche Wine Lounge, reorganizing the garage, or edging the lawn in 95-degree heat because “it’ll only take a minute.”
But a fire truck meant distraction. Distraction meant uninterrupted grilling. It was, in his mind, a flawless plan. What he failed to account for was Sharon throwing on her finest pair of capris and seizing the moment in the name of fire safety.
Craig listened to Mike’s confession in stunned silence. For the first time in recorded Enclave history, he had to admit Sharon wasn’t to blame for everything. This time, it was just a guy trying to ignore his wife and the smell of the dump and grill in peace.
And honestly?
That might be the most believable part of this entire story.
- Recipes from Readers: Prosciutto & Peach Pizza
- Restaurant Spotlight: Oakview Public House
- Woman to Watch: Susan Weis
- Chronicles of an HOA: The Enclave at Sunset Lake, (Final Installment … For Now)
- Dig In & Drink Up: Korean-Inspired Bowls
- Meet & Greet: Jana Clinard Harris
- See & Do: September to October 2026
- Nonprofit Spotlight: The Hope Closet
- Backyard Bliss
