Page 61 of Worth the Risk
“Elliot found out through his contact at the planning commission. When I told him I was considering buying Highland, he mentioned that someone had already filed preliminary community land trust documentation.” I run a hand through my hair, probably leaving more soil streaks. “Maya, when I learned you’d been preparing the exact solution I was trying to figure out, it changed everything.”
“Changed it how?”
“It changed my understanding from sole proprietor to partner. You’d already done the hardest part—navigating legal complexities, securing community input, getting city approvals. I just provided the capital that activated months of work you thought was pointless.”
Maya is quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting past me toward the garden where tomato seedlings sit in neat rows, waiting to be planted. “You’ve been gardening.”
“I’ve been thinking. And planting. Turns out I like creating things more than demolishing them.” I gesture toward the garden. “My grandfather grew vegetables here for thirty years. I never understood the appeal until this morning.”
“What changed this morning?”
“This morning, I woke up knowing I’d never have to coordinate another community displacement. Never have to measure success in quarterly profits. Never have to pretend that luxury developments matter more than the gathering places theyreplace.” I pause, studying her expression. “This morning, I realized that some kinds of growth are worth waiting for.”
Something shifts in Maya’s eyes—not quite forgiveness, but a softening that gives me hope. “Declan, I spent my father’s entire life insurance policy on legal fees for the community land trust establishment. Two hundred thousand dollars on documentation that I thought would be useless without fifteen million in capital.”
“It wasn’t useless. It was the foundation that made Highland’s salvation possible.”
“But you could have provided that capital months ago. You could have prevented all of this—the board vote, Highland’s dissolution, three weeks of crisis management while families adjusted to scattered programming.”
The accusation hits exactly where it should. “You’re right. I should have thought of direct purchase earlier. I should have realized that some problems require individual action rather than corporate collaboration.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
It’s the question I’ve been asking myself while transplanting seedlings and mulching flower beds. Why did it take Elliot’s revelation about Maya’s legal work to make me consider the obvious solution?
“Because I was still thinking like Pierce Enterprises’ CEO instead of like someone who’d learned what community preservation actually requires.” I gesture for her to enter the house and follow me into the garden. “For three years, I approached every problem through corporate frameworks—board votes, profitanalyses, regulatory compliance. It never occurred to me that some things are too important to leave to corporate democracy.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m learning to think like someone who believes communities matter more than quarterly reports. Someone who’d rather plant tomatoes than review demolition schedules.” I pause, pulling up a wrought iron chair when we reach the patio. “Someone who’d rather be Maya Navarro’s partner than Pierce Enterprises’ CEO.”
Maya sits down. “The Navarro Community Trust. You named it after my family.”
I lean against the table. “I named it after the people who understand that community preservation requires both vision and persistence. Your father’s vision, your persistence, and now your legal framework that guarantees Highland will never be threatened again.”
Tears gather in her eyes, and I see her careful composure beginning to crack. “Declan, I’ve been so angry–at you, at myself, at everything. For three weeks, I thought we’d failed Highland completely. I thought all our collaboration, all our research, everything we discovered together wasn’t enough to save what mattered most.”
“We didn’t fail Highland.” The words come out rougher than intended. “Maya, we lost our battle because Harrison had the deciding vote, but that doesn’t mean the war was over. Resigning from Pierce Enterprises, buying Highland using your legal work, establishing the foundation—all of that was about finishing what we started together.”
“And if I can’t forgive myself for losing faith? If three weeks of thinking Highland was lost forever can’t be undone by what you’ve accomplished?”
“Then Highland will still be protected by the legal framework you created, and the foundation will still help other communities establish land trusts before they face displacement.” I reach for her hands, relief flooding through me when she doesn’t pull away. “Maya, I’m not trying to erase the past three weeks. I’m trying to honor the work you’ve already done and prove that our collaboration was never pointless.”
She studies our joined hands, her thumb tracing across my knuckles in the gentle touch I’ve missed desperately. “You really used my legal documentation? All of it?”
“Every page. Kemp & Associates did extraordinary work—ironclad protections against future development, guaranteed community control, sustainable funding structures. Highland exists as a community land trust because you built the framework that made it legally possible.”
“I thought all that work was pointless. I thought I’d wasted my father’s insurance money on legal documentation that would never be implemented.”
“You built the road map for Highland’s permanent protection. I just provided the vehicle to get there.” I pause, studying her expression. “Maya, what you accomplished in two weeks of legal preparation is exactly what the foundation wants to help other communities create proactively.”
She looks at me, and I can see her mind working through the implications. “You’re saying other communities could use Highland’s legal framework as a template?”
“I’m saying you’ve created a replicable model for community land trust establishment that could protect gathering places across California. Highland’s trust isn’t just about saving one building—it’s about proving that community ownership can work on a larger scale.”
Maya is quiet for several minutes, processing everything I’ve told her. Around us, the garden hums with morning life—bees visiting jasmine blossoms, birds nesting in olive branches, the quiet satisfaction of plants taking root in soil that’s been tended for generations.
“Why are you telling me this in your garden?” she asks finally.
