Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,13
the outside, hollow on the inside.
I turned away from Clay’s house and considered taking my kayak out. It was a routine of mine almost every night. Late in the evening, right before bed, was the best time to be on the Oconomowoc River. I’d added reflective tape to the sides of my kayak and a few strips of it on my life jacket and, on nights when the moon wasn’t shining to light my way, I wore a waterproof headlamp.
But tonight the river didn’t beckon me. I would probably see death in every shadow. Besides, I was drop-dead tired from the day’s stress.
Those nightmares I’d been worrying about after seeing Manny’s dead body caught up with me. I woke up in the middle of the night, startled, thinking I had heard loud voices followed by a scream. I flipped on the outside lights, but didn’t see anything unusual in the backyard. My bees had bunked down at the first fading light. Nothing moved.
I went back to bed and waited for morning, convinced that the scream had come out of my own unconscious mind.
Five
Clouds rolled in overnight. The early-morning air smelled of gathering rain when I sat down at my backyard patio table with a hot cup of coffee—and fresh pain over Manny.
I’d been too tired and distraught last night to gloat over how the old family house was finally totally mine. Of course, I’d lived in it most of my life, first as a child, then with Clay, but the deed had never been in only my name.
Now it was mine.
My house.
It belonged to me. I loved the sound of that.
The lot was narrow, but what it didn’t have in width, it made up for in depth, going all the way back to the Oconomowoc River. I’d repainted the house from faded gray to sunshine yellow, given the wraparound front porch a splash of the same color, and added bright white trim. I added three colorful Adirondacks to the porch, the same kind as at the store. The beehives were in the backyard, closer to the river than to the house, placed strategically in a protected spot near my vegetable garden.
On the other side of my garden, an old coop still stood where we had raised chickens when I was growing up. I’d been seriously considering getting back into raising a few chickens of my own for the benefit of fresh, organic eggs.
The weeping willows, which hung over the riverbed, had inspired the town founders to name the short street in front of my home Willow Street. Nature enthusiasts could turn off Main Street, drive past my house and Clay’s, and launch their canoes and kayaks from the end of the street.
Besides my ex to the west, cedars flanked the east side of my property, giving me some relief from Pity-Party Patti’s gossip antennas, although her two-story home rose above my privacy hedge, and if she really wanted to spy, she could. Not that there was anything worth watching at my house.
Being sandwiched between my ex-husband and the town gossip wasn’t the best of situations, but I wouldn’t give up my place for anything in the world because in spite of my undesirable neighbors, I owned a tiny slice of paradise.
The river formed the northern boundary, and a hedge of vibernum along the front walkway gave the front porch a little privacy. I’d planted flowers and herbs everywhere. All the bee’s favorites, especially:• Purple coneflowers—these lavender beauties are a member of the sunflower family, which bees love
• Phlox—the tall garden variety, mine are white and pink
• Yarrow—its leaves can be eaten like spinach, although I haven’t tried it
• Butterfly weed—an orange species of milkweed, which all nectar-loving creatures are attracted to
• Lavender—for potpourris and dried bouquets
• Coreopsis—a cheerful yellow flower that blooms all summer, which is what I like about it
When my busy worker bees weren’t helping themselves to my varieties, they were across the street, gathering pollen to mix with mine from Moraine Gardens, a perennial nursery that specialized in native Wisconsin plants.
I decided to take my kayak out on the river, since it was Saturday and the twins didn’t expect me in at the store until sometime in the afternoon. Kayaking was like meditation to me. The river and nature, the sounds and smells, calmed me like nothing else could. And after what had happened to Manny, I needed peace and quiet.
Except my kayak wasn’t on the grassy spot beside the river where I always kept it. This