Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,3

she said it much louder than necessary. Customers crowded around the front window to see what was happening outside. I saw my ex-husband standing right in front of the store.

He wasn’t alone.

“Faye Tilley,” someone said, recognizing the woman with him, the same one who had been in the courtroom the day before.

I couldn’t help noticing Faye Tilley was younger, taller, and prettier than me.

“How old do you think she is?” a customer asked.

“Mid-twenties,” someone else guessed.

I really hoped Clay and his girlfriend weren’t going to come into the store.

“She’s your spitting image, Story,” someone else said.

That got them started.

“No way, Story’s so much cuter.”

“Look at the resemblance. He’s trying to replace Story with someone exactly like her.”

“You’re right,” someone behind me agreed. “They’ve got the exact same color hair.”

Our hair was sort of similar. The color of fall wheat, I liked to think about mine. But hers was wild and untamed in a way mine never would be. Shorter and wavier. Not straight as a walking stick like mine.

Next to me, Emily Nolan said, “She’s your doppelgänger, Story.”

“Oh, no! Don’t look at her!” Carrie Ann said to me. “You can’t see your own doppelgänger.”

“Why not?” my sister, Holly, said.

“It’s bad luck, really bad luck.” Carrie Ann tried to shield my eyes.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, pushing her hands away.

Right then, Clay’s new girlfriend spotted us at the window. Her eyes scanned, finding me before I could duck or fade into the background. She smiled coyly before turning to give Clay an openmouthed kiss.

I went back for more champagne.

Two

My hometown of Moraine is in southeastern Wisconsin, tucked between two ridges that were formed during the Ice Age when two enormous glaciers collided. Visitors to this part of Wisconsin are always surprised to find hills and valleys instead of flat cow country. Like most small towns, Moraine’s enterprising founders planned the community along a highway to take advantage of travelers passing through. Since those times, however, faster, more efficient roads have been built that pass by us instead of through.

Besides The Wild Clover, which is the only grocery story within ten miles, we have:• Koon’s Custard Shop: frozen custard is a Wisconsin favorite, much like soft-serve ice cream only softer and richer

• A popular antique store with the less-than-original name of The Antique Shop

• Stu’s Bar and Grill for beer, pizza, and other bar food, mostly breaded and fried

• Moraine Library, with its herb garden outside and extensive collection of local history inside

• A postage-stamp-sized post office

• Moraine Gardens, across the street from my house, specializing in native plants

• A seasonal roasted-corn-on-the-cob stand with all the trimmings that opens for several months in late summer and fall—like now

• And Clay’s jewelry business—although I prefer to pretend that doesn’t exist

I stepped out onto The Wild Clover’s front lawn into the sunny September afternoon and plunked myself down in one of the brightly colored Adirondack chairs I’d painted.

The church that housed my store had been constructed with Cream City brick, which was made from a special clay found only along the banks of the western shore of Lake Michigan, mostly in the Milwaukee area. When it was fired, the clay turned a creamy light yellow color. The church’s steeple and bell tower were whitewashed and wood-framed, and the church bells were still intact.

Milwaukee was forty minutes away, close enough to Moraine to visit whenever we needed culture and fine dining. I’d spent enough years living in the city to appreciate what it had to offer. All the same, when I first left home to move to Milwaukee, I couldn’t wait to get away; but by the time we decided to relocate, I couldn’t wait to come back. It’s weird how your priorities change over time.

While I sat admiring my store, Holly came out, waved good-bye, and roared away in her Jag. A few minutes later my grandmother’s Cadillac Fleetwood pulled over, its tires kissing the curb. Mom was on the passenger’s side as usual, since Grams, at eighty years old, refused to give up the driver’s seat.

The Caddy’s window slid down, and Mom poked her head out.

“What’s going on inside the store?” Mom asked, even though she knew perfectly well.

“September is National Honey Month,” I said. “The store is celebrating.”

“Looks to me like you’ve been drinking.”

Now how could she tell from where she was? Then I noticed that I had an empty flute in my hand. “Only a little,” I said, walking over to the car.

My mother had done me a huge favor when Clay