Buzz Off - By Hannah Reed Page 0,2

years on her, but you’d never know it. Manny had a love of nature and a joy for living, while Grace seemed to view life as a chore. “I don’t drink,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch in disapproval. “Especially during the workday.”

I placed the filled flute on the table with one eye on Carrie Ann, who had edged closer. “When you get home,” I said to Grace, “tell Manny I’m still coming out later.”

Grace humphed and went down aisle two toward the cheese case.

“Isn’t Manny coming to our party?” Carrie Ann asked, when I turned back to offer a flute to the next customer.

“You know Manny,” I answered. “When it comes to his bees, he’s obsessive. Although, he did say he’d stop by earlier if he could. Guess he got caught up in whatever bee project he’s working on today.”

Just then, Emily Nolan came in, carrying posters.

Emily, the library director, was Moraine’s second-generation information specialist, meaning her mother had been the director of our library until her retirement. Then Emily, having prepared for this important career move her entire life, took over the position, and slid her own daughter into the wings to wait her turn. Our small library was stuffed with books from floor to ceiling, and although we, the residents, found it cozy and comfortable, the plain truth was that the town’s needs were outgrowing the existing building. Something would have to be done soon.

In my humble opinion, libraries, once considered dusty dinosaurs destined for extinction, were reinventing themselves and emerging as important community centers like they were when I was a kid. I was pro-library all the way.

“Don’t forget about the library event tomorrow afternoon,” Emily reminded me. “A bluegrass band jam in the back. We’ve set up extra picnic tables.”

“How could anybody forget?” I said. “We have posters plastered everywhere.”

Carrie Ann snickered before she repeated, “Plastered,” under her breath with a glance my way.

I was only getting started on the champagne, but that one word spoken the way she said it reminded me to slow down. I didn’t refill my empty flute.

“I’ll find a spot for at least one more poster,” Emily said.

As soon as the library director wandered off, my sister made an entrance.

What can I say about my sister Holly? For starters, she’s beautiful. Add to that, filthy rich at thirty-one after marrying a trust-fund baby the same month she graduated from college, which had been the whole point of higher education, according to her. She’d gone in for a good old-fashioned M.R.S. degree. Max “The Money Machine” Paine had come along her junior year, and it was love at first sight. They now own a Milwaukee condo, a Naples winter home, and a mansion on Pine Lake. They decided not to have children, which means they can keep accumulating as much stuff as they want.

Which is not to say that my sister doesn’t have a generous side—Holly also loaned me enough cash to save the store from certain death during the property split between Clay and me.

Three years separated the two of us, which seemed huge when we were growing up, but the gap was closing as time went by. I liked her in spite of the fact that she was Mom’s favorite and spoiled rotten.

And I couldn’t help comparing us. Here’s me—sort of pretty when I work at it, getting by with a lot of hard labor, divorced, the oldest of two girls, Mom’s problem child. But who’s keeping score?

My sister has so much time on her hands, she’d memorized all one-thousand-plus text messaging acronyms known to humankind. I’ve noticed lately, the abbreviations are creeping into her spoken conversations. That’s what comes with too much money and too much spare time: useless habits. In Holly’s case, she has a text-speak habit.

I try to keep up.

“HT (translation for those more normal: hi there),” she said, making her way over to me and picking up a filled flute. “Cool. A party. HUD (how you doing)?”

“Great. Free. Mellow. Did I mention free?”

“GR2BR (good riddance to bad rubbish).”

“Isn’t that the truth!”

Holly had been in divorce court with me, along with Mom and Grams, so she knew Clay had been rotten to the core right until the bitter end.

“Who brings a new girlfriend to their divorce hearing?” I said.

“What an a-hole.”

“See, you can speak proper English.”

Holly laughed and took a sip of champagne.

We both glanced over at Carrie Ann when she gave a little shout of surprise before saying, “Look out the window. Isn’t that Clay?”

Unfortunately,