Free 5 Beewitched by Hannah Reed

production, with a new design every year, created with the aid of GPS and tractors to flatten corn into the desired pattern. I’ve heard that it’s best viewed from the air, but I haven’t found anybody with a plane to take me up there yet.
    “I’ll go get a gallon from his stand,” I said, slipping out and heading north, my mind on my mother’s wedding and what I could offer to get a tiny chunk of her heartfelt appreciation. Why I keep trying is beyond me, but it’s been ingrained since my formative years and I’m stuck with it.
    I had to come up with something.
    Maybe bride’s honey? To be eaten right before the vows to bless the union with fruitfulness and fertility. Uh . . . wait . . . fertility? Maybe skip the fertility part. Mom is way too old and crabby for more children. But the bride’s honey idea took root. I could use rosebuds from my backyard rose bushes, a little cinnamon, some cloves . . . I’d have to come up with a special recipe.
    My creative side was going a mile a minute, which caused me to walk right past the country stand in deep thought. When I came back to earth, I found myself just before the bridge over the Oconomowoc River, where I noticed some active construction repair going on.
    “Reinforcing the girders under the bridge,” a buff guy wearing a hard hat told me when I inquired. Then I made a U-turn to retrace my steps to the farm stand and spent a few minutes eyeing up all the beautiful caramel apples while Joan Goodaller waited on a few customers ahead of me.
    “Can you spare a gallon of cider for the tasting cups?” I asked after waiting my turn. “We’re totally out.”
    “Sure thing. You’ve been sending quite a lot of business over here,” Joan said. “You can have as many gallons as you need. Some excitement at your store. What was that all about?”
    “I have a new neighbor. Apparently, those are some of her visitors.” And that’s all I said about them, and I was pretty proud of it. Exposing myself to gossip on a daily basis makes it difficult to stay above it. As a professional, I try to resist.
    In her seventies, with a rosy, young-looking face, short and round like one of Country Delight’s Cortland apples, Joan seemed to be thriving on small-town life. Two years ago, she’d found herself a widow, moved from the city of Waukesha to start a new life, and before we knew it, she and Al, who divorced way back, had become more than casual acquaintances. The locals chuckled about that a bit, because Al was a good ten years younger than Joan, but then everyone realized age didn’t matter and forgot about it.
    Joan had pitched right in, working the stand when one of Al’s summer help couldn’t make it, and even designing the corn maze this year. Both of the lovebirds insisted that they liked their relationship the way it was and weren’t about to ruin it with legalities, so they kept their own places. I’d be much happier with someone more like Joan living on my street.
    Instead, I had a neighbor with “trouble” tattooed on her forehead. Trouble on both sides, come to think of it. I was wedged between a rabid dog (Patti) and a feral cat (Dy).
    Thinking of my neighbors reminded me of last night’s bizarre ceremony and Johnny Jay’s untimely appearance. Making a mental note to pick up the clothes I’d had to leave behind in my rush for cover, I took a moment to savor the Johnny Jay versus Lucinda Lighthouse bout. I thought she came out the overall winner. Although that would have changed if the chief had spotted me. He likes nothing better than to harass and bully me, and if he’d seen me, at least one of us would have been arrested.
    Another customer came up, and I let him go first. As I waited, I noticed that Joan wasn’t looking as rosy as usual. She looked a little under the weather, pale and tired.
    “You might be working too hard,” I told her when she finished up with the other customer. “You look like you could use a break.”
    “Hope