The Hunger Moon by Suzanne Matson Page B

he’ll be born with a fondness for single-malt whiskey and eighteen holes of golf?”
    June shrugged. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
    Her father didn’t react to her tone. He signed the restaurant charge slip, snapping off his copy of the receipt. Then he got out his checkbook. “Here’s a little something for Christmas, Junie. Get yourself something nice.” He wrote the check in his illegible hand, and waved it to dry the ink. June accepted it without looking at the amount.
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    “Don’t mention it. I had a good year, so it’s a little bigger than usual. But don’t expect that much all the time,” he said, lifting his index finger in a mock scold.
    “When’s the baby due?”
    “Wha?”
    “My brother. When’s he due?”
    “Jeez. He will sort of be your brother, won’t he? The due date’s June twelfth. That’s a nice coincidence, isn’t it? You want to be dropped, Junie?”
    “No, I’ll walk.”
    “Just like Melanie—an exercise nut.”
    “Mom’s doing fine, by the way,” June said.
    “That’s great, just great. Listen, I gotta get to that meeting. You’re sure you don’t want a ride somewhere?”
    June waved him away. “Merry Christmas,” she called to his back.
    “Oh, hell yes,” he said over his shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”
    J UNE WAS TEMPTED TO RIP THE CHECK IN HALF , but it was for five hundred dollars. She decided that part of it would go for another consultation with Miriam Lightcap. She took pleasure in picturing her father’s reaction if he learned that his money was going to a psychic healer who was helping her to balance her energies. Her first visit to Miriam had been by chance; she had happened to see the sign in a Kenmore Square window and gone in on a lark. But now she was hooked on the calming mint tea she sipped in Miriam’s waiting room, the New Age music of chimes and bird calls that floated in the background, and the gentle authority with which Miriam’s fingertips rested on her temples to assess her spiritual health. Miriam said she had a lot of work to do with her energy channels.
    Some of the rest of her father’s money would go for Christmas shopping, although she really had hardly anyone to buy for. There was her mother’s gift, of course, and her father’s annual tie. June had no boyfriend. She had no real best friend, either; the people she knew from dance class were nice, but everyone she met seemed to already have all the friends they needed. June was shy about issuing invitations; she didn’t want to appear friendless, though that’s exactly what she was. Halfway into her second year, she still felt lost at the university, with its sprawl of buildings that melted into the pavement of the city.
    June debated, then decided she would buy a Christmas gift for Mrs. MacGregor. Even though she knew Mrs. M. had family and friends in town, she didn’t seem to see much of them. Whether she wanted to see June or not, she did twice a week, and June figured that was probably the most contact she had with anyone.
    It was a hard present to choose. Clothing was too personal, andanyway, Mrs. M. didn’t seem very interested in venturing beyond her uniform of stretch pants and sweaters. June knew she used to like clothes. She had dusted a silver-framed black-and-white photograph of a handsome young couple who looked as if they were straight out of the movies. The man was wearing wool trousers and a tweed jacket and his hair was lustrous and dark. His arm was flung loosely around the shoulders of a young woman in a closely fitted suit whose fair hair was twisted up and who was leaning her head back to smile. It was the unmistakable shape of the darkly lipsticked mouth that made June realize with a start that this was Mrs. MacGregor and her husband.
    When she asked about the photo, Mrs. M. was briefly enthusiastic.
    “We were on our first motoring trip,” she said. “That suit was part of my trousseau—kind of a mossy green wool bouclé. I