She swept-no, tornadoed-me into the cottage. It was one long room with a kitchen at the near end and a stone fireplace at the far end, all glass overlooking a half-collapsed deck. A fire was going, the only light. Outside I could see moonshine silvering the bay. June seated me-no, forced me down-onto a pile of silk cushions. Rammed a glass of wine into my hand. Flopped grunting on a second cushion pile nearer the hearth.
“You have news of Adrian?” she demanded.
I was struggling to remain upright in the soft nest without spilling the wine. “Umpfh,” I said. “Mmmm-r!”
Aunt June regarded me curiously.
I got myself better situated and clung to the wineglass for ballast. “No news yet. Her mother has hired me to find her. I’m hoping you can-”
“Little Donna.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh-hinc, hinc, hinc.
“You’re Donna’s sister?” I asked disbelievingly.
“In law. Sister-in-law. Once removed by divorce. Thank God Jeffrey saw the light and grabbed himself the bimbo. No more of those interminable holiday dinners-‘Have some more veggies and dip, June.’ ‘Don’t mind if I do, Donna, and by the way, where’s the gin?’” Now she really did laugh-booming sound that threatened to tear the (probably) rotten roof off.
I liked Donna Conway because she was sensitive and gentle and sad, but I couldn’t help liking June, too. I laughed a little and sipped some wine.
“You remained close to Adrian after the divorce, though?” I asked.
“Of course.” June nodded self-importantly. “My own flesh and blood. A responsibility I take seriously. I tried to take her under my wing, advise her, help her to deal with…everything.” She flapped her arms, velvet robe billowing, and I thought of the name of the cottage and the bird on her mailbox.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Now, June’s expression grew uncertain. She bit her lip and reached for a half-full wineglass that sat on the raised hearth. “Well. It was…of course! At the autumnal equinox firing.”
“Huh?”
“I am a potter, my dear. Well, more of a sculptor in clay. I teach classes in my studio.” She motioned in the direction of the outbuildings I’d seen. “My students and I have ceremonial firings on the beach at the equinox and the solstice. Adrian came to the autumnal firing late in September.”
“Did she come alone, or did Donna come, too?”
June shook her head, big hair bobbing. “Donna hasn’t spoken to me since Jeffrey left. Blames me for taking his side-the side of joy and loving, the side of the bimbo. And she resents my closeness to Adrian. No, my niece brought her boyfriend, that Kirby.” Her nose wrinkled.
“And?”
“And what? They attended the firing, ate, and left.”
“Do you know Kirby well?”
“I only met him the one time.”
“What did you think of him?”
June leaned toward the fireplace, reaching for the poker. When she stirred the logs, there was a small explosion, and sparks and bits of cinder flew out onto the raised stone. June stirred on, unconcerned.
“Like my name,” she murmured.
“What?”
“My name-Simoom. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“A fierce wind of Africa. Dry. Intensely hot. Relentless. It peppers its victims with grit that burns and pits the skin. That’s why I took it-it fits my temperament.”
“It’s not your real name?”
She scowled impatiently. “One’s real name is whatever one feels is right. June Conway was not. Simoom is fitting for a woman of the earth, who shelters those who are not as strong as she. You saw the name on my mailbox-Wingspread?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand. What’s your last name again?”
“Kelleher.”
“Well, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just an Irish name.”
“You see my point? You’re alienated from who you are.”
“I don’t feel alienated. I mean, I don’t think you have to proclaim who you are with a label. And Kelleher’s a perfectly good name, ever thought I’m not crazy about the Irish.”
June scowled again. “You sound just like Adrian used to. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you young women?”
“What do you mean-about Adrian, that is?”
“Well, there she was, given a wonderful name at birth. A strong name. Adrian, of the Adriatic Sea. The only thing Donna did right by her. But did she appreciate it? No. She wanted to be called Melissa or Kelley or Amanda-just like everyone else of her generation. Honestly, sometimes I despaired.”
“You speak of her in the past tense, as if she’s dead.”
She swung around, face crumpling in dismay. “Oh, no! I speak of her that way because that was before…before she began to delight in her differences.”
“When was that?”
“Well…when she started to get past this terrible thing. As we gain strength, we accept who and what we are. In time we glory in it.”
In her way, June was as much into psychobabble as her sister-in-law. I said, “To get back to when you last saw Adrian, tell me about this autumnal equinox firing.”
“We dig pits on the beach, as kilns. By the time of the firing, they’ve been heating for days. Each student brings an offering, a special pot. The gathering is solemn but joyful-a celebration of all we’ve learned in the preceding season.”
“It sounds almost religious.”
June smiled wryly. “There’s also a great deal of good food and drink. And of course, when the pots emerge from the earth, we’re able to sell them to tourists for very good money.”
Now that I could relate to. “What about Adrian? Did she enjoy it?”
“Adrian’s been coming to my firings for years. She knows a number of my long-term students well, and she always has a good time.”
“And this time was no different?”
“Of course not.”
“She didn’t mention anything being wrong at home or at school?”
“…We spoke privately while preparing the food. I’m sure if there had been problems, she would have mentioned them.”
“And what about Kirby? Did he enjoy the firing?”
Wariness touched her face again. “I suppose.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s an adolescent boy. What’s to think?”
“I didn’t care for him,” I said.
“You know him?”
“I’ve spoken with him. I also spoke with a classmate of his and Adrian’s. He said Kirby is always into one scam or another, and that Adrian might have been involved, too.”
“That’s preposterous!” but June’s denial was a shade weak and unconvincing.
“Are you sure Adrian didn’t hint at problems when you spoke privately with her at the firing?”
“She’s a teenager. Things are never right with teenagers. Adrian took her father’s defection very badly, even though he and I tried to explain about one’s need for personal growth.” June gave her funny laugh again-hinc, hinc, hinc. “Even if the growth involves a bimbo,” she added.
“June,” I said, “since you were so close to Adrian, what do you think happened to her?”
She sobered and her fingers tightened on the shaft of the poker. “I can’t tell you. I honestly can’t hazard a guess.”
Her eyes slipped away from mine, but not before I saw something furtive in them. Suddenly she started stirring the fire, even though it was already roaring like crazy.
I said, “But you have suspicions.”
She stirred harder. Aunt June wasn’t telling it like it was, and she felt guilty.
“You’ve heard from her since she disappeared, haven’t you?” Sharon taught me that little trick: no matter how wild your hunch is, play it. Chances are fifty-fifty you’re right, and then their reactions will tell you plenty.