Free Unclaimed Treasures by Patricia MacLachlan

somewhere close by.”
    A picnic basket. A gentle stream. Willa felt herself growing into the wisest thing in the world. Was everyone in love with everyone else?
    â€œThere is,” said Willa in a clear voice, “the sewer outlet down in back.”
    Nicholas stared.
    â€œThe rest of the children should be down there,” she added.
    â€œThe rest?” asked the girl, frowning.
    â€œThe other dozen,” said Willa, “waiting for word of the grandchild.”
    The girl stared.
    â€œGrandchild?”
    â€œYessir,” said Willa, feeling like the wisest person in the entire world. Greater than the stars, the moon. The universe.
    â€œA grandchild should be here in ten minutes or a week.”
    â€œTed’s?” squeaked the girl.
    Nicholas smiled.
    â€œStay,” offered Willa kindly. “I’m sure he’ll give you a cigar, too. A symbolic gesture.”
    â€œNo,” said the girl sharply, moving toward the door. “I’ll go along now.” She paused in the hallway and waved her fingers. And then she was gone, the only sign of her the lurking stench of honeysuckle. There was a silence.
    â€œI never,” said Nicholas slowly, “ever thought about Dad’s name being Ted when you read me the Ted and Wanda story.”
    Slowly Willa let down her legs and stood up, reaching out her hand to Nicholas to steady herself.
    â€œGood-bye, Ted, good-bye, Wanda,” she said.
    â€œGood-bye, Ted, good-bye, Wanda,” echoed Bella-Marie in the window.
    One stranger met.
    â€œYou told her what?” exclaimed Willa’s father, dropping his pipe and sending sparks everywhere. “No, sit still,” he ordered Willa’s mother, who was laughing so hard she couldn’t get up anyway. He stamped around the rug.
    â€œWilla had been standing on her head,” explained Nicholas. “She took care of everything.”
    â€œI’ll bet you never ever noticed her long, meaningful looks,” said Willa to her father.
    â€œEyeballing,” said Nicholas.
    â€œI noticed her writing,” said Willa’s father, trying to keep his pipe lit. “I noticed that all right! Witless love,” he murmured.
    Willa sighed.
    â€œI loved it at first,” she said wistfully. “Her writing. It was full of eyeballs and sighs and murmurs. Just like love.”
    â€œExcept,” said Willa’s father, “the extraordinary parts of love.”
    Willa stared at her father.
    â€œThere you go,” she groused. “Ordinary, extraordinary. Which is which?”
    â€œYou’ll probably know,” said her mother. “When the time comes.”
    â€œWhat time?” exclaimed Willa. “Now you sound like Old Pepper.”
    Willa’s father grinned broadly.
    â€œGet on outside, the two of you. So I can sit here in peace. Quietly and joyously”—he looked at Willa—“eyeballing your mother.”
    â€œHow did you know?” asked Nicholas.
    The leaves of the apple tree fell around them. The apples were ready for picking. Summer was over.
    â€œI saw her leave,” said Horace, admiringly. “Her legs ended at her neck.” He bit into an apple. “How did you know?” He leaned close to Willa, smiling.
    Willa shrugged.
    â€œI knew Wanda well,” she said simply.

----
    12
----
    The last morning. It was cool in the attic at last, a hint of autumn to follow. The figure in the mirror looked taller. Wiser. Serene. The girl watching the figure in the mirror knew why.
    You are you, Willa silently told the figure. I am me.
    â€œWhat’s the smile for?” asked Matthew. “Different. You look different somehow.”
    â€œIt must be the jeans under the dress,” said Willa. She pulled up the dress to show him. “No more itching.”
    Matthew laughed.
    â€œExtraordinary, Willa.”
    The word made Willa smile. Maybe today would be the day. The day to do something