Free Unclaimed Treasures by Patricia MacLachlan Page A

extraordinary.
    â€œWill I see the painting today?” she asked.
    Matthew shook his head. “Not today, Willa. It’s my way, call it superstition. I want it completely done.”
    Willa nodded and watched the cats on the roof run after late-summer butterflies. Extraordinary filled her head.
    â€œThe name. What’s it to be?” asked Horace at lunch.
    â€œWhat name?” asked Willa.
    â€œThe baby,” said Horace patiently. “The baby’s name.”
    Willa’s father drank some water.
    â€œWe have never thought about names ahead of time,” he said. “We had decided that naming children was much like naming dogs or guinea pigs. You had to see them first to know.”
    Willa’s mother nodded.
    â€œWilla came first,” she said, remembering. “Pushing and squalling into the world.”
    â€œWe almost named her Fury,” said Willa’s father.
    â€œYou didn’t!” said Willa, aghast.
    â€œNo.” Her father reached over to smooth her hair. “We named you after a pioneer. The writer Willa Cather. You were, after all, our first pioneer into the world.”
    â€œNicholas we named after a horse I once knew,” said Willa’s mother, making them laugh. She looked at them indignantly. “I loved that horse. He was pleasant and dependable, with quirks now and then.”
    â€œSuch as riding too close to fences,” said Willa’s father, “and under low trees.”
    â€œThat’s true, isn’t it?” Willa’s mother smiled at them all. “I suspect we’ll think of a name when we see the baby. Her.”
    â€œThere’s always Wanda,” suggested Willa slyly.
    â€œI think,” said Horace, leaning his elbows on the table, “that if I were to have a child I would name her Jane.”
    â€œJane?” Willa’s mother looked at Horace.
    Horace nodded.
    â€œJane,” he said. “Straightforward and honest and calm.”
    â€œLike you,” said Willa’s mother, something in her tone and look causing Willa to peer at Horace more closely.
    â€œJane,” said Horace, biting into a green Granny Smith.
    Inside her house, watching the deepening shadows across the lawn, Willa waited. They had all gone off; Matthew and Horace and the Unclaimed Treasures, in a fairly obvious effort, Willa thought, to avoid the Treasures’ latest experiments with cooking. This week, Horace had told Willa, it was rice. Rice cereals, rice casseroles, rice pudding desserts. “We’ll all swell up and burst,” he said, “and explode all over town.” Willa had smiled. Horace. Straightforward and honest and calm.
    Willa watched and waited. She knew they never locked their house. And if they did, an extra key was hidden in the back shed next to the store of apples.
    It was time, Willa thought. Time for her to see the painting. The face in the painting. And time to do something extraordinary. Or if not extraordinary, at least brave. She took the printed note out of her pocket.
    Matthew,
    I’ll love you forever.
    Â Â Â Â Â WILLA
    Willa’s mother was reading in the study, her father washing clothes. Fascinated, she was sure. Nicholas was upstairs working on a drawing. Slowly, quietly, Willa slipped out the kitchen door and crept across the lawn. She stood on the porch of Matthew’s house and carefully pushed the front door. It swung silently in, and Willa jumped as one of the cats streaked out. Willa closed the door again and walked slowly up the stairs past the first landing, turning, and up the steep old stairs to the attic. There was a light burning in the attic room. Someone else was there.
    The woman was small and slim, dressed in dark pants and a pale sweater with a touch of blue. She turned to look at Willa. Willa was not afraid. Something kept her from fear.
    A moment passed.
    â€œAre you,” asked Willa wildly, filling in the silence, “another