Free Unclaimed Treasures by Patricia MacLachlan Page B

Unclaimed Treasure?”
    The woman smiled, then laughed.
    â€œI suppose I am. We are all, let us hope, unclaimed treasures.” She looked closely at Willa, and Willa saw glasses perched on her head. She had been looking at the painting. “I know you are a treasure, though.” She put out her hand. “You are Willa.” Her gaze was steady and calm, and Willa knew suddenly. Horace’s mother. Matthew’s Winnie .
    Winnie turned to look at the painting. But Willa couldn’t take her eyes from Horace’s mother.
    â€œIt’s finished, I’m glad to see,” said Winnie. “He needed to finish it.” She smiled then, and there was a sinking feeling in Willa’s stomach. Something final. Something startling, like when Willa had seen the picture of her mother’s baby. The baby is real, she remembered thinking. Winnie is real .
    â€œWell,” said Winnie, lifting her shoulders in a sigh—so much like Horace—“I must go. For now.”
    She loves him. Winnie loves Matthew .
    â€œTell him,” began Winnie. “Tell him . . .” But the words trailed off. She looked sadly at Willa. “Never mind, dear.” And then she was gone. Leaving Willa alone in the attic room with a painting she had not yet seen.
    Even before she looked, Willa was afraid. Somehow she knew. And as many times as she replayed the scene later in her mind and in her dreams, it always ended the same. The long white dress, the hat held in the hand, ribbons trailing. The face as real and alive as the face that had just stood next to her. A portrait of Winnie.
    And he loves her .
    Willa’s eyes filled with tears and she reached up to brush them away. Not the time, she thought, for anything extraordinary today. She saw Matthew’s signature in the far right corner of the painting, small and precise. And then something else caught her eye. In the left corner were more words written. Small letters, nearly hidden in the grass beneath the apple tree.
    Â Â Â Portrait of W
    W.
    A sudden movement against her leg startled Willa, and she looked down to see Blue, his tail high, his mouth open in a silent sound.
    Willa sighed. W. Slowly she took the note from her pocket. Ever so carefully she tore the note, making sure that one important letter would remain. Then she propped it against the painting. Just before she turned out the light she read it.
    Matthew,
    Â Â I’ll love you forever.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â W
    Willa would never remember closing the attic door, walking down the stairs and out the door. Later, the only clue, the only memory she had of what she’d done was the torn paper in her pocket with four letters printed there. ILLA.
    Another stranger met. Surely the stranger most important.

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    13
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    Willa hardly slept, and the next morning her mother watched her.
    â€œYou’re pale, Willa. Are you all right?”
    Silently Willa nodded her head. She sipped her orange juice and finished her breakfast.
    We are all, let us hope, unclaimed treasures . Winnie’s words. Meaning what? Those words kept nudging Willa, pushing into her consciousness, demanding her attention. Winnie’s sad face drifted into Willa’s head no matter how hard she tried to forget. She thought of Matthew coming home from dinner, going up to his studio, seeing the note. She had stood at the diningroom window and watched in the darkness. The car had turned into the driveway, the inside light going on as the doors opened. Horace, Aunt Crystal, Aunt Lulu, Matthew—their faces glowing in the darkness. The kitchen light had gone on. Then the hall light. Then the attic light.
    â€œWilla!” Her mother’s voice, calling, brought her back to now. “Can you help?”
    Her mother stood in the doorway.
    â€œWe need to make some casseroles. Some dinners.” Her voice came from somewhere far away. “This, I think, will be the week.”
    Willa looked up.