Willow House Chapter 10

To start at chapter one click here

There’s Nothing that Hot Chocolate and a Good Story Won't Cure

  

     Mrs. Hallovich and I are on the front porch and I am calming down with a little help from the mug of hot chocolate in my hands, not to mention the sound of rain plopping on the roof and splashing on the leaves of the bushes around the porch. Mrs. H. has placed a small quilt over my lap, because I was shivering so much. I need to get my mind off of the playroom.

     Can you tell me a story?” I ask.

     “I have a million stories. What kind would you like?”

     “Anything,” I say. “I like all stories.” I’m just hoping it won’t be scary.

     “I think I have the perfect one, but, it’s a long one.”

     “I have time,” I say.

     “So you do,” she agrees. “All right then. I’ll start at the beginning, and we’ll see where we go.”

LEP’S STORY

     There once was a young man who had spent the entire first sixteen years of his life behind the gray walls of an orphanage. After careful planning, and a moment of bravery, he escaped into the night.     

     He slept in barns by day and crept through alleyways at night, making his way as far from the orphanage as he could. After a few days of hunger and scrounging for food, he began to think he had made a terrible mistake. He was lost in dark thoughts, when fortune shone upon him. He came upon a band of gypsies.

     ‘Now that is the life,’ he thought to himself. ‘They travel, play music, dance, and sleep beneath the stars. What could be more perfect?’

      This particular band of travelers were peddling pots filled with tree saplings, beautiful flowers from exotic places, and herbs and spices that had never been seen or tasted before by the local people. 

     He approached the caravan and asked to ride along. The gypsies, being generous and warm-hearted, agreed to let him join, on the condition that he work for his keep. The young man jumped at his chance and into a new life for himself.

     Within a week, he could see he had a natural green thumb. Plants flourished under his care. His mentor, a man named Yorg, became a father figure. He joked that not only was the young man’s thumb green but his whole body must be so. He affectionately named him ‘the leprechaun’. This was how everyone began to address him, and Leprechan was eventually shortened to Lep.

        The gypsies began to attract larger and larger crowds. People cheered as they pulled into each town, impatient to see what new vegetables and herbs would soon be growing in their gardens, and what new flowers would decorate their dooryards and tabletops. 

     Yorg and Lep shared instructions for the proper care of the plants, along with delicious recipes. They also taught the ways the plants could be used as medicines, making a great difference in the lives of the villagers. 

     The arrival of the gypsies became the most anticipated event of the year.

     As the years passed, however, Lep began to dislike the constant travel. When he was 26 years old, unlike his gypsy family, he felt the need to put down roots. He wanted to start a family of his own. On their yearly pass through one of Lep’s favorite villages, he pulled Yorg aside and shared what he had been thinking. 

     “I understand,” Yorg said. He smiled and pulled Lep into a bear hug. “We’ll surely miss our leprechaun.”

     Three days later, Lep stood amongst the townspeople in the road, and watched as the carts, holding the only family he had ever known, rolled across the bridge, over hills, and out of sight. Strapped to his back was a weeping willow tree sapling: a parting gift from Yorg. 

     “If it’s roots you’re needing, this tree grows them three times as large as the tree itself. It can also do our weeping for us,” Yorg had said. “We’ll miss your talents and your warm heart. You’ll always have a place among us.” As Yorg had walked away he turned and shouted. ”We’ll be back through in a year! We’ll see you then . . . Son.”

     Lep had never felt more bereft in his life, but he had made his decision. He had some money in his pocket that he had managed to save over the years and, because he had been through this area several times before, he had an idea on where he wanted to settle. Within a few days he carried, in his pocket, a deed to his own land; a small spot close to a stream where his willow could grow and flourish. 

     He camped beneath his sapling at night. It was too small to offer any protection from the elements, but it gave him comfort. Though it was a long way off, he knew he had a great deal of work to do in order to have a real roof over his head before winter arrived. Because he’d spent most of his money on the land, he had no extra for tools or supplies. So, he rose early each morning and went about looking for work. 

     It didn’t take long for him to find a large number of people excited to have him help with their gardens. Lep worked from dawn to dusk, and word continued to spread about his talented green thumb. By September he had saved enough money to buy tools and lumber. Added to the stones on his own property, Lep was able to construct a one room living space for himself. 

     Over the course of his time in the village, he had become good friends with another young man, named William, who was apprenticing to become an apothecary. William had a great deal of respect for Lep’s knowledge of plants and put many of his medicinal recipes to good use. The recipes not only eased pain and discomfort, but some actually helped save lives. 

     Lep made it through the winter comfortably enough with the help of William’s family and other kind souls who provided him with occasional casseroles, fresh baked bread, and milk. By spring he was ready to get to work at gardening again, but with all the spare time he’d had over the winter, he’d been doing a lot of thinking. There was something else of great importance to him. 

     Lep wanted a wife. He was tired of being alone. He wanted someone with whom to share his life. The town had many young women, most were daughters, nieces, and sisters of those he had done work for. He began to inquire politely for introductions. He was not prepared for the response.

     A dark cloud would pass over the faces of the townsfolk as he spoke of his intentions. They stopped hiring him. They made excuses: they wanted to do the work themselves, money was tight, they were developing allergies to his plants. He was, in a word, shunned.

     Lep found himself at William’s doorstep one evening, looking for an honest answer as to why the community seemed to have turned on him so completely. He was warmly welcomed by William’s wife Harriet and seated across from his friend in front of a fire that was keeping the cold spring evening at bay.  

     William, knowing Lep deserved honesty, gave him his painful answer. “You, my friend, are good enough to dig in their dirt, but not good enough to marry their daughters. That’s their opinion, not my own.” William bent and picked up his own baby daughter who had lifted her arms to her father. 

     “But why?” asked Lep. “What have I done?”

     “You’re a gypsy.”

     “What’s wrong with gypsies? They were kind enough to take me in, and are among the most wonderful people I have ever met. Didn’t the town applaud our arrival each spring?”  Lep was growing angry.

     “They think only of themselves and what the gypsies bring to them. You are asking to take something.” He bounced his daughter gently on his knee. “Lep, if my daughter were of age, I would be proud to see her wed to you.”

     Lep gazed at the tiny girl, in her father’s lap. Some of his anger left him. “You are a lucky man, William, with a beautiful family. I only wish for the same.”

     William’s wife, who had been listening, laid her hand on Lep’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lep. You deserve better, and you will find it.”

     “What should I do?” 

     “Prove them wrong,” she said. 

     Her husband nodded in agreement.

     Lep returned to his small house. He was nearly out of money and with no recourse, knew he had to move on. He crossed his yard to his weeping willow which now stood nearly 12 feet tall. It was still skinny, but its boughs had begun to droop into the beautiful shape it would become. 

     Lep considered his options. There weren’t many. He had been here nearly a year and knew the gypsies would be returning through this area soon. He hated to return to them feeling he’d failed, but they were his family. He needed their love and acceptance.

     Within a week the caravan arrived. Once again the villagers lined the streets, watching as seven horse drawn carts, containing the annual bounty, came into view. As Yorg’s cart pulled even with him, Lep sprung onto the front seat beside his old friend and embraced him in a mighty hug. As they continued passing further into town, looking for a place to set up their camp, Lep shared his year’s experience and heartbreak. Yorg grew silent and called for the procession to halt. He hopped down from his seat and spoke to the driver of the cart behind him, that driver hopped down to speak to the driver of the next cart, and so on. All of this as the crowd waited expectantly for the side windows of the vehicles to open with the year’s new treasures. They wondered what exotic flowers had arrived? What new fruits? What new plants? What was taking so long?

     Each of the drivers returned to his seat. The windows remained closed. The crowd was silent. The horses started forward. What seemed a parade before, seemed more like a funeral procession now. The caravan passed across the bridge, over the hills, and out of sight. The gypsies never returned. 

     But Lep did.

     Mrs. Hallovich stops.

     “Go on!” I say. For cryin’ out loud she can’t stop here.

     “I’ll go on tomorrow. It will give us something fun to look forward to.”

     “I’ll look forward to tomorrow no matter what,” I say.

     “Will you now?” Mrs. H.’s eyebrows are raised at me.

     What the heck did I just say?

    She watches the wheels spin in my brain. She has just read my mind again. She laughs. “Oh, Ella! You are so precious!”

     I laugh. Who would have thought I would find it so funny that she can read my mind. I laugh harder. She laughs harder. 

     What a day this has turned out to be.

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Willow House Chapter 9

To start at chapter one click here

 The Tour that Doesn’t End So Great

     Lunch was delicious and perfect for a day like this; warm tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. I haven’t mentioned the blowing curtain or rocking chair to Mrs. Hallovich. I don’t want her to make up an excuse about the playroom being drafty or something. I know what I saw. I’m a little freaked out, but I still want to go up and play again.

     As promised, Mrs. H. is leading us up the staircase to the right side of the second floor. Tommy hangs on her hip, looking over her shoulder at me. He grins. I think he is the cutest thing on the planet, and my heart melts. 

     When we get to the top, Mrs. H. opens the first door.

     “This is my room,” she says.

     It’s beautiful. She has a canopy bed too! It has a pretty, flowery bed cover. She plants Tommy on a bouquet of embroidered roses in the center, and hands him a set of old-fashioned keys from her bedside table to play with.

     She turns to a beautifully carved set of bookshelves and hands me a framed photo of a young woman with dark hair. “This is my mother. She was eighteen in this photo, about a year before she met my father.” 

     I examine it for a moment before she takes it back and replaces it with a heavy gold frame. “Does this look familiar?” 

     It’s a larger version of the photo of her parents from her locket.

     “They don’t look any happier in this one do they?” She teases me.

     “Not really,” I say.

     “They were happy though, Ella. I had a wonderful childhood.” She replaces that photo too, then shows me more of her trinkets and whatnots on the shelves. She hands me a silver frame. “Do you recognize her?”

      At first I’m confused. It’s a different young woman. How does she think I’m supposed to recognize someone else on her bookshelf? But there is something about her that seems like someone I know.

     “That’s you!”

     “That’s me. I was 21 in that photo. It was taken during a summer visit to my aunt, about a month before I met my husband.”

     “You were really pretty,” I say.

     “What?! I’m not pretty anymore?”

     Oops! “I didn’t mean it like that. I . . . “

     She’s laughing at me. “I know what you meant, Dear. And thank you.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m pretty sure Sam thought so too.” She winks at me and places the photo back on the shelf.

     She leads me around the bed where Tommy is still playing with the keys, and points to another photo on the bedside table. She picks it up and turns it toward me. 

     “My children.”

     I’m no longer surprised at the idea of her as a mother. I’m thinking she was probably a wonderful one. I take the photo as she holds it out to me. This one is a match to the photo in her locket.

     “Gertrude was four in this picture, and Henry was nearly two.” She reaches and gives Tommy a playful poke in his tummy. “Almost exactly the same age as you, little rascal.” Mrs. H. sits down beside him and gathers him into her lap.

     I’m thinking that Henry and Tommy look a lot alike, but then all two year old boys look alike, don’t they?

     “Do you have any pictures of them when they’re older?”

     “No, Ella Dear, I don’t.” She sighs and looks sad. “When Gertrude passed, my husband ended up taking down all images of both children and destroying them. I found this one years later among my mother’s possessions.”

    “Why did he do that?” This has to be one of the most terrible things I’ve ever heard!

    “Grief affects people differently.” She kisses the top of Tommy’s head and continues. “I told you that Sam took our daughter’s death exceptionally hard. He changed. It was actions like that that eventually drove Henry away from home. He just couldn’t make his father understand that he still had a son whose life had not ended. By the time Sam began to recover, it was too late. Henry was gone.”

     “That’s so sad,” I say, handing the photo back.

     Mrs. H. nods and replaces it to her nightstand. She runs her finger softly down the side of their faces. My heart feels like it’s breaking in two. I want to ask more about Sam. What happened after Henry left? Where is Sam now? But I’m feeling that for once, my questions need to stay in my mouth.

    Mrs. Hallovich stands. “On to the next room!” she exclaims setting Tommy on his feet. “Forward! March!”

     Just like that, the sad stuff is left behind. 

     The next room is just a plain bedroom for guests. It’s nice but not full of stories and photos like the last one.

     “This was Henry’s room,” she says. “A long time ago.” She doesn’t say anything else. I think she’s trying to get her happy back.

     There’s a nice bathroom in between with one of those cool bathtubs that have lion’s claws on the bottom. I imagine myself in there, surrounded by a mountain of bubbles.

     After the tour, I ask if I can return to the dollhouse.

     “That would be fine. I’ll take Tommy to the study and read to him for a while before he goes down for his nap.”

      We walk down the first set of stairs together, but as I continue up to the playroom she calls up to me. “Would you like to join me on the front porch for hot chocolate a little later?”

      Hot chocolate on a rainy day is about the only thing that would pull me away from the dollhouse. “Sure!” I say.

     “I’ll come get you in a bit then.”

     When I return to the playroom, no curtains or chairs, big or small, are moving. Now that I’ve had a tour, I realize how much this dollhouse is built to resemble the original. There’s no upstairs bathroom, but Mrs. Hallovich said that was added later. Some of the furniture has been changed or moved around. The miniature house has an attic. I stand up and step back out into the hallway. There’s a trapdoor in the ceiling. It probably has one of those ladders that drop down. I’ll have to remember to ask Mrs. H. about it.

     I close myself back inside the playroom and start comparing the things in the dollhouse to what is in the real house. The desk in the study is almost the same. So is the picnic table in the kitchen. The room that Mrs. H. said was Henry’s is definitely furnished for a young boy in the miniature version. It’s interesting. It’s like looking back in time to what the house was like when her kids were home. That thought brings my attention to the parlor.

    The mother, father, and boy doll are where I left them, but the big sister doll isn’t there. Just then, I hear the creak of floorboards outside the playroom door. 

     “Mrs. Hallovich?” I call. 

     I can see the shadow of her feet under the door and wonder why she isn’t coming in. Then she knocks.

     “Come in!” I say. Weird.

      I turn back to the dollhouse and see the big sister doll propped up in the hallway outside the playroom door. I turn. The playroom door is opening. I grab the sister doll and return her to the parlor with her family. The door to the playroom stops moving. I’m kind of afraid to breathe. I want to call for Mrs. Hallovich, but my throat is closed up.

     I sit like that for a long time. I’m afraid of the dollhouse. I’m afraid of the hallway. I’m afraid to call out. The rocking horse across from me has an evil face. If any rocking chairs start rocking I’ll die. Once again footsteps make their way down the hall toward me. I glance down at Big Sister and see she’s still in the parlor. The playroom door opens all the way and Mrs. Hallovich walks in. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.

     “Ella Dear, whatever is wrong?”

     I fly into her arms. I don’t want to tell her that her daughter is a ghost. Who wants to hear that? I just know I’m done with dollhouses for a while. Maybe forever.

     “I’m okay,” I finally say. “I was just wondering when the hot chocolate would be ready.”

     Mrs. H. pulls away and looks at me closely. She knows that’s not what I was thinking, but she nods anyway and gives me a hug. 

     “It’s ready now,” she says. 

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Willow House Chapter 8

 

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                                     The Queen of All Toys

     “Do you like dolls?” Mrs. Hallovich asks.

     “Uh . . .”  I shrug my shoulders. “Not really.”

     Truth is, I never play with dolls. But, I do sleep with a stuffed moose.

     “I have more than just dolls upstairs. Would you like to see the playroom?”

     “Sure,” I say. 

     What else is there to do today? I woke to rain coming down softly on the roof, and we drove over with rain coming down in buckets. The news this morning called for the raining of cats and dogs for the entire day. No further outdoor exploring in the forecast.

     We’ve just finished our second day of having our second breakfast - Belgian waffles, crispy on the outside, fluffy as a cloud on the inside. I take hold of Tommy’s hand and we follow Mrs.Hallovich out of the kitchen and back to the front entrance. We are going to go up that beautiful staircase! The carpet runner going up the steps is a faded pinkish color that’s worn through in patches. Now that I’ve spent a day here, I’m starting to notice details that I didn’t notice before. It must have all been magnificent once upon a time.

    “This house is really pretty.” I say.

     Mrs. Hallovich seems happy about that comment. 

     As we climb, I get a better look at the stained glass window at the top of the landing. I know it’s gray outside, but the glass is so dark and dirty that there’s no light at all able to pass through. Some of the glass pieces are cracked. It makes me sad. I wonder what it would have looked like when it was new.  At the landing we take the stairs that go off to the left. That still leaves a mystery on the other side. 

     “What’s up those stairs?” I ask, pointing up to the right.

     “Two bedrooms, including my own, and a bathroom.”

     “Can I see them?” Immediately after asking, I’m afraid I sound nosy, but Mrs. Hallovich doesn’t seem bothered.

     “Of course you can,” she answers. “We’ll take a look after lunch.”

     This left side of the upstairs has a short hallway with two doors. Mrs. H. opens the first one, and steps into a huge bedroom.

     “This room belonged to me when I was a girl, and then Gertrude.” She stands aside so that Tommy and I can step in. 

      “Wow! You had a fireplace in your bedroom?”

     “That was how we heated back then,” she says. “The fire would die down overnight, and I would wake to freezing cold. I can remember a few times when I had to break a thin layer of ice in my wash basin, just to be able to wash my face.”

     She has walked over to a dresser, where a large bowl sits with a pitcher nestled in its center.

     “Why didn’t you use the bathroom?”

     Mrs. H. smiles down at me. “We didn’t have a bathroom in this house. Can you imagine that?”

     “But there’s one downstairs and you said there was one across the hall.”

     “Those were added much later.”

     No bathroom. Unimaginable.

     “So where did you . . . ?”

     Thankfully she knows where I’m headed with this question and she laughs out loud. “An outhouse in the backyard.”

     “I don’t think I could live through that,” I say.

     The room has a canopy bed. I’ve always dreamed of having a canopy. Maybe I could survive using an outhouse for a canopy bed. There’s also a giant wardrobe that’s every bit as big and beautiful as the one with a secret passage to Narnia. I’m walking toward it to take a peek inside when she begins to lead Tommy back into the hallway. 

     “Come along, Ella Dear,” she says to me.

     I follow her down the hallway and she throws open the next door. 

     “Here’s the playroom!” she announces.

     This room is even bigger than the last. It also has a large fireplace. There are a few big objects covered with sheets, just like you’d find in any haunted house. In the corner is another large, sheet-covered object. It sits in a circular area with three tall windows and window seats, like in the parlor downstairs. Then, it hits me. These spaces are the inside of the turret! Duh. Now I know what’s inside a turret! 

     For such a gray, gloomy day, there’s plenty of light coming in. I walk into the turret and look down onto the street in front of the house. There’s the sidewalk Daleni and I have always avoided. Funny how things can change so fast. 

     “Taaa daaa!” I hear Mrs H., and turn to see that she has pulled a sheet down from some shelves. The shelves hold all kinds of playthings: a jack-in-the-box, a drum, wooden soldiers, and dolls. So many things!

    Tommy is toddling toward me, about to grab hold of the sheet covering the big shape beside me, when Mrs. Hallovich sweeps him up and carries him back to the shelves. She deposits him in her lap while plunking herself on the floor in front of all the toys. 

     I wonder if she does yoga. 

     She pulls out some pieces from a train set on the bottom shelf. Tommy picks up the caboose and starts in with his “vroom vroom” noises.

     Mrs. H. laughs, picks up the engine car, and demonstrates to Tommy the ch-ch-ch-ch ch-ch-ch-ch sound that a train is supposed to make. Tommy copies those sounds, and then Mrs. H. does a woo-woo sound like a train whistle, and I know I’m going to be hearing these noises out of my baby brother for the rest of my life. 

     She fiddles with the headlight. “This used to work when Henry was a boy. Shame it doesn’t anymore.” She messes with it a minute more and puts it down.

     Tommy crawls away from her, steering his little caboose out onto the open floor and around the mysterious ghost furniture.

     Mrs. H. reaches over and pulls out something that looks like a really old briefcase.

     “This was my son Henry’s prized possession.”

     I’m always interested in what can be classified as a prized possession, so I walk over to investigate. 

     The case is made of light brown leather that has been scuffed up in places. She flips the rusty latches, opens it, and turns it toward me. Inside are all kinds of small toys and games, each with its own compartment: jacks with a rubber ball, marbles, pick up sticks, cards, a yo-yo, and a variety of colored game pieces. The lid of the case has a belt across it holding in different game boards. Checkers is on top. 

     “Have you ever played with one of these?” she asks. She holds up a wooden stick with a cup on the end and a wooden ball nestled perfectly within.

     “I don’t think so,” I say.

      She dumps the wooden ball out of the cup where it dangles from an attached string.

     “The trick is simply to swing the ball up and into the cup. Like this.” She demonstrates. The ball makes a gentle arc and plops neatly into the cup. Ridiculous. Of course it’s going to plop into the cup. That’s where it’s attached. Have I ever seen a more stupid toy? I don’t think so.

     “You try,” she says.

     I take the toy. I’m ten years old for crying out loud. This toy is more Tommy’s speed. I tip the cup. The ball falls out. I feel a smirk on my face, but I can’t get rid of it. I swing the ball out like Mrs. H. had done. The ball makes a big circle, up and over, about a mile away from the cup. The smirk falls, like magic, off my face.

     “A little gentler,” she says.

     I’ve got this. I swing the ball up more gently. The string sags and the ball drops about a mile in front of the cup.

     “It just takes practice. You’ll get there.” 

     Is that a smirk on her face?

     I continue to practice as Mrs. H. pulls out more goodies from the box.

     “The kids and I would spend entire afternoons playing jackstraws,” she tells me.

     “Is that the same as pick-up-sticks?”

     “Mmm-hmm.” 

     Mrs. H. has a kind of not-all-here look on her face, then her eyes clear and she stands.

     A doll sits on the shelf at her eye level. 

     “This is Emily,” she says taking her down. She straightens the doll’s gown. It’s not a babydoll. It looks more like a teenager. Her dress is green and brown and reminds me of Andes mints. 

     “I taught Gertrude to sew by making dresses for her. There’s a whole trunk of clothes and accessories around here somewhere.”

     “Daleni, would love her.” I say, and I really mean it. Daleni loves all kinds of dress-up, whether it’s dressing Barbies, or putting dresses on herself. We like to put on the ones that belonged to her mom when she was dating Daleni’s dad. Her mom was into sparkles.

     “Well, I will find that trunk and you can bring your friend up here to play sometime.”

     I just smile. Probably not gonna happen.

     “I’ve got one more thing to show you before I go downstairs to start lunch.” She moves toward the piece of ghost furniture in the turret. 

     “This was Gertrude’s prized possession.” 

    She flings off the sheet like a magician. Underneath is a miniature version of Willow House, minus all the overgrown shrubbery. 

     My eyes bug out of my head, and I’m seriously wondering if a person’s eyeballs could drop right out onto the floor. 

     “You’ve never seen a dollhouse?” Mrs. H. asks.

     “Not like this.” I say.

     Mrs. H. smiles and swivels the house around on its little swivel-y stand so that the interior faces toward me. I drop to my knees, and everything but the house disappears from my vision. This must be what falling in love is like.

     The rooms have tiny furnishings that look a lot like the furniture in Willow House. The kitchen has food, the library has books, the playroom has toys, the bedrooms have clothes. One of the bedrooms has a canopy bed like in the room down the hall from me. It has real pillows! I pick one up and give it a gentle squeeze. A bed made for an itty-bitty princess is what this is.

     I think quite a bit of time goes by. I’m sitting in a trance in front of this dollhouse, and I guess my jaw has been hanging open ‘cause there’s a little drool on my chin. I hear Mrs. H. moving around. She picks up a basket and starts filling it with some of the train pieces. 

     “How ‘bout you and I go down and start some lunch,” she says to Tommy. 

She hands him the basket to hold, then picks him up, arranges the whole package on her hip, turns to me and says, “I’ll leave you to it.”

     I’ve looked away from the dollhouse long enough to notice that more of the sheets have been removed, revealing a rocking horse and a full sized rocking chair. I give Mrs. H. a smile, which she returns with a wink.

    Before they are out the door, Tommy reaches into the basket and pulls out the engine. The light on the front immediately comes on.

     “Well, would you look at that.” Mrs. H. says as she walks away. 

     That’s a bit strange, but my focus is drawn back to this, the queen of all toys. I investigate each room. Windows open, drawers open, hinges hinge. Tiny perfume bottles made from glass beads form a line along a dressing table. There’s a tiny birdcage just like the one in the greenhouse. Kitchen cabinets hold plates, and bowls, and tiny cups. I twist an old fashioned faucet in the kitchen, and I’m truly surprised there’s no running water. There’s a staircase that splits in two, just like Willow House, complete with a stained glass window on the landing, showing a twisted weeping willow tree. I glance down to the entrance hall and sure enough, a chandelier to match. There are people as well - a father, mother, small boy and big sister - probably the Hallovich family in miniature.

     Time once again passes without me realizing, until I hear Mrs. H. call from downstairs, “Soup’s on!”

     “Coming!” I shout back. I’m holding the big sister doll and set her down in the parlor with the rest of her family. I’ve arranged them so that they can talk to each other while I’m gone. (Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but you probably do things like that too).

     Mrs. H. is calling from the landing now. “Don’t worry about covering the dollhouse back up. You can play again later.”

     I can’t wait. Before walking through the door, I turn and look back one last time. I almost can’t believe my luck at being able to play here with the most beautiful dollhouse in all the world. One of the curtains in the tiny study blows inward. A small chair on the front porch begins to rock.

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