key after hours in case it triggered an alarm.”
Louise shook her head. “Only broken windows sound an alarm. We can go in and out with a key at any time. The key works for all the outer doors.” She closed the door.
Nela looked up a wide marbled hallway with office doors on one side and windowed alcoves overlooking the courtyard on the other. The marble flooring was a swirl of golden tones. Between the alcoves, paintings of Western scenes hung on the walls.
Louise reached out, touched a panel of lights. Recessed lighting glowed to illuminate the paintings. She was proud. “Isn’t it beautiful? The paintings in this hall are from various places in Oklahoma. Our state has an amazingly varied terrain, everything from hills to prairies to mesas. There are beautiful paintings all through the foundation. I’m glad I can show you everything today when we don’t have to hurry. Mondays get busy. There’s a staff meeting at eleven.It’s very responsible of you”—her tone was admiring and mildly surprised—“to make the extra effort to locate the foundation today. I will confess I wasn’t sure what to expect from Chloe’s sister. Chloe is”—a pause—“casual about things.”
Nela well understood. Chloe was not only casual, but slapdash and last minute.
“Though,” Louise added hurriedly, “she’s a nice girl and somehow everything gets done.”
Nela gave her a reassuring smile. There was no point in taking umbrage because truth was truth. “Chloe moves quickly.” That was true, too.
Louise smiled in return. “Yes, she does. I’ll show you her office, but first”—she began to walk, gesturing to her right—“these small offices are for summer interns. We also have a new position this year.” A faint frown touched her face. “For an assistant curator. The new director thought it would be good to put one person in charge of overseeing artifact donations. Haklo is unusual among foundations because we not only provide grants, we create our own programs to celebrate Oklahoma history. Thanks to Haklo, many schools around the state now have displays that we have provided, everything from memorabilia about Will Rogers to women’s roles in early statehood to Indian relics.” The frosted glass of the office door read:
ABBY ANDREWS
ASSISTANT CURATOR
Louise moved to the next door. “This is Chloe’s office.” She opened the door and flicked on the light.
Nela felt her sister’s presence as they stepped inside. Chloe hadput her personal stamp on a utilitarian room with a gray metal desk and a bank of filing cabinets. There on the bookcase was a picture of Nela and Chloe, arm in arm on a happy summer day at the Santa Monica pier. Four posters enlivened pale gray walls, an aerial view of Machu Picchu, a surfer catching a big one in Hawaii, a tousle-haired Amelia Earhart in a trench coat standing by a bright red Lockheed Vega, and the shining gold-domed ceiling of the Library of Congress.
Louise followed her gaze to the posters. “Has your sister been to all those places?”
“In her dreams.” When Chloe was little, Nela had often read Dr. Seuss to her. She sometimes wondered if a little girl’s spirit had responded to the lyrical call of places to go and things to see. If Chloe couldn’t go there—yet—in person, she’d travel in her imagination.
“I suppose that’s why she went to Tahiti.” Louise’s voice was almost admiring. “I don’t think I’d ever have the courage, but she doesn’t worry, does she?”
“Sometimes I wish she would,” Nela confided. “She always thinks everything will work out and so far”—her usual quick prayer, plea, hope flickered in her mind—“they have. But I’ll be glad when she and Leland get home.”
Louise’s glance was sympathetic. “I know. I always worried so about my son. I always wanted him safe at home and that’s when he died, driving home from college in an ice storm. Maybe Tahiti is safer.” Her voice was thin. “Certainly
Louise shook her head. “Only broken windows sound an alarm. We can go in and out with a key at any time. The key works for all the outer doors.” She closed the door.
Nela looked up a wide marbled hallway with office doors on one side and windowed alcoves overlooking the courtyard on the other. The marble flooring was a swirl of golden tones. Between the alcoves, paintings of Western scenes hung on the walls.
Louise reached out, touched a panel of lights. Recessed lighting glowed to illuminate the paintings. She was proud. “Isn’t it beautiful? The paintings in this hall are from various places in Oklahoma. Our state has an amazingly varied terrain, everything from hills to prairies to mesas. There are beautiful paintings all through the foundation. I’m glad I can show you everything today when we don’t have to hurry. Mondays get busy. There’s a staff meeting at eleven.It’s very responsible of you”—her tone was admiring and mildly surprised—“to make the extra effort to locate the foundation today. I will confess I wasn’t sure what to expect from Chloe’s sister. Chloe is”—a pause—“casual about things.”
Nela well understood. Chloe was not only casual, but slapdash and last minute.
“Though,” Louise added hurriedly, “she’s a nice girl and somehow everything gets done.”
Nela gave her a reassuring smile. There was no point in taking umbrage because truth was truth. “Chloe moves quickly.” That was true, too.
Louise smiled in return. “Yes, she does. I’ll show you her office, but first”—she began to walk, gesturing to her right—“these small offices are for summer interns. We also have a new position this year.” A faint frown touched her face. “For an assistant curator. The new director thought it would be good to put one person in charge of overseeing artifact donations. Haklo is unusual among foundations because we not only provide grants, we create our own programs to celebrate Oklahoma history. Thanks to Haklo, many schools around the state now have displays that we have provided, everything from memorabilia about Will Rogers to women’s roles in early statehood to Indian relics.” The frosted glass of the office door read:
ABBY ANDREWS
ASSISTANT CURATOR
Louise moved to the next door. “This is Chloe’s office.” She opened the door and flicked on the light.
Nela felt her sister’s presence as they stepped inside. Chloe hadput her personal stamp on a utilitarian room with a gray metal desk and a bank of filing cabinets. There on the bookcase was a picture of Nela and Chloe, arm in arm on a happy summer day at the Santa Monica pier. Four posters enlivened pale gray walls, an aerial view of Machu Picchu, a surfer catching a big one in Hawaii, a tousle-haired Amelia Earhart in a trench coat standing by a bright red Lockheed Vega, and the shining gold-domed ceiling of the Library of Congress.
Louise followed her gaze to the posters. “Has your sister been to all those places?”
“In her dreams.” When Chloe was little, Nela had often read Dr. Seuss to her. She sometimes wondered if a little girl’s spirit had responded to the lyrical call of places to go and things to see. If Chloe couldn’t go there—yet—in person, she’d travel in her imagination.
“I suppose that’s why she went to Tahiti.” Louise’s voice was almost admiring. “I don’t think I’d ever have the courage, but she doesn’t worry, does she?”
“Sometimes I wish she would,” Nela confided. “She always thinks everything will work out and so far”—her usual quick prayer, plea, hope flickered in her mind—“they have. But I’ll be glad when she and Leland get home.”
Louise’s glance was sympathetic. “I know. I always worried so about my son. I always wanted him safe at home and that’s when he died, driving home from college in an ice storm. Maybe Tahiti is safer.” Her voice was thin. “Certainly
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