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CHAPTER 1

Alexandria, Virginia, Present Day

"I only remember bits and pieces you know — flashes and illuminated scenes. After all, I was only five years old."

"I'm amazed you remember anything, Mother. At that age, most children are oblivious to their surroundings."

The older woman shook her head. "Not me. I guess I was born to be a journalist. Nothing escaped my attention."

"And yet you're guilty of serial amnesia when it comes to Father."

The woman in the bed leaned back against the pillows, a blissful smile on her face. "Not entirely. I never forgot the set of Elian's jaw, or the way his forehead crinkled when he kissed me, or the cowlick."

"Perhaps," snorted her daughter. "But what about his hair color? His height? His weight?"

"Those things aren't important, Olivia. Somewhere in here" — the woman tapped her abdomen — "I knew him."

"Wandering through your digestive tract?"

"Possibly. Most of my encounters with him were associated with food."

"Not sex?"

"No, of course not. Well, not in the beginning." The woman's eyes glazed over.

"Mother!" Olivia settled back in her chair and pulled out her notebook. "You agreed to do this. You can't weasel out of it. All we need is a working title. Sydney Bellek Meets Elian Davies. Or should it be Elian Davies versus Sydney Bellek?"

"How about Alien versus Predator?"

"I believe that one's taken. I want your story."

"Sex scenes included?"

"Hey, you want this to be a best seller, don't you?"

"On what list?"

"Mother, you're doing it again. You're a writer. This should be easy. Just pretend it's fiction."

"That's your job." She rolled her eyes. "How on earth did two hard-bitten, hard-nosed journalists spawn a romance novelist?"

"Two wrongs make a right?"

Her mother grinned. "Okay. If I'm going to write the Great American Novel, I'd best start at the beginning. Let's see ... as I pushed my way through the birth canal ..."

"Mother!"

"I told you, no detail is ever too small."

"Except ..."

"All right, all right." She took a sip from the shot glass at her bedside table. "Lemon vodka. You found it?"

Olivia poured her another tot. "Made it myself. I used the recipe you'd tucked into your Joy of Cooking."

"Ah yes. Boris gave it to me. He was such a dear. I told you about his wonderful Russian restaurant in Istanbul, didn't I?"

"The place modeled after the one in the Greta Garbo movie Ninotchka?"

"The other way around, dear. The other way around." She tossed the vodka off. "Yes, I'd only just arrived in Istanbul, and Tony took me for drinks and zakuski — that's Russian for mezze. Dear me, is there an English word for little dishes like that? Hmm. Anyway, it was called the Tsar's Kitchen — the restaurant, that is. A tiny warren of rooms up in Beyoglu —"

"Mother!"

Sydney stopped, glass halfway to her lips. "What?"

Olivia indicated the notebook. "It's 1958. You're five years old. You're heading to Paris with your parents," she prompted.

"All right, I'll indulge you, but you still haven't told me when Benjamin is coming over."

"Not for a while. I told you he's in Connecticut while Congress is in recess, didn't I?"

Her mother peered at Olivia. Her sharp eyes — rich brown with flecks of copper that flashed in the lamplight — bored into her daughter's blue ones. "I see ..." She managed to put a full measure of speculation into the words.

"Mother, I'm warning you. No more vodka till we're at least past the first meeting."

Sydney grabbed the glass and held it tight to her breast. "You wouldn't dare!"

Olivia laughed, a tinkling, infectious sound. "Come on, give."

* * *

Boeing 377 Stratocruiser, 1958

"Come along, Sydney. Sergei is already in his seat. It's nearly time for takeoff."

"Mama, what is this building? It's not a house. It has wings, just like Sergei's toy, but this one has wheels. Where are we going? And who are all these people, Mama? Mama?"

"I'll answer all your questions once we get you strapped in, Sydney ... There."

The little girl closed her mouth to keep the questions from spewing out. The days leading up to this adventure had been so confused, so rushed, and her mother seemed especially out of sorts. She wished her father would appear — he always made things better. Sydney plucked at the seat belt that held her fast. At least she could move her arms, but when she stretched them out they smacked into her brother's face.

"Leave me alone, Syd! I'm trying to look out the window." He tilted his head and peered out. "Looks like the rain has stopped. That's good, right, Mother? For flying, I mean?"

Sydney pouted. "How come I have to sit here and Sergei gets the window? I can't see anything. I can't move." Panic suddenly squeezed her chest, clutching at her with icy claws. "I don't like it here, Sergei. I want to get out!" The ceiling of the plane began to fall toward her. She cowered in her seat. "Sergei! Mama!"

Just then strong hands undid the clasp and pulled her into strong arms. "S'okay, Polly. I'm here. You can sit on my lap for a bit."

Sydney looked up into a dear face. "Papa, you made it. You're here!"

A dark-skinned man with a luxuriant black moustache chucked her under the chin. "You weren't worried, were you, Pollyanna?"

"No, Papa." The little girl snuggled into his chest and sighed. The noise of other passengers boarding filled the cabin.

One childish voice rose above the rest. "This is one of the new transatlantic airliners, isn't it, Mother? It's bigger than I expected. When will we take off? We're going to fly across the ocean all night, right, Mother? So how ..."

"Shhh, Elian. Your father has to take care of our luggage. After that, he'll tell you anything you want to know."

A tall woman in a well-tailored suit and heels tipped the steward and gently pushed a little boy into the row behind Sydney. Sydney nestled deeper under her father's arm but kept an eye on the comings and goings of the other passengers.

The boy subsided, and she heard the woman snap his seat belt. A minute later, his tinny voice cut through the hubbub. "Hey look, Mother. I can see people on the ground. Isn't it dangerous for them to be wandering around among these big machines? Couldn't they be crushed?"

"No, no, dear. They know what they're doing."

A steward made his way slowly down the aisle, checking the passengers. "Mr. Bellek? You'll have to put your little girl in her own seat during takeoff." He peered at Sydney, and she stared back as rudely as she dared, hoping to scare him off and leave her in the safety of her father's arms.

"Certainly." Her father lifted Sydney, but before he set her down, he bounced her a couple of times, which cheered her immensely. As her head came up over the seat, she spied the boy. He was staring out the window, rapt. She examined his profile. People's faces fascinated her. Her mother insisted that meant she'd be an artist — her father laughingly opted for detective.

This little boy sported a sharp chin and a long neck. Unusual for the time, his reddish brown hair had been allowed to grow over his ears, and a curl touched his forehead. She couldn't see his eyes, but his sturdy, well- shaped fingers plastered the window. He turned as she rose on the second bounce and smiled at her.

Just then the sun came out. It picked up the droplets of moisture in the air and made a rainbow out of them, streaking through the cabin. It touched the crown of the boy's head and curved toward her. Sydney sensed it could connect them if only she knew how to cross it. The little boy held his hand out, almost as though he wanted her to.

"Hi, I'm Elian."

Sydney could only stare at him, open-mouthed.

The steward returned. "We don't often have children fly with us," he said with a smile. "It's very brave of you." He looked at Sydney's father. "We've been advised that there will be a short delay before we can begin our taxi. The captain would like to invite the children forward to see the cockpit." Without waiting for an official parental nod, too often slow in coming, Sydney, Sergei, and Elian leapt out of their seats and fought each other up the aisle.

The captain and his co-pilot greeted the children. "My, my, we have some young folks here. I'll bet this is your first flight, eh?"

The distinguished man in the navy uniform couldn't help but intimidate and excite. Three grave faces nodded, staring at a dashboard that didn't look anything like the ones in their parents' Oldsmobiles.

"Well, we expect you all to behave according to protocol. It will be a long flight across the ocean, but you're not to worry. Captain Maxwell and I have done the trip many times. See?"

He pointed to a set of golden wings on his lapel. The children politely peered at it. He paused. "Say, would you like your own wings? We usually present them to passengers in honor of their first flight."

Three silent nods. Six very wide eyes.

"Edward? Do you have some wings for these young pilots-in-training?"

The steward held out three boxes. Sydney opened hers to find a small pin. It had silver wings and a logo that read "Pan American Airlines." She whispered, "Thank you," as she'd been taught, before allowing Edward to lead her back to her parents.

The boy Elian walked behind her. He punched her arm. "Neato, huh?"

His eyes gleamed. They were large and bright blue. Many years later, she would describe them as the color of the Caribbean Sea at high noon. Now they just seemed pretty. She punched him back.

"Sydney, come on." Her brother impatiently dragged her onto her seat. The engines rumbled, and the plane pulled slowly away.

"Are we floating, Papa? It feels like we're on water."

Her brother snickered. "You're such a lamebrain, Syd. We're on wheels. Like a car."

"Oh." Sydney refrained from pointing out that this airplane was a lot bigger than a car. They rolled over the tarmac, paused, then started to move fast, then faster and faster. She couldn't breathe. Thinking someone was pressing a hand on her chest, she looked down, but nothing held her.

Her father handed her a lollipop. "Here, take this and suck on it. Now, lean back and breathe in and out slowly."

Sydney didn't argue — she wasn't allowed candy very often, and she wasn't about to turn it down, even though a pile of heavy books crushed her chest. A moment later, they entered a bubble of stillness, like the eye of a storm. She couldn't have explained how, but she knew they were airborne.

Her brother leaned over. "Hear that grinding sound? That's the wheels. They tuck them right into the tummy of the plane."

Sydney stared at the back of the seat before her and reveled in the feeling of freedom. I'm in the air. I'm in the air! A sunbeam shot through the porthole, reigniting the rainbow.

The steward came down the aisle, hanging on to the backs of the seats to steady himself as the plane banked. It reminded Sydney of sailing the Atlantic in her grandfather's boat. The steward stopped at their row. "We will begin serving dinner in half an hour." He handed Sydney's father a card. "Here is the menu. I can take your orders now."

Sydney's father looked it over. "The children's menu offers roast chicken or a hamburger. Sergei?"

"Hamburger. Wow. Cool."

"Sydney?"

She refused to copy her brother. "Chippen please."

Her father laughed. "Chippen it is." He gave their orders to the steward and turned away to talk to their mother.

Soon after, a stewardess in a white blouse and perky little blue cap stopped a cart by their seats. She set their trays with silver cutlery embossed with the Pan Am logo and served their dinner from the cart onto bone china plates.

Sergei cuffed his sister. "It's as fancy as Grandmother's house, isn't it?" Sydney said nothing, since she'd just taken a bite of chicken and she knew her mother would be angry if she spoke with her mouth full.

After dinner, many of the adults headed down a circular stairway. "Papa, where are they going?"

"There's a lounge downstairs. For grownups."

"Oh." Sydney couldn't imagine how a narrow little house like this could have so many rooms.

Her father patted her head. "Why don't you children stretch your legs while your mother and I go downstairs?"

Elian followed Sydney and Sergei down the aisle. They marched up and down without speaking for a bit, then Sydney pointed at Elian's loafers. "You're allowed to wear those?" He looked down absently. "Sure. Why not?" Sergei said, "We have to wear tie shoes all the time. Gee, you have big feet, kid. How old are you?"

"I'll be seven next month. You?"

"I'm nine." Sergei drew himself up proudly. "My sister Sydney here is five. We're going to Paris."

Sydney condescended to elaborate. "Pawes. It's in Fwance."

"I know." The boy let his gaze travel over her, as though he were memorizing her features. Sydney was too young to know she could have won the Gerber baby contest, or indeed any beauty contest, even at five. Her golden tresses framed a heart-shaped face, her nut-brown eyes were large and liquid, stippled with golden flecks like pyrite-veined jasper pebbles. Her sharp little chin mirrored Elian's. "I'm going to Berlin. That's in Germany. It's a war zone."

Since Sydney had no clue what a war zone was, she shrugged and asked, "Do you want to color with me?"

"Okay."

A few minutes later, Sydney's mother found them. "Time for bed, Polly." To Sydney's amazement, the stewardess pulled a trapdoor down, revealing a snug little berth. Her mother helped her up the ladder and tucked her in.

"Aren't you sleeping here, Mama?"

"No dear." She gestured at the seat below. "We'll sleep in these recliners — they're called Sleeperettes. They're very comfortable."

Sydney regarded them dubiously. Her little bed seemed much homier. She heard Sergei climb up into the next berth. "Wait'll I tell my friends," he whispered. "We're actually sleeping on a plane!"

He waited in vain for an answer. Sydney had fallen asleep.

The next morning the little girl awoke to a whole new world. Below her lay sparkling marble monuments and a ribbon of river that meandered through what looked to her like ancient ruins. Her father pulled her on his lap and pointed. "Paris. Your new home."

When the plane landed, Sydney looked for the little boy Elian. The terminal was crowded and busy, and she felt very small. Through the forest of bags and red caps and people, she spied a tuft of russet hair bobbing along between two adults. As she watched, he paused and turned to look back. He saw her and waved. She waved back.

Alexandria, Present Day

"And you never saw him again."

"My dear, Olivia, you wouldn't be here if that were true."

"But he went off to Berlin and you to Paris. How did you ever reconnect?"

The older woman held her glass out. "Another tot, please, dear." She sipped thoughtfully. "My theory is that the rainbow created an unbreakable bond between us. Diaphanous, yes. Tentative and translucent. Wobbly, hard to walk on." She grinned. "But there. Whenever we hit the same part of the spectrum we'd meet up. And it wasn't always pretty."

"Okay, the second time? That was on your way to ..." Olivia checked her notes. "Morocco, right?"

"Yes." Sydney lay back and closed her eyes. "So romantic, Morocco. So exotic." A slight snore came from the direction of the bed.

"Mother?"

"Mmm."

Olivia rose and pulled the quilt up under her mother's chin. The quilt, her grandmother's, had been a fixture since her earliest childhood. Squares and triangles of faded calico were sewn in a comforting geometric pattern around the pieced picture of an airplane. She gazed with love at her mother.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then, shall I?" she whispered. Sydney waved languidly. As her daughter turned to leave, her mother opened one eye and reached toward her bedside table. Olivia knew she'd stay up half the night drafting missives and composing jeremiads. Sydney Bellek had started writing at the age of six and never stopped. She had no time for memoirs — that was Olivia's job. These days she scribbled myriad letters to editors, using trenchant metaphors that almost always stopped short of scatological to describe what she thought of their newspapers.

Olivia nodded to a woman in her sixties with close-cropped iron-gray hair, dressed in a severe black jersey dress and Peter Pan collar. "Good night, Alice."

Alice pursed her lips. "Writing again?"

"Yup."

"She'll be the death of me."

Olivia refrained from expressing her thought — just to spite you, Alice — and said instead, "The thought of Father keeps her young."

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Excerpted from "Lapses of Memory"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Meredith Ellsworth.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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