Chapter 2

Vika eyed a good looking man in the next aisle of her business class seat on Icelandic Air. He was most definitely her type—probably Italian with thick, dark hair and a handsome profile. The champagne (real champagne; not that ersatz cava) had put her in a romantic mood. She asked herself what she was going to do about it. The balloon above his head said “do not disturb” but Vika only saw that as a challenge.

Vika’s real name was Victoria Berzins Zito. Her husband, Bernie Zito, was the most generous man on this planet–or on any planet, for that matter. When it came to  money there was no end to what he lavished on his princess. “Ya wanna find your roots, doll-face? Be my guest.”

Vika worried that one day he might need to go into the witness protection program and was in a rush to spend as much of his money as she could. She no longer believed that less is more. She had had less years ago. Hadn’t liked that one little bit.

Bernie’s beginnings were humble. Vika didn’t know much about his past. She knew he was from Staten Island and had come a long way. Their  luxurious apartment overlooking Central Park was contemporary, perfect for entertaining Bernie’s many friends.  His work was mysterious, and Vika didn’t pry. In fact, she was afraid to pry. She herself was well known at the day spas and the boutiques. Sure she was social, but also prided herself on keeping her Latvian aloofness.  She was close to her Latvian-born mother Irena—the only one who called her Vika. Her American friends preferred Vicky.

For weeks Vika was over the moon. It sure was exciting to shop for her first trip to the motherland. The women, she knew, were going to be envious of her wardrobe. She liked that. She was a princess. Always had been. And the men, even this new standoffish man on her Icelandic flight, would be entranced.

She focused. There was movement. Dude with the handsome profile was struggling out of his seat. Wobbling a bit he stood up. Bummer! He was short. Heading toward the toilet he gave Vika a glance. She looked away. Vika liked to wear stilettos which made her almost six feet. Still, she wanted to appear feminine and delicate and also liked to stand up straight. Coming back from his bathroom break Dude swung close to Vika’s seat and stared down at her cleavage. She noticed that his wrist was bare of the high end Rolex she used to gage what a man was worth. No Rolex, no class, she decided and went back to her musings.

Beautiful, much fabled Riga! Her mother’s birthplace. How awful that Irena refused to take the trip with her. Irena knew she would be disappointed. It certainly wouldn’t be her Riga any more.

Irena wondered if she had done the right thing in turning down Bernie’s generous offer to send his mother-in-law to Riga.  It had been hard to say no. She longed to walk the bridge she loved that crossed the Daugava River. She thought of the old church where her sister was Christened in the Old Town. She thought of her devout Vecmamina reminding her as a five year old to keep her back straight and stop wiggling. Such fond memories! Yes, she was the wild child growing up in an apartment complex on Zakusala. So many memories!

Times had changed. And so had her daughter.

Her once obedient daughter had grown into a seductress. Irena feared Vika would be more interested in playing the socialite than visiting her mother’s memories.

So perhaps she should have gone along to keep her eye on her flighty (flirty) daughter. But more than anything she dreaded to see what Soviet years had done to her beloved Latvia.

***

Coming back from the toilet Short Dude did not immediately return to his seat. Tearing his eyes away from her breasts (they were real) he appraised the diamonds (also real) Vika was wearing.

“Be careful, young lady. Those gems aren’t something you should flash around.”    How annoying, Vika thought. That condescending, fake humor “young lady” always turned her off.

“Don’t be silly. I live in Manhattan.”

“Riga isn’t Manhattan,” he shot back, his face squirreling into a frown.

Vika snorted derisively. Dude must have read too many chick-jep books. (Vika was literary. She knew that chick-jep meant girl in a jam.)

“I can handle myself,” she replied dismissively and turned her head to the window.