We were losing altitude now. In a moment we were flying through the clouds, the plane surrounded by billowing mist. Beside me, Ellie put down her fashion magazine and sighed, looking gloriously tan and fit after our three months of touring the Greek islands, traveling through Italy and sunning on the French Riviera. Evan had insisted on the trip, had made all the arrangements. I had protested at first, but he had been firm, brooking no argument, and he had been right. The prolonged trip had accomplished everything he felt it would accomplish. I had come to terms with myself. I was whole again. Ellie had been wonderful, as firm as Evan, refusing to let me brood. Her vitality and gaiety had been infectious, and after the first three or four weeks I had actually begun to enjoy myself. “I could use another cocktail,” she said, tensing as the plane dipped lower. “You’ve already had the limit,” I replied, smiling. “I adore flying, really I do, but landing always makes me so nervous.
