Chapter 2
GEORGIA
The morning light filters through the lace curtains of my bedroom, soft and golden. I can hear the gentle crash of waves from my window, a constant, soothing rhythm that’s become the soundtrack to my life here.
I stretch under the thick quilt, savoring these few quiet moments before Ella wakes.
The cottage is small—just two bedrooms, a cozy living room with a stone fireplace, and a kitchen that barely fits a table for two.
But it’s mine. Well, rented, but it feels like mine in a way my New York apartment never did.
“Mama!”
And there goes my peace.
I smile and slip out of bed, padding across the worn wooden floors to Ella’s room. She’s standing in her crib, her dark curls, so like mine, sticking up in every direction, her cheeks flushed with sleep.
“Good morning, baby girl,” I say, lifting her into my arms. She’s getting heavier every day, growing so fast it makes my heart ache.
“Mama, Mama, Mama,” my fourteen-month-old babbles, patting my face with sticky hands. I have no idea when she got sticky. It’s one of the great mysteries of toddlerhood.
I change her diaper, dress her in soft leggings and a sweater—the Maine coast is beautiful but perpetually chilly—and carry her to the kitchen.
From here, I can see straight through the living room to the window that overlooks the beach.
The ocean is gray-blue this morning, peaceful, and a few seagulls drift lazily overhead.
It’s my favorite view in the whole world, and, lucky me—it’s mine every day.
I settle Ella in her high chair with some banana slices and set about making breakfast. The kitchen is cramped but cheerful, with blue-painted cabinets I refinished myself and open shelves displaying mismatched mugs I’ve collected from thrift stores.
There’s a pot of herbs on the windowsill: basil and rosemary that I somehow haven’t killed yet.
“Ba-na-na,” Ella announces, holding up a piece of fruit.
“That’s right! Banana. You’re so smart.”
She beams at me, and my heart swells. This is enough, I tell myself, and I mean it. This simple life, this little cottage, this beautiful girl. It’s more than enough.
I make oatmeal for both of us, adding cinnamon and honey to mine, mashing banana into hers. We eat together at the small wooden table, Ella getting more food on her face than in her mouth, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it.
Well. Maybe one thing.
Sometimes, in these quiet morning moments, I wonder what it would be like to have someone else here. A partner to share the coffee with, to laugh about Ella’s sticky hands, to help with the dishes. Someone to kiss good morning.
But then I remember Mike and the wondering stops.
No husband is better than a deadbeat one.
That’s what I tell myself, and it’s true.
Mike made it clear from the moment I told him I was pregnant that he had no interest in being a father.
He signed away his rights before Ella was even born, and honestly?
It was a relief. Better to do this alone than to spend years resenting someone who was only half present.
Still. Sometimes I’m lonely.
“Done!” Ella declares, throwing her spoon on the floor.
“All done,” I agree, wiping her face and hands with a damp cloth. “Let’s go see Miss Lois, okay?”
Ella’s face lights up. “Lo!”
I bundle us both into jackets and carry Ella next door.
Lois’s cottage is nearly identical to mine, though she’s lived here for forty years and it shows.
Her garden is immaculate even in early spring, with the first crocuses poking through the soil.
Wind chimes made of sea glass tinkle on her porch.
She opens the door before I can knock, the smell of bacon and eggs and her mini poodle Mocha both spilling out the door behind her.
“There’s my girl!” She reaches for Ella, who lunges into her arms happily.
Lois is seventy-three, spry as anything, and has more energy than I do most days.
When I moved here eleven months ago, desperate for a fresh start, finding her next door felt like fate.
She’d been a teacher before retirement, and is now widowed with her kids all grown.
She missed having children around and literally cried when she saw me and Ella moving in.
Having her as Ella’s babysitter works perfectly for both of us.
“Morning, Lois. I should only be a few hours today. I have one client call at ten.”
“Take your time, dear. We’re going to make cookies today, aren’t we, Ella?”
“Yes!” Ella agrees enthusiastically, though I’m sure she doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.
I kiss my daughter’s soft cheek, breathing in her baby-shampoo smell. “Be good for Miss Lois.”
“She’s always good. Now go on, get your work done. We’ll be just fine.”
Back at the cottage, I make myself a proper cup of coffee with the good beans from the local roastery in town and settle at my laptop on the living-room couch.
I’ve positioned it so I can see the ocean while I work, and on days when consulting feels particularly dry, that view is the only thing that keeps me sane.
Remote consulting. It sounds impressive, but mostly it means I answer emails from universities and museums asking about artifact authentications or excavation protocols. It’s steady income, and I can do it in my pajamas, which is about all I can ask for at this stage of my life.
I open my inbox, expecting to see the usual emails circling back and checking in, but at the top of the line is another email from Calvin Aarons.
That makes five this week.
Sighing, I click it open.
Dr. Halford,
I hope this message finds you well. I’m writing once more regarding the excavation opportunity in the Middle East. I understand you’re currently taking time away from fieldwork, but I believe this project would be uniquely suited to your expertise…
I skim the rest. It’s professional, polite, and persistent as hell. He and his assistants have been emailing me for three weeks now, each message slightly more urgent than the last. Always professional, though. No pressure, just… persistence.
I should admire that, probably. Instead, it irritates me.
I’ve looked Calvin Aarons up, and I know his type. Wealthy, used to getting what he wants, probably never been told no in his life. He thinks if he just asks enough times, eventually I’ll cave.
Well, he’s wrong.
I start typing my response, fingers moving quickly over the keys.
Mr. Aarons,
Thank you for your continued interest. I’m not currently available for fieldwork. I wish you the best with your project and suggest reaching out to—
A knock at the door interrupts me.
I frown. It’s too early for deliveries, and Lois would just call if there was a problem with Ella.
Setting my laptop aside, I walk to the door and open it.
A man stands on my porch, and he looks so completely out of place that for a moment I just stare.
He’s tall, blond, wearing a charcoal suit.
His blue eyes are striking even behind the wariness in them.
He’s handsome in that polished, too-perfect way that makes me immediately suspicious.
His leather shoes are already dusted with the sand that gets everywhere in this town, and my first thought is to wonder if he is regretting wearing them.
And my second thought is how handsome he is.
“Dr. Halford?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“Calvin Aarons.” He extends a hand. “I apologize for showing up unannounced, but you haven’t been returning my calls, and I’m on a tight timeline.”
I don’t take his hand. Instead, I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve been returning your emails, Mr. Aarons. With the same answer each time.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He doesn’t seem fazed by my coolness. “Could I have five minutes of your time? I’ve come a long way.”
I push my tongue against the front of my teeth. Men like this think they can buy anything, including other people’s time and attention.
“I’m busy,” I say.
“Five minutes. Please.”
There’s something in his voice… Desperation? No, more like he’s trying to keep from becoming desperate. And despite my conviction that I don’t want this job, that I can’t take this job, I find myself opening the door and stepping back.
“Fine. Five minutes.”
He follows me inside, and I see him taking in the cottage.
The worn furniture, the bookshelves crammed with archaeology texts and beach reads, the laundry that’s been waiting four days to be folded, the toys scattered across the floor that I didn’t have time to pick up.
A mug with Ella’s handprint painted on it sits on the coffee table next to my laptop.
If he’s judging, he doesn’t show it.
“Coffee?” I offer, more out of ingrained politeness than actual hospitality.
“Thank you.”
I pour him a cup and refill my own, then settle back on the couch. He takes the armchair across from me, and it’s almost comical how formal he looks in my rumpled little living room.
“So,” I say, “you came all this way to hear me say no in person?”
“I came all this way to change your mind.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’ve spent three weeks trying to find the right person for this excavation.
There are very few people in the world perfect for this job, but none of them are available.
Except for you. Plus, your name kept coming up.
Everyone agrees you’re the best person for this job. ”
“Who says I’m available?” I ask, distinctly remembering telling him in the emails that I am not.
“You’re currently unemployed—”
“Self-employed,” I correct. “And it’s very flattering that you came all the way here to try and convince me, but my answer is still no.”
“Can I ask why?”
I gesture around the cottage. “Because I have a life here. A good life. I’m not interested in leaving it for some project in the desert.”
“Not even for Jumayah?”
The word stops me cold. “Jumayah?” I repeat slowly. Why don’t I remember that from the emails? Did he mention before that it’s Jumayah?
“The site is just outside the ancient city of Jumayah. There’s evidence of a temple complex, possibly dating back to the second millennium BCE. The preliminary surveys suggest—”
“What kind of temple?” I hear myself asking, and I want to take the words back immediately.
But it’s too late. He sees the shift in my expression and presses forward.
“We’re not sure yet. That’s why I need you. The site has been largely unexplored. There are some surface indicators, architectural fragments, pottery shards. But nothing conclusive. Not yet.”
My mind is racing. Jumayah. Henry had been obsessed with that region.
My mentor, the man who taught me the best of what I know about Middle Eastern archaeology, spent the last years of his life trying to prove his theory about the temple complexes there.
He’d died before he could get funding for his own excavation.
“My mentor worked in that area,” I say quietly. “Henry Coulter.”
“I know. I’ve read his papers. They’re part of why I bought the site.”
I stare at him. “You bought it?”
“The land, yes. It’s privately owned now, which means we can move faster than if we had to work through government channels. I’ve already secured the permits.”
He’s done his homework. And he knows exactly what bait to dangle in front of me.
“The project would be fully funded,” he continues. “State-of-the-art equipment, a small team of specialists, and full autonomy over the excavation process. You’d be the lead archaeologist. Your decisions would be final.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“I get to uncover my grandmother’s history. She was from Jumayah. She died three years ago, and…” He pauses, and for just a moment, the polished businessman facade cracks. “I want to understand where she came from. What her stories meant.”
It’s the first human thing he’s said, and it catches me off guard.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded paper, sliding it across the coffee table.
“This is my offer.”
I pick it up and unfold it. My eyes go straight to the number at the bottom.
I read it twice to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.
It’s more money than I’ve made in the past three years combined. It would be enough for Ella’s college fund. For a down payment on this cottage—which I know is available for sale, but that I’m tens of thousands away from getting together. It would be enough for real security.
“That’s for six months of work,” he says. “We’d provide accommodation, food, all expenses. You’d just need to—”
“I can’t,” I say, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to reconsider. “I have a daughter. She’s fourteen months old. I can’t just leave her for six months.”
He blinks, surprise flashing across her face. “Oh. You can’t leave her with your husband?”
I stare at him. Did he seriously just say that?
“I don’t have a husband,” I say slowly, doing my best to not get offended. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t leave my young child for six months. Not for anything in the world.”
From the blank expression on his face, I can tell he doesn’t have children. Or at least I hope he doesn’t, because God save any kids born to a man who thinks it’s perfectly suitable to leave them behind for half a year.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Bring her with you.” He says it like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
I blink. “What?”
“Bring your daughter. And whoever watches her. I’ll cover their expenses too. Accommodation, food, travel. Whatever you need.”
“You want me to bring a baby—who will soon be a toddler and walking everywhere—to an archaeological dig site in the desert?”
“I want you on this project,” he says firmly. “And if that means accommodating a child, then that’s what we’ll do.”
I stare at him, searching for the catch. Men like this don’t make concessions. They don’t bend their plans around other people’s needs.
“Why?” I finally ask. “Why me specifically? Why not just hire someone else?”
“Because everyone else is second-best,” he says simply. “And I don’t accept second-best. Not for this.”
I look down at the paper in my hands, at the number that could change everything for me and Ella. Then I look out the window at the beach, at the life I’ve built here. Simple. Safe. Good.
But lonely.
And if I’m being honest with myself, a little bit boring.
Henry’s face flashes in my mind. The excitement in his eyes when he talked about Jumayah. The theories he never got to test.
Through the window, I can see the waves rolling in, steady and unchanging. Like me. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m ready for something to change.
“Okay,” I say, before I can second-guess myself any more. “I’ll take it.”
A grin stretches his face. “You won’t regret it.”
Here’s hoping those won’t be famous last words.