Chapter 4
CALVIN
The heat hits me the moment we step off the plane.
It’s not oppressive yet—we’ve landed in the early evening—but there’s a quality to it that’s different from New York summers. Dry. Ancient. Like the air itself has been here for thousands of years, unchanged and unchanging.
I pause at the top of the stairs, looking out over Jumayah City.
The airport is modern, all glass and steel, but beyond it I can see the sprawl of the city: white and sand-colored buildings climbing up gentle hills, minarets rising like fingers pointing to heaven, the last rays of sunlight turning everything gold and rose.
In the distance, barely visible through the haze, are the mountains my grandmother used to describe.
My chest tightens.
I’m here, Grandma. I finally made it.
“Mr. Aarons?” Ollie’s voice crackles through my phone. I called him the moment we landed. “Everything go smoothly?”
“Yes. We just arrived.” I start down the stairs, my team following behind me. “Have you confirmed the hotel arrangements?”
“All set. Three suites, fully stocked. The rest of the team arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Email me their details again. I want to review everyone’s credentials before the meeting.”
“Already in your inbox. Anything else?”
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking back.
Georgia is carrying Ella, who’s awake now and looking around with wide, curious eyes.
Lois is right behind them, moving carefully down the steps.
Georgia’s hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and there are wrinkles in her linen shirt from the flight.
She looks tired but alert, taking in the surroundings with what’s undoubtedly excitement.
I remember the way she lit up in her house when I mentioned Jumayah. How she looked like a spark had been ignited in her soul. It made me want to know more about what draws her to this land, about why she became involved in this work in the first place.
But all of that’s inconsequential. She’s here to do a job, and I’m not going to distract her from it with small talk.
“No, that’s everything. Thanks, Ollie.”
I hang up as they reach the tarmac.
“Welcome to Jumayah,” I say, gesturing toward the terminal. “We’ll go through customs, then we have a car waiting.”
Georgia adjusts Ella on her hip. “It’s beautiful.”
There’s genuine wonder in her voice, and something about it eases the tension in my shoulders. At least she appreciates this place. At least she understands why this matters.
Customs is smooth. Money talks, even here, and I’ve made sure we’re expected. Within thirty minutes, we’re in a hired SUV, our luggage secured, pulling away from the airport and into the city proper, me seated next to the driver, and Lois, Georgia, and the baby in the back.
The driver, a man named Rashid, navigates the evening traffic with practiced ease. Cars honk constantly—not angry, just communicative, a language unto itself. Motorcycles weave between lanes. A donkey cart trundles along the shoulder, its owner unbothered by the modern chaos around him.
We pass through a commercial district first, driving by storefronts with Arabic signage, cafés with outdoor seating where men play backgammon, women in colorful hijabs bargaining with street vendors.
The smell of grilling meat and spices wafts through the open windows, and despite my jet lag, I feel invigorated.
Ella makes a happy sound, bouncing in Georgia’s lap.
“Look, baby, look at all the colors!” Georgia points out the window at a fabric shop, bolts of brilliant cloth stacked floor to ceiling.
I find myself watching her in the rearview mirror. The way her face lights up when she explains things to Ella. The enthusiasm in her voice. She’s a good mother, I think. Her love for her daughter reminds me of my grandmother, the closest thing I ever had to a mother.
The golden light catches in her hair, and I notice for the first time that it’s not just brown; there are auburn and honey tones threaded through it too. The wind through the window whips loose strands around her face, and she laughs, pushing them back.
She’s… lovely.
I snap my attention back to the road, jaw tightening.
No. Absolutely not.
I don’t mix business and pleasure. Ever. It’s a rule I’ve maintained for years, and it’s served me well. Relationships are complicated enough without adding professional entanglements. And this project is too important to risk with personal drama.
Georgia Halford is my employee. Nothing more.
“Mr. Aarons, you know this area?” Rashid asks in accented English, gesturing to our left.
I look and feel my breath catch.
The old market. The souk.
It’s exactly as my grandmother described it—narrow streets branching off the main road, buildings leaning close together creating shadows and secrets, strings of lights that will glow bright later tonight.
I can see displays of brass lamps, pyramids of spices in jewel tones, vendors calling out their wares.
“My grandmother grew up near here,” I hear myself say. “She used to go to this market with her mother. She said you could buy anything in the world if you knew who to ask.”
“Ah, yes! This souk, very old. Many generations. Your grandmother had good taste. This is the best market in the city.” Rashid beams at me.
I stare out the window as we pass, trying to superimpose my grandmother’s stories onto the reality in front of me. She would have walked these streets. Touched these walls. Breathed this air.
She died three years ago, and the grief still sneaks up on me at unexpected moments. Like now, when I’m finally here in the place she always talked about with such longing, and she’s not here to see it.
I wish you were here, Grandma.
She was the one who came to my school plays, who taught me to cook, who told me stories and listened to mine. She never treated me like an investment or a disappointment. She just… loved me.
She was my mother’s mother, carrying on that love in my mother’s absence.
And she would have been so excited about this project.
The memory of my father’s dismissive words burns fresh. Your grandmother’s nonsense. Fairy tales.
My hands curl into fists on my thighs.
This isn’t nonsense. This is her history. Her heritage. And I’m going to prove that it matters. I’m going to uncover something real and significant, something that shows her stories weren’t just fantasy.
I have to.
Not just to prove my father wrong, though that’s part of it. But to honor her. To make her proud, wherever she is.
We pass out of the commercial district and into older neighborhoods. The buildings here are more traditional, with wooden balconies and doorways that lead to courtyards. Laundry hangs from lines strung between windows. Children play soccer in the street, scattering reluctantly when Rashid honks.
“It’s so alive,” Georgia says softly. “The whole city just… pulses.”
She’s right again. There’s an energy here that New York doesn’t have. It’s not the frantic rush of American capitalism. It’s something older. More grounded. Like the city knows it’s been here for millennia and will be here for millennia more, so why rush?
“You’ve studied this region extensively,” I say, half-turning toward her. “But you’ve never been here before?”
“No. I’ve worked in Egypt, Jordan, Syria before the war. But never Jumayah. It was always on my list, but…” She shrugs. “Life happened.”
“And now you’re here.”
“And now I’m here.” She smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “My mentor would have loved this. Henry spent years trying to get funding for an expedition to this region. He died before it happened.”
“I read his work. It was brilliant.”
“He was brilliant.” She looks back out the window. “I hope I can prove his theories right. For him.”
So, we’re both here for ghosts.
The thought should make me uncomfortable, but instead it feels like understanding. Like maybe she gets why this matters in a way that my board members and certainly my father never could.
“Here we are!” Rashid announces, pulling up to a modern hotel. It’s one of the best in the city; I made sure of that. “Jumayah Grand Hotel. Very nice, yes?”
“Yes, thank you, Rashid.”
We unload the luggage, and I handle check-in while Georgia and Lois try to keep Ella from climbing on the lobby furniture.
The little girl is energetic after being confined on the plane, ready to explore everything.
It’s taking both women to keep her entertained, and I can feel my lips pulling into a frown.
Perhaps we should have brought two nannies for Ella. I can’t afford to have my head archaeologist distracted.
“We have three suites on the top floor, as requested,” the desk clerk says in perfect English, handing me key cards. “The other members of your party have not yet arrived.”
“They’re coming tomorrow morning,” I confirm. “Thank you.”
I turn to find Georgia wrestling Ella away from a decorative fountain.
“Ella, no. We don’t touch. We just look.”
Ella grunts with insistence, reaching for the water with determined little hands.
“Here.” I hand Georgia two key cards. “You and Lois are in adjoining suites. I’m across the hall. We’ll meet in the restaurant in an hour for dinner?”
Georgia looks up at me, and I notice the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. I hadn’t noticed before, or maybe I deliberately didn’t let myself notice. They’re warm, intelligent, striking.
“An hour sounds good,” she says. “That’ll give me time to get her settled.”
“Right. Good.” I step back, creating distance. “I’ll see you then.”
I head to my suite and don’t look back, even though some part of me wants to.
Once inside, I drop my bag and walk straight to the window. My room overlooks the city, and I can see lights beginning to bloom across the landscape as evening deepens. South of here, beyond the buildings and the bustle, is the desert. The dig site. The answers I’m looking for.
Please let this work, I think, though I’m not sure who I’m asking. Please let there be something there.
I think of my father’s dismissive laugh. My grandmother’s stories. The weight of expectation and hope and fear all tangled together in my chest.
This has to work.
I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t.