Chapter 12
CALVIN
Iwake from the dream disoriented, my heart racing.
Georgia was laughing, her head thrown back, eyes bright with joy. We were walking on a beach somewhere. Somewhere tropical, warm. She was wearing a sundress that caught in the breeze, and when she turned to look at me, her smile was…
I sit up abruptly, scrubbing my hands over my face. Yikes.
It was just a dream. A meaningless dream brought on by stress and isolation and too much time in the desert sun. But my chest still feels tight with a longing I don’t want to examine.
At the same time, I know it doesn’t mean anything. Georgia is the only woman here remotely close to my age who isn’t married. Of course my subconscious would fixate on her. It’s basic biology: proximity plus limited options creating false attraction.
Not that I’m attracted to her. Obviously not. She’s infuriating. Defensive. Constantly distracted by her child. We argue more than we agree. She called me out in front of the entire team. Twice.
The fact that she’s also intelligent and passionate and…
fine, yes, objectively attractive even when exhausted and covered in sand and sweat, that’s irrelevant.
I don’t mix business and personal. I never have.
And I’m not about to start with an employee who’s already made working together complicated enough.
Throwing the blanket off, I check my watch. Nearly seven. Later than I usually wake, but I was up past midnight reviewing the topographical surveys after Georgia’s discovery. The mapping system. That was brilliant work, exactly the kind of insight I hired her for.
And today, we’ll redirect the excavation based on her findings. Today, we might actually find something significant.
The thought should excite me. Instead, I feel unsettled, like something is off-balance… Probably just the dream lingering in my consciousness.
I dress quickly and step outside. The camp is already active, with voices coming from the excavation site, the clatter of equipment, Fatima singing something in Arabic while she prepares breakfast.
At the work site, Georgia’s team is setting up in the new section she identified, twenty meters south of where we’ve been digging, marking out a fresh grid with methodical precision. Georgia is there, directing the placement of equipment, Ella’s playpen already set up in the shade nearby.
She looks tired. They all do. But there’s an energy to the work today that hasn’t been there before. Fresh purpose. New hope.
I should go down there. Observe. Ask questions.
But I remember what Edmond said. What Georgia herself has said multiple times.
I’m hovering. Micromanaging. Making everyone tense with my constant presence.
And yesterday, she proved she doesn’t need my supervision.
She made a breakthrough while I was busy being frustrated and demanding.
She did it by trusting her instincts, taking her time, following the evidence wherever it led.
Maybe I should let her work.
The thought is uncomfortable, like loosening my grip on something precious. But I force myself to walk past the excavation site toward the dining tent instead. Khalid is there, reviewing supply lists with Fatima.
“Good morning, Mr. Aarons. Coffee?”
“Please.”
I settle at a table with my laptop and satellite phone. The limited internet sucks, but it’s usually enough to check email and handle the most urgent business matters. The real estate conglomerate doesn’t stop just because I’m in the desert.
When I open my inbox, I find thirty-seven new emails. Not too many. I start working through them methodically. There are board minutes to review, acquisition proposals to read through. It’s the usual parade of decisions that can’t be made without my input.
When I’m almost through with the emails, I find one from my father, sent late last night New York time.
The subject line: “Enough.”
My jaw tightens as I open it.
Calvin,
I’ve been patient. I’ve let you indulge this fantasy of yours for long enough. But the board is asking questions. Our partners are concerned about your commitment. And frankly, so am I.
You’re out in the desert playing archaeologist while real business needs attention. Your responsibilities don’t disappear because you’ve decided to chase your grandmother’s fairy tales.
It’s time to come home. Hire someone to manage your little dig if you must, but your place is here, running the company you were raised to lead.
We’ll discuss this when you return. And Calvin? You will return. Soon.
Dad
I read it twice, my blood pressure rising with each word.
Playing archaeologist. Fairy tales. Little dig. Every phrase is calculated to dismiss, to diminish, to make me feel like a child who’s wandered off to screw around instead of doing his chores.
And the underlying message is clear: You don’t belong there. You belong here, doing what I trained you to do. Being who I made you to be.
Pressure builds between my eyebrows, and I try to ignore it, but it gets worse.
I shouldn’t let it get to me. I’m a grown man, a successful businessman in my own right. I don’t need his approval.
But that voice is in my head anyway, the one that’s been there since childhood: You’re disappointing me. You’re wasting your potential. You’re not good enough.
“Calvin?”
I look up sharply, and find Georgia at the entrance to the tent, looking hesitant.
“What?” It sounds more like a bark from a dog than anything else, and I cringe at the sound of it.
She blinks, clearly taken aback. “I just… have you seen Ella’s sippy cup? The blue one? She usually has it in the playpen but I can’t find it, and she’s getting fussy.”
“Why would I have seen it?” I snap. “Do I look like I’m keeping track of your daughter’s things?”
Her expression shifts from hesitant to angry in an instant. “I was just asking if you’d seen it, not accusing you of taking it. Jesus, Calvin.”
“I’m busy. I have actual work to do, not just babysitting duties.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far.
Georgia’s face flushes. “Right. Because taking care of a child isn’t actual work. Good to know where you stand.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Save it.” She turns and walks away, her spine rigid with fury.
I sit there, staring at my closed laptop, self-loathing settling in my gut. That was completely uncalled-for. She asked a simple question, and I bit her head off.
Because of an email from my father.
Because of my own insecurity and frustration and the constant feeling that I’m failing at everything I try to do. Blowing out a breath, I push my fingers through my hair and lean back in my chair.
“Rough morning?” Khalid asks quietly from across the tent.
“You could say that.”
“Might want to apologize to Dr. Halford. She looked pretty upset.”
“I know.” I drag my hands through my hair. “I know.”
But I don’t immediately get up to apologize. Instead, I sit here, letting the guilt and anger and frustration swirl together into a toxic mess.
This is a pattern. I see it clearly now, sitting in this tent in the middle of nowhere with nothing to distract me from the truth. When I feel attacked—by my father, by circumstances, by my own inadequacy—I lash out. And usually at the people who least deserve it.
I did it to Georgia during the sandstorm. Did it at the dinner our first night. Did it yesterday when I questioned her methods right before she made a breakthrough.
And now I’ve done it again.
She’s doing extraordinary work under really tough circumstances. Managing an excavation while caring for a toddler alone, dealing with my constant criticism and hovering, proving her theories right through careful analysis and expertise.
And I just threw “babysitting duties” in her face like it’s beneath me. Like her life is an inconvenience to my project.
I’m being exactly like my father. Dismissive. Controlling. Unable to see value in anything that doesn’t fit my narrow definition of important work. The realization makes me feel sick.
Through the tent opening, I can see the excavation site. Georgia is back at work, but even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders. Yasmin says something and Georgia nods, but there’s none of her usual animated enthusiasm.
I did that. I took her excitement about the day’s work and turned it sour.
Ella starts crying with that distinctive wail that I’ve come to notice means she’s more than fussy or irritated.
She’s either tired and needs to nap, or she has a wet diaper.
Georgia immediately abandons what she’s doing and heads to the playpen.
It’s not lost on me that there’s no sippy cup in her hand. It still hasn’t been found.
I stand up, leaving my laptop on the table, and head to my tent. I know I saw a blue sippy cup yesterday. Ella dropped it near the dining area and I picked it up, meaning to return it but then getting distracted. It’s probably still on my desk where I set it.
Sure enough, there it is.
Snorting, I grab it and shake my head. Turns out the missing sippy cup was my fault after all. Clutching it, I walk toward the excavation site. Georgia has Ella on her hip, bouncing her and trying to soothe her while simultaneously giving instructions to Omar about grid placement.
“Georgia.”
She turns, sees me, and her expression shutters. “What now?”
I hold up the sippy cup. “I did see it. Yesterday. Meant to return it but forgot. I’m sorry.”
She takes it without comment, immediately offering it to Ella, who grabs it with both hands and starts drinking, her crying subsiding almost instantly. I’m not sure what it is about that particular sippy cup, but for whatever reason, neither the red one or the pink one seem to cut it.
“And I’m sorry,” I continue, “for snapping at you. You didn’t deserve that. You were just asking a question.”
Georgia adjusts Ella on her hip, not quite meeting my eyes. “Rough morning?”
“My father emailed. It… put me in a mood. But that’s not an excuse to take it out on you.”
“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at me directly. “Calvin, I get that this project is stressful. I get that you have a lot riding on it. But I’m doing my best here. We all are. And if you can’t treat us with basic respect—”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” I force myself to say the words I need to say, even though vulnerability doesn’t come naturally. “I keep letting my own issues bleed into how I treat the team. It’s not fair, and it’s not professional, and I’m going to work on it.”
She studies me for a long moment, looking surprised. Meanwhile, between us, Ella contentedly slurps her water.
“Okay,” Georgia finally says. “I appreciate that.”
We stand awkwardly, both aware that the rest of the team is pretending not to watch this exchange.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I say. “And I’ll stay out of your way today. Let you lead without me hovering.”
“That would be appreciated.” She pauses. “But Calvin? If you need to talk about whatever’s in that email… I mean, I know we’re not exactly friends, but desert life gets lonely. Sometimes it helps to vent.”
The offer surprises me. After the way I’ve treated her, she’s still extending kindness. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I walk back to the dining tent, feeling marginally better but still unsettled.
My father wants me to come home. To abandon this project and return to being the son he designed me to be.
And part of me, the part that’s been conditioned since childhood to seek his approval, wants to comply.
To prove I can be the businessman he wants, the heir he groomed.
It would be the easier move, the move that I’ve made plenty of times in my life.
But a larger part, one that’s been growing stronger since I bought this site, since I hired Georgia, since I first stood on this sand—that part refuses.
This matters. This project, this search for my grandmother’s history, this attempt to honor her memory and understand where I come from—it matters more than perhaps anything else in my life. I just need to stop sabotaging it with my own fears and inadequacies.
I need to be better. Do better. Starting with treating Georgia and the team with the respect they deserve.
I’ve learned how not to do things from my father. Now I have to figure out how to do things… And it already feels like the hardest task I’ve ever come up against.