Chapter 14
GEORGIA
I’m exhausted as I trudge back from the excavation site, my clothes stiff with dried sweat and dust, my back aching from hours of crouching. But it’s a good exhaustion. The kind that comes from productive work.
We found more pottery today. More evidence that Henry was right. That this place was sacred, significant, exactly what he theorized.
I can’t wait to tell Ella about it someday, when she’s old enough to understand. Your mama helped prove something important. Your mama did work that mattered. And you were there, too.
I’m so lost in these thoughts that I almost don’t notice Calvin and Ella, sitting on the ground near our tent.
Slowing my pace, I stay where I am. They haven’t noticed me; they’re so absorbed in what they’re doing.
Calvin is crouched down at Ella’s level, a tin cup in his hand, showing her how to pack sand into it and turn it over to make a shape.
His voice carries in the evening quiet, soft and patient. “See? You press it down like this. Then flip it over. Ready? One, two, three, flip!” He demonstrates, and a small sand tower appears.
Ella claps her hands in delight. “Gain! Gain!” she demands.
“Again? Okay, but this time you try.”
He hands her the cup, and she immediately dumps sand everywhere, laughing. Instead of getting frustrated, Calvin just chuckles—this man who’s been wound tight as a spring since we arrived—and helps her try again.
“That’s it. Pack it in. Good. Now flip—wait, wait, let me help.”
Together, they create another sand tower, and Ella’s shriek of joy makes my chest tight.
This is Calvin. The same man who couldn’t stand Ella’s crying on the plane. Who looked at her like she was an inconvenience to be tolerated. Who snapped at me just this week about babysitting duties. And now here he is, watching Ella for the second day in a row.
And no one asked him. No one coerced him into it.
What’s strangest is that right now, sitting in the sand with my daughter, he looks…
peaceful. Relaxed. Almost happy. His hair is falling across his forehead, mussed from the desert wind.
His shirt is rumpled, untucked. There’s sand on his expensive pants, and he doesn’t seem to care.
All his usual rigid control has melted away, leaving someone I barely recognize.
Someone I might actually like.
It’s a thought that sneaks up on me, unwelcome and complicated. I’m not sure if I can trust it or not. I don’t let people in easily, not after what I’ve been through, and though I know that people can change, I’m not even sure what it would take for me to fully trust Calvin.
I watch as Ella pats Calvin’s cheek with a sandy hand, saying something that sounds like “Cav-cav,” and Calvin just smiles, brushing sand from his face without complaint.
My heart does something strange. A twist and a flutter that I absolutely cannot afford to feel. Because this—this image of Calvin, patient and gentle with my daughter—it hits a place I’ve been carefully guarding.
I’ve been at peace since Mike left. Truly at peace. Better to be alone than with someone who resents you and your child. Better to handle everything yourself than to constantly be disappointed by someone who should care but doesn’t.
I don’t need a man. I don’t need a partner. Ella and I are fine on our own.
But watching Calvin make sandcastles with her, seeing him teach her with such care, hearing him laugh at her antics…
I’d be lying if I said I never wondered what it would be like.
To have someone to share this with. To have another person who sees Ella’s brilliance and delights in her discoveries.
To not be the only one responsible for every moment of her life, along with mine.
To have a family instead of just… us.
The longing rises up, sudden and sharp and utterly unwelcome, and I push it firmly down. Calvin is my boss. He’s uptight and controlling, and we’ve argued more in two weeks than I’ve argued with anyone in years. The fact that he’s being kind to Ella right now doesn’t change any of that.
And even if it did, even if there was something there, some possibility, I’m not interested. My picker is broken. I chose Mike, for goodness’ sake, and that was a disaster. I can’t trust myself to choose better.
I’m safer alone.
“Mama!” Ella spots me and waves enthusiastically. “Mama, dat!”
I paste on a smile and walk over. “I see! That’s beautiful, baby girl.”
Calvin stands, brushing sand from his pants. “We’ve been practicing architecture.”
Practicing architecture? I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don’t laugh at his word choice. Why can’t he just say they’ve been playing? But that idiosyncrasy, his always having to make things productive, that once annoyed the hell out of me? It’s starting to be more entertaining.
“I can see that.” I crouch beside Ella, admiring the lumpy sand structures. “Very impressive work, both of you.”
“She’s got good spatial reasoning,” Calvin says. “Better than you’d expect at this age.”
“She gets it from her mother,” I say without thinking. “I was building elaborate block structures before I could talk in full sentences, apparently.”
“That tracks.” There’s something in his voice—warmth, maybe even fondness—that makes me glance up at him.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, something passes between us. Recognition. Understanding. A connection I absolutely should not be feeling.
I look away first, focusing on Ella. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up for dinner.” Not looking at Calvin, I scoop her up and head for our tent. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear I feel his gaze on me the whole way there.
Dinner that evening has a different energy than usual. Maybe it’s because we’re making real progress on the site. Or because everyone has settled into the rhythm of camp life. Maybe it’s just that we’ve all been here long enough to stop being polite strangers and start being something like friends.
Whatever the reason, the meal is lively.
Khalid tells stories about growing up in Jumayah City, and they’re so funny that Dr. Akkhad nearly chokes on her water.
Edmond and Tariq get into a friendly debate that has everyone chiming in with opinions.
Fatima’s food is particularly excellent tonight, some kind of spiced lamb that melts in your mouth.
Things feel… the closest to perfect that I can ever remember them being.
Even Calvin participates, offering dry comments that are funny instead of cutting. When Yasmin teases him about his sandcastle architecture skills, he takes it with good humor instead of getting defensive.
“I’m still working on my technique,” he says. “Apparently toddlers are harsh critics.”
“The harshest,” I agree, and when our eyes meet across the table, we both smile.
It feels… nice. Normal. Like maybe we’ve turned a corner.
Ella is being remarkably well-behaved, contentedly munching on the rice and vegetables I’ve mashed up for her. She’s sitting in someone’s lap—they keep passing her around, everyone wanting a turn with the camp mascot.
Currently she’s with Khalid, who’s teaching her Arabic words.
“Qamar,” he says, pointing up at the rising moon. “Moon. Can you say qamar?”
“Mah!” Ella attempts.
“Close! Qamar.”
“Qamar!” she finally gets out, and the whole table erupts in applause.
My heart is so full it might burst. This team, these people, this moment, it’s everything I didn’t know I needed.
After dinner, someone produces a ball from somewhere and Ella is immediately fascinated. She toddles after it as it rolls across the sand near the tent, giggling every time she catches up to it.
“I’ve got her,” I tell Lois—wait, no, Lois isn’t here.
I keep forgetting. It’s been nearly two weeks and I still expect to see her.
I know she’s doing well in the city. I’ve received a couple of emails from her about the hotel she’s recuperating in, and how she is spending her days knitting in bed and flirting with the hotel manager.
She’ll head back to Maine soon. The reality of her not returning to the camp freaked me out at first, but not anymore.
Because things are working out here. Everyone is chipping in with Ella, and Calvin especially has been more of a help than I could have ever predicted.
Since Ella is distracted with the ball, I start clearing the table, helping Fatima collect dishes. The conversation continues around us, easy and warm. In the tent opening, I can see Ella banging the ball against the canvas flap.
“Dr. Halford, you don’t need to help,” Fatima protests. “You’ve been working all day.”
“So have you. Many hands make light work, as my grandmother used to say.”
We stack dishes and scrape plates, and I’m so absorbed in the task, and Fatima is telling me about her grandchildren, that I don’t notice right away.
The silence.
Ella isn’t shouting or talking to herself anymore.
I turn around, plates still in my hands, and look toward where I last saw her. The ball is there, sitting in the sand near the tent entrance. But Ella is not.
My stomach jumps into my throat, but I remind myself that this is normal. Toddlers move around, and she has to be just right past the tent flaps.
“Ella?” I set the plates down, walking quickly to the entrance. “Ella, where are you?”
No response. I step outside the tent. The camp is settling into evening, long shadows stretching across the sand. The sun is low on the horizon, painting everything gold and orange. And Ella is nowhere in sight.
“Ella!” My voice is sharper now, panic creeping in. “Ella, answer Mama!”
Still nothing.
My heart starts racing. The desert. She’s in the desert. Alone. A fourteen-month-old in an environment with a dozen ways to get hurt—sharp rocks, equipment, the excavation site with its open pits…
“She was just here,” I say, my voice rising. “She was just right here. I only looked away for a minute!”
“Georgia.” Calvin appears beside me, and his voice is calm. Steady. “When did you last see her?”
“A minute ago. Less. She was in the entrance…”