I’m breathing hard, my hand shaking around the phone.
My father is silent.
“Calvin—”
“I have to go.”
I hang up before he can respond. I look at my laptop screen, at the unsent email, at the photos of Georgia working with such passion and purpose. And I close it all.
I lied to my father about finishing this project. I won’t be finishing it, because none of it matters without her.
CHAPTER 25
GEORGIA
It’s been one month since I left Jumayah, and I still wake up expecting to hear the desert wind against canvas, the distant sounds of the excavation team preparing for the day’s work.
Instead, I hear the ocean. The familiar crash of waves against the Maine shore. The sound that’s supposed to mean home. It’s strange, though, how quickly another place, another land came to feel like my home. This cottage now just feels like a spot I’m staying in, a hotel I can’t quite get comfortable at.
“Mama! Mama up!”
And there’s Ella, my alarm clock, standing in her crib with her hair sticking up in every direction.
“Good morning, baby girl.” I lift her out, breathing in her sleep-warm smell. “Let’s get you changed and make some breakfast.”
The cottage is chilly this morning. Autumn in Maine means layers and hot tea and the heat clicking on in the early hours. I get Ella dressed in warm clothes and carry her to the kitchen.
I’ve started taking consulting work again. Three clients this week, all remote. Back to the kind of work I can do from my couch in sweatpants while Ella is either at Lois’s or taking a nap. It’s fine. It pays the bills. It uses my expertise.
It’s also mind-numbingly boring compared to being in the field.
I push that thought away and focus on breakfast. Setting Ella in her high chair, I give her some dry cereal to keep her occupied while I cook. As the oatmeal bubbles on the stove, I find myself reaching for my phone. It’s become a routine. A compulsion. Every morning while I cook, I check.
I pull up the browser and type what I’ve typed every day for the past month: “Jumayah excavation lovers’ tomb.”
Nothing new.
“Calvin Aarons archaeological discovery.”
Still nothing.
“Ancient burial chamber Jumayah announcement.”
The same results as yesterday. And the day before. And every day since I got home.
No announcements. No press releases. No headlines about the discovery Calvin was so desperate to share with the world.
Why?It doesn’t make sense. He was adamant about immediate publicity. About proving his grandmother’s stories were real. About showing his father he was right. So, why, weeks after we found the tomb, is there still complete silence?
Maybe he did hire another archaeologist and they’re still working on preliminary documentation. Maybe he realizedthe announcement would be more impactful with complete findings.
The lid on the saucepan starts to bang violently, and I realize the oatmeal is threatening to boil over.
“Mama got distracted,” I mutter, more to myself than Ella. “I should be paying attention while I’m cooking, not being on my phone.”
I turn down the heat and put my phone away. It doesn’t matter why Calvin hasn’t made his announcements. I’m not part of that project anymore. What he does or doesn’t do is none of my business.
“Here we go,” I say in a sing-song voice. “Breakfast is served.”
