My father’s dismissive laughter still echoes in my ears. The way he called my grandmother’s stories nonsense. The way he reduced everything I care about to a “distraction.”
I can’t wait any longer. I’ve been patient, sent emails, made inquiries through proper channels. But this project—this connection to my grandmother, to something that actually matters—it’s slipping through my fingers while I play by the rules.
I pick up my phone again and pull up my calendar, scanning through the next few days. Then I grab my phone once more, my finger reflexively finding the contact at the top.
“Ollie,” I say into the phone, before he can get a peep out. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week.”
“The rest of the week? Calvin, you have?—”
“I don’t care what I have. Clear it. Delegate it. Cancel it. Whatever needs to happen.”
There’s a pause. “What are you going to do?”
I stare at Georgia Halford’s contact information on my screen, at the map of Jumayah spread across my desk.
“Whatever it takes,” I say. “I’m moving this project forward. Now.”
After I hang up, I sit there for another moment, feeling something I haven’t felt in years. It’s not the methodical certainty I usually operate with. It’s not the cold calculation my father instilled in me.
It’s excitement. Real, burning excitement.
The kind felt by a man who is beginning to feel alive again.
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.
