But then I remember Mike and the wondering stops.
No husband is better than a deadbeat one. That’s what I tell myself, and it’s true. Mike made it clear from the moment I told him I was pregnant that he had no interest in being a father. He signed away his rights before Ella was even born, and honestly? It was a relief. Better to do this alone than to spend years resenting someone who was only half present.
Still. Sometimes I’m lonely.
“Done!” Ella declares, throwing her spoon on the floor.
“All done,” I agree, wiping her face and hands with a damp cloth. “Let’s go see Miss Lois, okay?”
Ella’s face lights up. “Lo!”
I bundle us both into jackets and carry Ella next door. Lois’s cottage is nearly identical to mine, though she’s lived here for forty years and it shows. Her garden is immaculate even in early spring, with the first crocuses poking through the soil. Wind chimes made of sea glass tinkle on her porch.
She opens the door before I can knock, the smell of bacon and eggs and her mini poodle Mocha both spilling out the door behind her.
“There’s my girl!” She reaches for Ella, who lunges into her arms happily.
Lois is seventy-three, spry as anything, and has more energy thanIdo most days. When I moved here eleven months ago, desperate for a fresh start, finding her next door felt like fate. She’d been a teacher before retirement, and is now widowed with her kids all grown. She missed having children around and literally cried when she saw me and Ella moving in. Having her as Ella’s babysitter works perfectly for both of us.
“Morning, Lois. I should only be a few hours today. I have one client call at ten.”
“Take your time, dear. We’re going to make cookies today, aren’t we, Ella?”
“Yes!” Ella agrees enthusiastically, though I’m sure she doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to.
I kiss my daughter’s soft cheek, breathing in her baby-shampoo smell. “Be good for Miss Lois.”
“She’s always good. Now go on, get your work done. We’ll be just fine.”
Back at the cottage, I make myself a proper cup of coffee with the good beans from the local roastery in town and settle at my laptop on the living-room couch. I’ve positioned it so I can see the ocean while I work, and on days when consulting feels particularly dry, that view is the only thing that keeps me sane.
Remote consulting. It sounds impressive, but mostly it means I answer emails from universities and museums asking about artifact authentications or excavation protocols. It’s steady income, and I can do it in my pajamas, which is about all I can ask for at this stage of my life.
I open my inbox, expecting to see the usual emails circling back and checking in, but at the top of the line is another email from Calvin Aarons.
That makes five this week.
Sighing, I click it open.
Dr. Halford,
I hope this message finds you well. I’m writing once more regarding the excavation opportunity in the Middle East. I understand you’re currently taking time away from fieldwork, but I believe this project would be uniquely suited to your expertise…
I skim the rest. It’s professional, polite, and persistent as hell. He and his assistants have been emailing me for three weeks now, each message slightly more urgent than the last. Always professional, though. No pressure, just… persistence.
I should admire that, probably. Instead, it irritates me.
I’ve looked Calvin Aarons up, and I know his type. Wealthy, used to getting what he wants, probably never been told no in his life. He thinks if he just asks enough times, eventually I’ll cave.
Well, he’s wrong.
I start typing my response, fingers moving quickly over the keys.
Mr. Aarons,
Thank you for your continued interest. I’m not currently available for fieldwork. I wish you the best with your project and suggest reaching out to?—
A knock at the door interrupts me.
