A man ran up to their landing spot, waving his arms wildly, screaming at the helicopter. Leila couldn’t understand a word, but it probably had something to do with the miniature dust storm the helicopter created. The man’s hat flew off and he was left with only his aviator sunglasses to protect his face from the onslaught of sand.
Soliman, the excavation leader, threw the door open and jumped out, pausing at the door to help the others exit. The blades began to slow and the machine growled into silence.
Leila hopped down and, even though there were four-and-a-half feet between the top of her head and the blades, hunched her back and hurried away from the rotorcraft, dark strands of hair whipping around her face. Once a safe distance, she straightened. A pungent diesel-like odor lingered in her nostrils as she took in her first ground-view look of Saqqara through a yellowish haze. Workers had already begun to remove tarps from the trenches, thrown down in haste at the helicopter’s approach. A group of a dozen tourists in sunhats and hiking gear gathered at the foot of the Djoser, pointing at its six colossal steps.
At the sound of yelling behind her, she wheeled around as their greeter descended on the pilot.
“You daft?” The British man’s shirt was covered in a light coating of sand and dirt. “D’you think this looks like a blasted airport? You could have warned us! Even a ten-minute warning? No? Well, now you’ll have fun digging everything back up.” He spread his arms for emphasis.
Leila narrowed her eyes. Something about him seemed familiar. Did they once have classes together? Sit next to each other on a plane? Emma and Karl joined her to watch the spectacle, exchanging bewildered glances.
“Where’s the popcorn when you need it?” Emma whispered.
“I would have landed farther out, but there weren’t any opportunities,” the pilot argued, ripping off his headset. He gestured with them toward the helicopter, his face showing anything but amusement at the man’s outburst. “I had to choose the flattest spot.”
Leila stole another glance at the area. The light covering of dust wasn’t as awful as the British guy made it sound. An actual sandstorm would have been worse.
“I want that hideous thing gone,” the Englishman demanded.
The excavation leader approached him. “Sabahu al-khair, Harrison,” he said in greeting, wiping his spectacles on the front of his shirt. “That’s enough.”
The man rounded on him then came to a stop. “Oh. Professor,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair. “It’s you. I thought you were coming by bus?”
“We got a more adventurous offer,” Soliman explained, patting his forehead with a folded handkerchief before slipping his glasses back on. He smiled warmly, close-lipped. “Let me introduce the final installment to our team. Emma Giovanni, Karl Tillmann, Leila Sterling”—he sighed and gestured to the pilot, who still glowered at the grumpy archaeologist—“and Neal Coleman, our all-purpose sponsor, whom you have already so kindly welcomed.”
Soliman faced the group and waved a hand at their new colleague. “And this is Alexander Harrison.”
“This guy is going to be so much fun to work with,” Karl muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
But Leila wasn’t listening. She couldn’t. It felt like someone had just punched her in the gut. Not Xander Harrison. Anybody but him. Memories flashed before her eyes, full of echoing laughter and suffocating cries.
Her stomach lurched as he greeted them, his mouth set in a straight line. To her horror, his gaze lingered in her direction with a slight twitch of his jaw.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
After eight years, his lanky, boyish frame had developed into a more mature, well-built physique. Under the dust, his brown hair was cut shorter than she remembered. And judging by the shadow over his rectangular jaw, he also hadn’t bothered to shave for at least a week. But he was definitely the same person. And the way his mouth had slightly dropped told her everything she needed to know. He remembered her too.
She swallowed. The dig was ruined.
“I see the mastabas are in phase,” Soliman said to Xander. “What do you have on site so far?”
“Right.” Xander immediately snapped out of the trance between them and whipped his head away from Leila. He clapped his hands once, sending a puff of dust into the air. “I’ll get to that. First, allow me to take you on the grand tour.”
This can’t be real. Someone tell me I’m dreaming.
Her mind continued to whirl, her legs refusing to follow after the group as it dispersed toward the excavation. A vision of running back to the helicopter, jumping in, and zooming off played in her head. Except she had no idea how to fly a helicopter. She was stuck.
Chapter Two
Leila was not going to cry. Sure, her lifelong dream had just turned into a nightmare and it felt like her insides were churning with scarab beetles trying to eat their way out of her abdominal wall, but she was not going to cry.
Lingering at the back of the group, she managed to stomach the tour of the excavation site. Except she could hardly pay attention and couldn’t tell anyone what she’d seen. When the tour was over, the newcomers were shown to the dig house, which was more like a dorm, where they settled into their rooms. Leila followed along in a daze.
Then the helicopter pilot—for the life of her, Leila couldn’t remember his name—invited the whole team out for dinner. Emma was the first to accept. Karl, Soliman, and Leila also agreed. Maybe food would help.
Most of the other members of the team already had plans for the evening, aside from a brother and sister duo, Hamza and Mariam, who happily joined them.
And, to Leila’s dismay, Xander.
Chin up, Dad would say. Leila repeated the affirmation as she remained in the back of the group as they arrived at a restaurant on the ground floor of a hotel. Desperate for a distraction from the rock in her stomach, she kept her gaze on their surroundings. The waiters wore white dress shirts and bow ties, carrying crisp, white towels draped over one arm. A man in a suit serenaded the guests at the ivory and ebony keys of a grand piano. White tablecloths covered tables decorated with a centerpiece of a clear crystal vase holding sweetly fragrant red hibiscus flowers.
The pilot seemed at home among the crystal chandeliers and wine glasses. He was the only one who put on a collared shirt. With deep lines on his forehead and flecks of gray in his brown hair at his temples, she guessed he was middle-aged or nearing it. A prominent dimple in the middle of his chin accentuated his square jaw.
“That’s Neal Coleman,” Emma whispered in Leila’s ear after she finally asked. “He’s the sponsor’s son. Apparently, his dad was planning to join us but couldn’t make it so he’s here instead.”
That explained a lot.
The maître d’ started to protest when the group entered the restaurant, casting a disapproving grimace at their attire.
Leila looked down at her floral sundress. It wasn’t that bad, was it?
Neal whispered something in the attendant’s ear, and Leila was certain Neal squeezed a wad of bills in the maître d’s hand. His frown disappeared and he led them to a reserved table outside on a veranda overlooking the Nile.
She spent a few moments too long watching a flock of black and white ibis elegantly glide over the river. By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late. Everyone had sat down. Only the empty chair between Karl and Xander remained.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Asking to switch with someone would be obvious. Acting like she was undaunted and resilient, however, would send a stronger message. With a deep breath, she lifted her chin and took the seat. Not wanting to appear at all concerned about this undesired arrangement, she sat in silence with her arms crossed, trying to concentrate on the conversation between Karl and Emma.
