The Bones of Bitter Harbor - Chapter 2: First Day

The crew arrived at eight the next morning, which in Maren's experience meant they were serious about the work. Contractors who showed up on time were contractors who wanted the job done right.

She met them on the front porch, coffee in hand from the inn's surprisingly good kitchen, and watched as a battered Ford pickup and a newer Subaru pulled up the drive. Two people emerged—a man in his fifties with the weathered look of someone who had spent his life working outdoors, and a woman closer to Maren's age with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.

"Pete Callahan." The man extended a calloused hand. His grip was firm, his eyes assessing. "I've been doing restoration work in this area for thirty years. Historical society said you needed someone who understood old houses."

"Maren Ashford. And yes, I need exactly that."

"This is Maria Santos." Pete nodded toward the woman. "Best project coordinator in the state. She'll keep us on schedule and under budget, or as close to it as a job like this allows."

Maria's handshake was equally firm. "I've reviewed the preliminary assessments. This is going to be a challenge."

"That's one word for it." Maren turned toward the house. "Shall we?"

They spent the morning doing what Maren did best—reading the bones of the building. She led them through every accessible room, pointing out structural concerns, documenting damage, identifying what could be saved and what would need to be replaced. Pete proved as knowledgeable as advertised, catching details even she might have missed. Maria took meticulous notes, photographing everything with a professional camera that looked more expensive than Maren's car.

By noon, they had covered the first two floors and established that the third floor was, as Doris had warned, genuinely unsafe. The main staircase was sound, but the servants' stairs at the back of the house had rotted through in several places, and the tower rooms showed signs of serious structural compromise.

"We'll need to shore those up before anyone goes near them," Pete said, frowning at his notes. "That's going to add time we probably don't have in the budget."

"The historical society's primary concern is the main structure," Maren said. "The tower rooms are secondary. We stabilize them to prevent further damage, but full restoration can wait for phase two funding."

"If there is phase two funding."

"There will be." She said it with more confidence than she felt. "This house is too important to let fall."

They broke for lunch—sandwiches from town that Maria had brought, eaten on the back porch overlooking the ruined garden. The day had dawned clear and cold, and Maren could see the full extent of the property in daylight. The rose garden looked less ominous than it had at dusk, but no less impenetrable.

"That's going to have to go," Pete said, following her gaze. "Foundation work on this side of the house, we'll need access. Can't do it with thirty years of wild roses in the way."

"How wild are we talking?"

"The Cairns stopped maintaining the grounds in the early nineties, far as anyone knows. Last time anyone lived here full-time was probably... ninety-three? Ninety-four? After the old judge's wife died, he moved into the family house in town. Just let this place sit."

Maren filed that information away. The calendar in the kitchen had been from 1993. "What happened to the judge?"

Something flickered across Pete's face—there and gone so fast she almost missed it. "Still alive, last I heard. Must be pushing eighty. Doesn't come out much these days."

"And the rest of the family?"

"There's a grandson. Nathaniel. State senator now, has ambitions for higher office." Pete's tone was carefully neutral. "He's the one who finally agreed to let the historical society take over the property. Tax write-off, I imagine."

"You don't sound like a fan."

Pete shrugged, suddenly very interested in his sandwich. "The Cairns have been running this town for a hundred years. Some folks appreciate that. Some don't."

Maren waited for more, but none came. She glanced at Maria, who had developed a sudden fascination with her phone.

The silence stretched.

"Well," Maren said finally, "I suppose we should talk about the garden. When can we start clearing it?"

The afternoon was spent on logistics—supply lists, timeline projections, permit requirements. Maine had specific regulations for historic properties, and Maren walked Pete and Maria through the documentation they would need. By the time they finished, the sun was already dropping toward the horizon, painting the ocean in shades of orange and pink.

"We can start real work Monday," Pete said as they walked to their vehicles. "I'll have a crew here—three guys, maybe four. We'll focus on the roof first, get this place watertight before winter really hits."

"And the garden?"

"I can have someone with an excavator here by Wednesday. Clear out the worst of it, see what we're working with for the foundation assessment."

Maren nodded. "I'll want to supervise that myself. Historic properties sometimes have... surprises underground. Old cisterns, root cellars, that kind of thing. I don't want anyone digging blind."

"Your call." Pete climbed into his truck, then paused with the door open. "Ms. Ashford? A word of advice?"

"Everyone seems to have those for me."

The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Small town. We're full of advice, whether you want it or not." The smile faded. "This house has history. Not all of it good. Some folks in town would rather it just fell into the ocean. Don't be surprised if you run into... resistance."

"What kind of resistance?"

"The kind that doesn't want outsiders digging around in things that happened a long time ago." He started the engine. "See you Monday."

He pulled away, leaving Maren standing in the dying light with more questions than she had started with.

She went back inside.

The house felt different now that she had spent a day learning its secrets—or some of them, at least. She wandered through rooms she had already documented, seeing them with fresh eyes. The library, with its ruined books and beautiful built-in shelving. The parlor, where someone had once entertained guests beneath a crystal chandelier now dulled with decades of dust. The kitchen, frozen in time.

She found herself in the conservatory again as darkness fell.

The garden was visible through the empty window frames, a dark mass against the deepening blue of twilight. Tomorrow she would begin the formal assessment. Wednesday, they would start clearing it. And then...

Maren pulled out her phone and scrolled through her preliminary photos until she found the ones she had taken of the garden. Something about the layout bothered her. She had studied enough historic properties to recognize design patterns, and this garden didn't quite match the rest of the house.

The formal beds were Victorian, consistent with the 1890s construction. But the rose garden at the center was different. The layout suggested a later addition—1920s, maybe, or even later. The arbor she had seen buried in the growth was Arts and Crafts style, not Victorian. Someone had modified the original design.

She made a note to check the property records. Historic preservation was as much about research as construction, and this inconsistency nagged at her the way inconsistencies always did.

Her phone buzzed—a text from Maria with attached files. The preliminary budget projections. Maren skimmed them, wincing at the numbers. The historical society had been optimistic about what their funding could accomplish. This was going to require creative solutions.

She was still reviewing the documents when headlights swept across the conservatory windows.

Not Pete's truck—she had watched him leave an hour ago. Not Maria's Subaru either. This was someone else.

Maren walked to the front of the house as a car she didn't recognize parked beside her rental. An older sedan, well-maintained but not flashy. The driver's door opened, and a woman emerged—elderly, elegant despite her age, dressed in a wool coat that had probably been expensive thirty years ago.

"You must be the architect."

"Architectural historian. Maren Ashford."

The woman climbed the porch steps with the careful precision of someone whose joints no longer cooperated fully. Her eyes were sharp, though, taking in Maren with an assessment that felt different from Doris's suspicion or Pete's caution.

"Harriet Cole." She did not offer her hand, but her tone was warm despite that. "My late husband was sheriff here for thirty-five years. I wanted to meet the woman who's finally going to do something with this place."

"Finally?"

"It's been sitting empty since ninety-three. Some of us have been hoping someone would restore it. Others..." Harriet's gaze drifted past Maren to the house behind her. "Others would prefer it stayed forgotten."

"That seems to be a theme."

"Does it?" Harriet smiled, but there was something sad in it. "I suppose it would. Bitter Harbor has a long memory and a talent for secrets." She paused, studying Maren's face. "You're going to dig up the garden."

It wasn't a question.

"We need access to the foundation," Maren said carefully. "The roses have to go."

Harriet nodded slowly. "Yes. I suppose they do." She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes still fixed on something Maren couldn't see. "Just... be careful what you find, Ms. Ashford. Some things are buried for a reason."

Before Maren could respond, Harriet was already turning back toward her car.

"Mrs. Cole—"

"It was nice to meet you." Harriet opened her car door. "I hope you find what you're looking for. I really do."

She drove away, leaving Maren alone with a house full of questions and a garden that suddenly felt less like an obstacle and more like a warning.

That night, back at the inn, Maren pulled out her laptop and started researching. Bitter Harbor, Maine. The Cairn family. The history of the property.

The town had been founded in 1789, a fishing village that grew into a modest shipping center in the nineteenth century. The Cairns had arrived with money and built Cairnwood Manor at the height of their prosperity. Generations had lived and died there. The current patriarch, Judge Elijah Cairn, had presided over the county court for four decades before retiring in the early 2000s.

Newspaper archives were sparse—small town papers didn't digitize well—but she found fragments. Society pages from the 1980s and early 1990s, mentioning the Cairn family at various functions. An obituary for Margaret Cairn, the judge's wife, dated October 1993. A brief mention of a "tragic situation" involving local teenagers in the summer of 1995, but the article itself was missing from the archive.

Maren sat back, frowning at her screen.

1993. The year the house was abandoned. The year the calendar in the kitchen had stopped.

1995. The year something tragic happened. Something involving teenagers. Something that had been carefully removed from the digital record.

She thought about Pete's careful non-answers. Harriet's cryptic warnings. Doris's advice not to ask questions.

What had happened in Bitter Harbor in 1995?

And what did it have to do with a rose garden that looked like a grave?

Maren closed her laptop and stared at the ceiling of her small room, listening to the wind off the ocean and the creak of the old inn settling around her.

She had come here to restore a house. Just a house. A straightforward job that would keep her busy enough not to think about Graham and his graduate student and the wedding that would never happen.

But Bitter Harbor, it seemed, had other plans.

She fell asleep with questions circling her mind like gulls over the harbor, and dreamed again of roses—this time growing over something pale and still beneath the earth.