Chapter 5 The Leak at Midnight

The sound of Rowan’s truck engine dying in the gravel pulled me out of my light sleep at precisely six forty-five.

I was already laced into a pair of stiff brown work boots I bought from the general store the previous afternoon. My hair was tied up into a bun with an elastic band, and my hands were tucked into the pockets of an oversized chore coat Aunt Mara had pulled from the mudroom closet.

When I swung the front door open, Rowan was already lowering the tailgate of his green pickup. The back was packed with neat rows of galvanized pipe, heavy rolls of rubber roofing membrane, and two yellow steel sawhorses. He wore a dark knit watch cap pulled low over his ears and a faded brown canvas vest over his flannel shirt.

"Morning," I said, stepping onto the porch with two steaming mugs.

He glanced up, looked at my boots, then took one of the mugs without a word. He took a sip, testing the heat, and gave a brief nod.

"Black," he noted, his voice gravelly from the cold morning air.

"I remember what people drink," I said. "Occupational habit."

"Keep the habits that save time," Rowan replied. He set his mug down on the railing and reached into the truck bed, hoisting a heavy bundle of cedar shingles onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. "We start on the north chimney flashing first. Rain is blowing in from the strait by dusk tomorrow. If that roof isn't tight by tonight, we lose the ceiling in Room Two completely."

The morning moved at a pace that left no room for second thoughts. For years in corporate event planning, work meant managing schedules on clipboards and placating nervous wedding planners over cell phones. Here, work was physical and blunt. It was the scrape of an iron bar pulling up rotten cedar shakes, the smell of damp pine dust, and the rhythmic thump of a hammer hitting nail heads into solid rafters.

Rowan worked with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing to watch. He did not waste footsteps. He did not curse when a stubborn iron nail bent sideways; he simply hooked it with the claw of his hammer, pulled it out with one fluid jerk of his forearm, and set another.

Around ten o'clock, the front gate latch clattered open.

I looked down from the porch steps, where I had been stacking salvageable baseboards in neat rows according to Rowan’s instructions. An older man with silver sideburns and a faded corduroy cap was making his way up the shell path. In his arms, he carried a thick manila folder tied with kitchen twine.

"Lina girl," the man called out, his voice cracked with age and salt air.

"Mr. Henderson," I said, wiping my dusty palms on my jeans as I walked down to meet him. "It's so good to see you. How is Mrs. Henderson?"

"Knee's giving her grief, but she sent along these," he said, handing over the folder. "We heard down at the bait shop that you were digging into the old place again. Your grandma Clara was the one who kept this bay together after the cannery went bust in ninety-two. These were in my attic. Thought you might want to see how the front parlor looked when it was full of music."

I carefully untied the twine. Inside were black-and-white and early color photographs from the late seventies and eighties.

There was the wraparound porch, painted crisp nautical white, packed with dozens of laughing people holding paper cups of cider. There was Grandma Clara, young and radiant with a floral scarf around her neck, standing beside the old hearth while three men played fiddles. The inn hadn't just been a business back then. It was the living room of the entire town, a warm harbor where people gathered when the sea was rough.

"She kept the lights on when nobody else could," Mr. Henderson murmured, looking past me toward the roof where Rowan was hammering a copper valley into place. He squinted up at the roofline, his expression shifting slightly. "Rowan's up there, is he?"

"He's helping me get the structural permits cleared," I answered.

The old man sighed through his nose, shifting his weight. "Good man, Rowan. Clara broke his father's heart once over that lumber contract, but the boy's got his grandfather's hands. Just watch your back with the town board, Lina. Things aren't as simple as they used to be around the bay."

He gave my arm a gentle squeeze and shuffled back toward the gate before I could ask him what he meant about Rowan's father.

I set the photos safely inside the parlor on the mantelpiece, my chest tightening with a strange mix of pride and unease. When I came back out to the porch, a silver sedan was idling at the edge of the driveway.

Elliot Crane stepped out, smooth as silk in a charcoal wool overcoat and leather driving gloves. He carried a small white paper bag from June's café.

"Good afternoon, Lina," Elliot said, walking up the gravel steps with an easy, pleasant smile. "I brought some of June’s cranberry scones. Thought you might need a mid-day lift."

Above us on the roof, the rhythmic sound of hammering stopped abruptly.

I stayed on the second step, not inviting him higher. "Thank you, Elliot, but we're in the middle of repairs. I don't have much time to chat."

"I see that," Elliot said, glancing upward toward the chimney where Rowan’s boots were visible near the ridge cap. Elliot didn't look bothered by Rowan's presence, but his smile took on a sharper edge. "You're moving fast. That's admirable. But I felt I should give you a friendly heads-up before the weekend."

"A heads-up about what?"

"The coastal zoning commission," Elliot said smoothly, keeping his voice quiet and reasonable. "The updated historical building codes from last autumn require special preservation permits for any structural timber work within five hundred yards of the high-tide line. A standard contractor's license might not cover the grandfathered framing on this roof. If the inspector spots uncertified modifications on Monday, he won't just fail the inspection, Lina. He could issue an immediate stop-work order and condemn the upper floor on the spot."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Rowan is fully licensed for coastal preservation."

Elliot offered an apologetic shrug that looked entirely practiced. "I'm sure he is very capable. But regulations change rapidly these days, especially when large investment funds are evaluating municipal assets. It would be a terrible shame if you poured all your savings into new shingles only to have the county lock the front door anyway."

He set the pastry bag down on the porch railing. "My offer from yesterday still stands. In fact, my board would be willing to absorb any pending permit fines if we finalize the transfer by Friday. Think about your future, Lina. Don't drown yourself in someone else's debts."

He touched the brim of his cap and walked back to his car, leaving a faint trail of expensive cologne in the sea wind.

Up on the roof, Rowan didn't say a word. He simply went back to hammering, the sharp metal rings echoing against the trees like gunshot.

By five o'clock, the wind had picked up, bringing a raw chill off the gray water. Rowan packed his tools into the truck bed, snapped the tonneau cover shut, and wiped his hands on an oily rag. His face was smudged with soot from the chimney flashing.

"That flashing will hold through tomorrow's drizzle," Rowan said, his voice flat and practical as he buckled his tool belt into the cab. "Don't touch the plastic sheeting on the dormer."

"Rowan," I called out before he could climb in. "Is the timber framing covered under your license? For the historical code?"

He paused with his hand on the truck door, his amber eyes locking onto mine through the gathering dusk.

"The work I do passes code," he said simply. "Go inside, Hart. Eat something."

He drove away without waiting for a reply.

By ten that night, the drizzle had turned into a steady, driving rain. The wind howled through the Douglas firs behind the house, rattling the bedroom window panes.

I lay in bed in my grandmother’s old room on the first floor, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to ignore the nervous thrum in my chest.

At eleven-thirty, I heard it.

It wasn't the slow, rhythmic drop from the blue bucket in the foyer. It was a fast, wet splashing sound coming from directly above me on the second floor.

I threw off the quilt, grabbed my flashlight, and ran up the stairs in my bare feet.

The hallway outside Room 2 was already slick with water. Above the doorway, the plaster ceiling had sagged into a dark, heavy belly the size of a laundry tub. Water wasn't dripping; it was streaming through three separate cracks, running down the wall like a miniature waterfall and soaking into the floorboards.

"No, no, no," I muttered, sliding on the wet wood as I scrambled to shove the plastic bucket under the heaviest stream.

Within two minutes, the bucket was half full. The plaster gave a sickening, hollow groan above my head.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket with wet hands, my thumb hovering over Rowan's number. It was past midnight. He had specifically told me not to call with emergencies unless the house was falling down.

The plaster cracked with a sharp snap, showering gray chunks onto the floor.

I hit call.

It rang once. Then twice.

"Vale," his voice came through the speaker, low and instantly awake.

"Rowan," I gasped, holding the phone against my wet shoulder while trying to slide another pot under the leak. "The ceiling in Room Two. It’s coming down. The water found another way through."

There was a two-second silence on the line, followed by the clink of truck keys on a wooden table.

"Get the furniture out of the room," Rowan ordered calmly. "Don't stand directly under the sag. I'm three minutes away."

The call disconnected, and for the first time since I stepped off the ferry, the tight panic in my chest loosened just enough for me to breathe.