A Tour of Tidewood: Inside Ghislaine Maxwell's Seaside Hideaway
John Hancock's banister, Captain Nemo adopted, the Picasso that went unpurchased
Be it civilian or celebrity, I live to judge people by their domestic dwelling, to frame them based on the mundane arrangements that manifest under untried circumstances amidst daily life that tell a story all their own. If I had my way, I’d enter every house of every person I ever wrote about to decide the better parts of their character based on evidence collected from home interiors. This preference for trespassing I have never apologized for. It is, what I’d call, a lifelong affliction. Hyper curiosity has always driven me to wander beyond restricted access. It just took years to figure out how to fit it, legally, into my life. And yet here we are, roaming the halls of Ghislaine Maxwell’s secret hideaway home, standing face to face with the lone Picasso she left behind to mark the end of a story I started well over a year ago. In attempt to figure out who this woman is and everything that led her to where she ended up.
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When I saw that Zorro Ranch was on the market a couple of months ago, I tracked down the agent to request a personal tour. I did so naively, hoping it might actually work. I have a way of finagling myself into homes of interest when it doesn’t seem plausible, but the agent asked for financial statements, and my income obviously does not match the requirements needed to purchase (or even look at) a sprawling $27 million ranch with multiple structures on-site in New Mexico, so I replied honestly. I told her what I do and write about, explaining that I intended to document this estate like any other property of significant public interest, focusing mainly on factual details about its history and architecture.
As “classy” as I could manage, so to speak.
I even expanded on my theory that the public should have the right to see properties attached to notorious scandals before overly ambitious renovations demolish and rebuild them, altering the setting to stories we are still collectively invested in. In Epstein's case, curiosity spans continents. Gradually, though, all his properties are being leveled and resurrected to erase the moral stink of their previous owner.
Do we forget about complacent FBI when the Palm Beach mansion gets a makeover?
If Zorro Ranch becomes a movie set, do the main characters in the real plot fade away?
If the island is transformed into another billionaire’s version of paradise, perhaps a shady sweetheart deal goes forgiven?
And the tunnels, filled now with concrete, it’s like they never happened at all.
Erase, evade, rebuild.
As a last-ditch effort, I informed the agent of my past successes with previous home sales. I thought maybe on this I could sell her. I explained how on one occasion, after posting a tour of a friend’s stunning LA abode, I hooked a 2 million dollar cash buyer. The woman saw the house in my stories, fell in love, and had to have it. The desire struck so hard she pulled out of another contract in escrow to purchase the one spotted in my stories.
I told her the real estate industry would be wise to partner with journalists on unique sales as a balanced trade. We get a story; they get free promotion and a broader interest spread.
Surprisingly, she agreed.
“I’m with you on this,” she told me. The sellers, however, were not. To them, any publicity was bad publicity. Which — when it comes to Epstein — is mostly true. Had it been up to the realtor, she would have gladly put me on a golf cart and driven me around the ranch to tour the entire lot, but there was no way of convincing the owners of it.
As consolation, she offered to show me around another one of her elite listings: Robert Redford’s old properties near Zorro. A tempting, but irrelevant option. I thanked her and promised to keep the offer in mind.
Days later, another listing caught my eye: The home previously shared by Ghislaine Maxwell and her husband, Scott Borgerson, was also for sale. On the website, an upcoming open house was teased. Once again, I tracked down the agent and inquired about future tour dates. When I told him I couldn't make the date listed, he swiftly replied to let me know there would be no other open houses, but he was happy to show me the place “whenever” I wanted. No questions asked. No bank records required.
Three weeks later, I was on a plane with Jess and Denise, headed to Massachusetts to tour this seaside haven where the man who allegedly stole Ghislaine Maxwell’s money still lived.
OR
(Depending on who’s reading)
I was a potential buyer with an old friend and interior designer in tow. A woman married to a mysteriously wealthy man, interested in retiring somewhere quiet now that my kids were getting older and the craving for slower living pointed me to this blissful lot on the outskirts of a lobster town on another coast in a listing I stumbled upon while fantasizing about a dramatic lifestyle shift in a sweeping $5.8 million seaside mansion.
Flyer Description
“Tidewood - a beautifully appointed and masterfully renovated colonial estate of historical significance. Exceptionally unique in its private setting on the north shore, the property offers unlimited ocean views and ultimate solitude. Originally built in 1660 for the Pickerings of Salem, the property was moved to Manchester in 1917 and re-erected at its current site in 1930. Tidewood was recently updated stem to stern by Windover Construction, with all systems improved to modern standards while maintaining the stele elegance of one of Massachusett's oldest homes. It is the perfect blend of the old (e.g. original floorboards and fireplaces) with new (solar panels, Tesla power wall, and fully integrated smart technology). The 6,113 swore feet of polished living space features five bedrooms, five full and three half bathrooms, two offices, and much more. The property includes a permanent easement to a 3/4 mile shore path + private beach within the historic 40 acres Sharksmouth Estate.”
Tour of Tidewood
We drive about a mile through a densely wooded private path and pull up on a drizzly morning in July, all dressed in black. An easy but earnest attempt to “look rich.” At the entrance, we are welcomed by a clean-cut man with a warm smile. He looks perfectly respectable and ready to sell a house.
“Dammit. He’s handsome,” I say, resenting the fact of it. Homely agents are easier to evade and escape.
Jess urges me to act "normal" and not be "weird,” so I button up my coat and smile back just as big. False confidence unlocked.
We make brief small talk. I tell him about the tortoise we almost ran over. He tells us about the family he has “down south” — near us, in San Diego.
The three of us follow him into the house to find a narrow kitchen outfitted with raw concrete countertops and a generic geometric backsplash, illuminated by the expansive windows displaying the flush of greenery surrounding the back deck. On the island counter, a watercolor blueprint is laid flat and weighted by rocks, showcasing plans for an infinity pool that never materialized. Envisioned, I assume, in an early stage of denial.
The house, he tells us, is the second oldest in the country. A fact I repeat (twice) out loud to make sure I’ve heard it right. Jess nudges me subtly when I do.
The property was shipped by barge from Salem to take root in the 40-acre plot of Sharksmouth. Five other properties are situated on the estate owned by the Shelving Rock Trust, which consists of descendants of former owners. Tidewood comes anchored to a tight-knit community with long (prideful) land ties. Not the kind of folks who sit idly by when a shady outsider with a concerning past seeks to claim one of their rugged private beach pathways. Hence, the lawsuit that came after Maxwell's history was uncovered by a local. As one source pointed out, the FBI acted like she was hiding, when in reality, her name was all over those court documents.
The agent regularly references the “current owners” when discussing certain aspects of the home. During the hour, we learn they liked to kayak; he owned a fishing boat, she enjoyed running on the beach and afternoon naps on the rocks below. They hosted people from town occasionally.
He mentions “them” as nameless ciphers who once enjoyed the house for its secluded beauty. To unassuming buyers, he could be talking about anybody or nobody at all.
With 15 rooms and 8 fireplaces, the layout is spacious but manageable. Nothing about it feels overdone or overwhelming.
“Beach ownership” is listed proudly as a deeded right in the printed flyer. According to the online information, the property has been on the market for over 408 days. The stall in the sale Scott blamed on Ghislaine. Her attachment, he believed, hindered both the value and lack of interest in it.
“Nobody wanted to be part of that radioactive situation.”
In a room downstairs, I pause at a closet full of blinking lights—what appears to be a sophisticated security system to monitor the premise. I wonder, staring at this mass of cameras, what it’s like living for decades in constant fear that somebody is out to harm you. From the wigs as disguise in London after her father’s death and crimes were exposed, to the philanthropic endeavors to distracted from other despicable obligations, to hiring a fleet of foreign security, to finding doubles in Paris to redirect public scrutiny, Ghislaine Maxwell’s existence has always been shadowed by scandal.
Occasionally, Denise, in the role of interior designer, motions to measure a particular area of the house or offer a suggestion about specific ideas for decor. I nod my head in agreement with each of them.
The agent is more likable than most. He is genuine and funny. At one point, he sweetly shows Jess a few photos of his children before giving us the green light to wander around on our own.
Antique rifles and old boating oars line the hallways downstairs. Military awards are hung in tight clusters in the bathroom. A magazine opened to an article titled “Rifle Man,” sits beside the toilet, along with a slightly moldy coffee cup. Scott’s accolades are framed throughout the house. Clearly, a signature Maxwell touch. Even in their secluded existence, without dazzling connections dropping by to impress, Ghislaine ensured his awards were on proper display. Worth weighed by honor. Perhaps to convince herself that a relatively uneventful Coast Guardsman with a bad temper (who replaced the man she “really” wanted to wed) was something more spectacular. Status inflated while in rebound mode following the breakup with Ted Wait that left her aimless. He met moved on by swiftly marrying a model. Her revenge came in the form of a man 14 years younger than her but not more affluent than her ex. Not that wealth mattered much in the end. Neither men would offer her public support in the months leading up to her trial. Both resisted pleas from her camp to aid her character by speaking positively about her as their long-term partner.
The front portion of the house, replete with creaky floorboards, reminds you how ancient it is. The entrance feels ghostly compared to the modern structures added later to expand the house. The layout is oddly divided by this structural discord.
The banister in the front room has its own thrilling backstory. A man specializing in historical relics showed up at the open house and apparently recognized the staircase as one formerly belonging to John Hancock. He was so convinced of this match he took a portion of it with him to have it officially verified. On the day of our tour, they were still awaiting results. However, in a bar after, when we sat down to investigate for ourselves, the twists in Hancock’s banister appeared notably different than the one attached to Tidewood.
In the mud room next to the kitchen, a low faucet with a hose and draining basin to wash filthy dogs resembles another of Ghislaine’s custom contributions. According to friends, he dogs were everything to her. When I asked Juror 50 if he ever saw Maxwell display any kind of readable emotion, he said “only when they showed the photos of her with the dogs.”
On the windowsill is a framed photo of Captain Nemo, propped and sunfaded. Likely placed years before she ever imagined impending arrest. When I see it, I wonder why Scott kept the dog in the first place. When he did everything he could to strip himself of any visible connections to her. I also wonder why she left him the dog. And the art. And all of her money.
For a supposedly sharp woman, she made an awful lot of callous mistakes with men.
Sea life is a running theme throughout. One long wall in the family room is painted light blue. Splashy brush strokes mimics the ocean’s movement. Pillows are shaped like coral, and mirrors are framed by painted driftwood. On the whole, the house stands in stark contrast to the decadent interiors Ghislaine was known for—visions she once dutifully styled for Jeffrey, who gave her complete control over each newly acquired estate. Checkered floors, halls doused in rich red tones, sprawling rooms littered with opulent marbled accents, oversized nude sculptures, brass lamps, gothic art, and layered Persian rugs that once defined Epstein's mansions are replaced by a sparse simplicity that makes me wonder if she was trying to conceal herself so much that she altered her taste in decor, or simply inspired enough by the sparse industrial craze of 2015 to squash maximalist tendencies, temporarily, to suit this hushed domestic phase?
These are the questions bouncing around my head as I make my way through the house and up the stairs where both of Scott’s kids’ rooms are situated, painted with elaborate murals. One is decorated with an underwater scene. Sea turtles and whales stretch up the walls and across the ceiling. Trophies and awards are proudly on display in each room. At a glance, everything looks perfectly lived in and happily played with. Handwritten notecards from friends and family are tacked to a bulletin board alongside scattered photos. Nothing in the clutter of these lively spaces bears the slightest hint that Ghislaine was ever a figure in their lives. Despite a decade where she (repeatedly) played the role of stepmother to another woman’s children, there is nothing to suggest she ever existed as such.
The photo memories on display have all been edited to erase her as a member of this family unit. The only trace left of her is in the furniture and art that remain. Of which, the agent tells us, is potentially for sale.
The bold orange sofa—seen in the listing images online—was very “popular,” he informs us. Someone in recent weeks finally snagged it.
Upstairs is a turquoise office with a desk, couch, and possibly a Matisse on the wall. Her books, the majority of which are ocean based, are still neatly organized on a pipe-shelving bookcase. Something about Stalin is wedged in between.
On the stairwell hangs a large painting of a gleeful-looking pig which the agent admits, “for whatever reason,” he really likes, while I stand there staring, utterly confused by it. Why a giant portrait of a farm animal in an otherwise serene ocean-themed setting? It feels awkward and entirely out of place. But I suddenly remember reading somewhere how Ghislaine once bragged about this particular piece —a $3 million splurge, up for grabs for touring strangers.
My favorite room is a shaker-style guest space with two twin beds covered in plain bedding with painted green floors. Classic art is framed in gold, accented by (semi-modern) lighting. The decor is especially reserved, but most complementary to the home's original era.
Off the master bedroom is an enormous bathroom with a sizable shower. A smattering of beauty products on the counter is the only hint of a girlfriend in the picture. Cheaper versions of the things Ghislaine insisted on in staff product checklists designed to properly stock each estate, through varying eras, when luxurious products was merely a footnote to dedicated self care.
Scott’s wardrobe sits in neatly folded increments, organized according to printed sections that dictate spaces for particular clothing items. It feels overly instructive, but by the looks of it, also fairly functional.
In the gym amongst scattered boxes of what appear to be random accessories, is a collection of old black and white photos framed with acrylic. Part of the collection hangs on the wall (seen in the videos below). The second half is stacked carelessly on the floor. Denise notices them first. Together, we sit and flip through them all. They are gorgeous images of various artists and celebrities, but the photographer's name is illegible when I squat closer to read it.
I wrote what looks like “FOZERICOL” in my notes, but later, when I tried to track it down, I couldn’t find any evidence of this photographer online.
The big green Picasso that hangs in the great room downstairs, next to a giant sculpture of a panther, serves as the standout feature in the house. Even from a distance, it appears as a bold and spectacular addition to an otherwise paired-down aesthetic. Effectively, it catches your attention instantly. Indulgent abstract art as telling evidence of what once was.
Outside, we make our way down the ragged path to the beach to see the view. Along the trial Jess lectures us about the dangers of tics. She warns everyone to be on the lookout. With smiles, we pretend to care.
Once we make it down to the beach, the handsome agent reveals details of the legal battle over this pathway. I act pleasantly suprised when he announces that “the owner” ultimately won permanent rights to it.
The view from every angle, below the house, is breathtaking. The stillness at low tide is tranquil, almost to a poetic degree, but the pause is interrupted when Jess yells over at us — horrified — because she found a tic on her calf.
She rushes over, disgusted, to show us. The agent winces, takes the tic, smashes it with a rock.
Jess marches back up the hill, huffing with irritation. We follow, holding back laughter as we go.
"What are the odds,"he says to me, whispering, even though she is a good distance away from us.
As we get back into our cars, he offers a couple recommendations for lunch. We end up at one of them. A quaint cafe crowded by locals.
The bartender talks us into a custom cocktail she created and recently added to the menu. The sweetness stings my senses, but I finish it anyway. There is nothing worse than offending a well meaning bartender who pushes you toward something specific because you appear hopelessly indecisive whenever anyone hands you a menu.
She asks why we are in town, so we tell her. She shakes her head, "I don't know what that woman was thinking, hiding here in this tiny town," she says. "But you ladies should definitely get to Salem before you leave. You gotta see all of the witch trial stuff, where the burnings, and all that crazy shit, went down.”
The judge’s house, she informs us, is still in good standing condition.
With the remarkable exception of the Picasso, the Rothko, and those B&W photographs, all of which are museum quality and the highest of high end items to be found in a home (a Picasso, I mean, can you imagine?!?!), everything else just seemed so...ordinary. Is this Ghislaine in her track suit era? I'm thinking of that photograph of her at a fundraiser in sweatpants. Did she just give up? Or this an elite woman's approximation of a regular woman's tastes? As always, I'm so confused by GM's personal and, now thanks to this bold investigative endeavor, decorating style.
Not only a Picasso, but a Rothko in the same room, as well! THIS is why I gladly give you $7 a month.