Page 41 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
Ethan steps up to the front of the hidden stage, smiling out at the audience. Nearly all the chairs are filled; people have shown up in droves. The tie must have made them hungrier for answers, more curious about what each of us stands for.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Ethan’s voice carries easily over the murmur of the crowd. “Thank you for being here tonight. I promised a speech… but speeches can wait. Tonight, I have something different for you. Something I’ve never seen done in a campaign before.”
He glances at me—quick, almost imperceptible—and the look he gives me sends a flutter through my stomach.
“I’ll save my words for the end. First, let’s tell you a story.”
Laughter ripples through the audience as he steps down to sit in the front row, close enough that when he settles, our eyes meet again for a heartbeat. There’s a warmth there that steadies me more than anything else could.
At exactly five o’clock, I give Noah, our volunteer stage manager, a thumbs-up. My hand trembles. He whisks away the curtain, and the crowd’s reaction is immediate—gasps, shifting in seats, craning for a better view.
The stage is a snapshot of Seabrook’s beginnings: cobblestone paths, a painted shoreline, rough-hewn wooden benches beneath painted trees.
Four actors enter in flowing skirts and linen shirts. Two carry instruments, two carry canvases and sketchbooks.
I lift the mic. My voice feels foreign in my own ears.
“Hundreds of years ago,” I begin, “a community of artists left their homeland, searching for a place where their creativity could flourish without judgment. They found a town rich with resources, beauty, and peace. They named it Seabrook.”
Onstage, one actor dips a brush into paint, her strokes quick and sure. Another plucks at a harp, the notes soft and wistful. The audience leans forward, drawn in.
From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Maggie’s gaze shift briefly to me, as if realizing I’m the one speaking. Her expression doesn’t change, but she doesn’t look away.
“How is my painting?” the actress calls, eyes bright.
“Wonderful,” says her companion, setting his harp aside. “This place has taught me more than any master. Here, I feel alive.”
I pick up the thread. “And so, a haven was born—a place where art was the heartbeat, and community the canvas.”
The actors bow out, and new ones step in, carrying paper walls to assemble a makeshift factory.
“The town’s purpose shifted,” I narrate. “Factories rose. Commerce flourished. Business replaced art, and wealth replaced music. The legacy began to fade.”
Two more actors enter, a young woman clutching dusty paintings, a young man beside her.
“I can’t believe these were our ancestors’ works,” she says, voice trembling. “Why did we let this vanish, John?”
“We need to remind them,” he answers, taking her hand. “Show them what Seabrook was meant to be.”
“Sally and John revived the town’s story,” I tell the crowd. “Their gallery became a beacon—drawing not only locals, but visitors eager to understand the art that once defined us.”
As the stage fills with volunteers posing as artists, musicians, and writers, I notice Aunt Maggie leaning forward slightly. She’s watching intently now, her arms no longer crossed.
“At last,” I say, “Seabrook remembered. Art and creativity returned to their rightful place—not replacing progress, but enriching it. Past and future, side by side, stronger together.”
For a heartbeat, the crowd is silent. Then applause crashes over us like a wave. People are on their feet, clapping until the sound is almost too much to take in.
I glance at Ethan. He’s not looking at the crowd—he’s looking at me. The pride in his eyes makes my breath hitch.
When the applause finally fades and he steps down from the stage, he doesn’t hesitate—he comes straight to me, weaving through volunteers and congratulatory handshakes until he’s close enough to take my hand.
“You were incredible up there,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, sending a warm shiver through me. “I knew you’d nail it.”
“You think this will help the campaign?” I ask, though my voice is softer than I intend.
“It already has. But that’s not why I’m smiling like this.” His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “I’m smiling because I get to stand here with you.”
The flush that rushes to my cheeks has nothing to do with the lights onstage.
