Page 43 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
“I hate you.” She smacks my arm and strides past me toward the car, her ponytail swinging like a challenge.
Laughing, I catch up, twining my fingers with hers before she can protest. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”
The community center smells faintly of coffee and old paper — the scent of every meeting hall in every small town I’ve ever known. The elders are already seated when we arrive. Ami slips into a chair beside me, her hands smoothing over the folded paper in her lap.
I open with a brief welcome, keeping it light. “Good morning, everyone. Today we’re here for something special — to draft a plan for Seabrook’s development that honors our history. My hope is that we leave with something we can all stand behind.”
The discussion starts practical — zoning, housing density, energy conservation. But it’s not long before the conversation shifts toward preserving what makes this town ours. Sustainable development, yes, but also keeping the wild shoreline untouched, using solar where possible, and protecting green spaces.
It’s exactly what I’ve been fighting for, but today it feels different. There’s no resistance, no suspicion in the questions. People are leaning forward, nodding.
And then Ami speaks.
Her voice is steady, but I can see the spark in her eyes. She lays out her idea for a small museum — a gallery space for paintings, old photographs, historic artifacts, and instruments inherited from Seabrook’s earliest days. She talks about the way the reenactment stirred people’s memories, how residents have been pulling heirlooms out of closets and attics.
One of the elders leans back and says, “She could run the writing academy we’ve been talking about.”
Ami ducks her head, smiling shyly, but I can tell she’s tucking the compliment away somewhere deep.
She unfolds a second sheet of paper — her proposal for weaving arts education into the schools: performing arts, painting, creative writing, music. She even suggests training tourist guides in our history so visitors leave with a true sense of Seabrook’s identity.
I watch her the whole time, pride swelling in my chest. This is Ami at her best — not just creative, but strategic. She’s thought through every detail, every way this could lift the town’s spirit and economy.
When she passes the proposal to the clerk, I can’t resist — I blow her a quick, secret kiss. Her eyes widen, her cheeks flush, and she hides a smile behind her hand.
When it’s my turn, I outline my own bullet points: affordable, eco-friendly housing; traditional land use; business incentives tied to heritage projects. It’s not as poetic as hers, but it gets nods around the room.
By the end, we’ve got two complementary proposals ready to forward to the Seabrook Arts Center. The handshake that seals it feels like more than an agreement — it feels like a promise to the future.
As we leave, Ami is radiant. “I can’t believe they liked it,” she says for the third time.
“I can,” I say easily. “You had the whole room under your spell.”
Her eyes search mine. “Really? You think it was that good?”
I stop us on the boardwalk, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know it was. You’re a natural, Ami. And you’re just getting started.”
She presses her face against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo —something clean and citrusy that always makes me think of her kitchen after she’s been baking.
We start walking again, the breeze off the water cool against our skin. “Hard to believe we used to argue every time we ran into each other,” I say.
She laughs softly. “We still argue.”
“Yeah,” I grin. “But now I get to kiss you afterward.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
We’re halfway to my truck when a sudden burst of sirens shatters the easy quiet of the afternoon. A fire engine roars past, heading toward the east end of town.
A voice crackles through my radio — one of the volunteer firefighters I’ve worked with before. I catch the words “brush fire” and “moving fast” before static cuts in.
I glance at Ami. “I need to check this out.”
Her smile fades, but she nods. “Go. I’ll see you later.”
I hesitate just long enough to squeeze her hand. “We’re not done celebrating, okay?”
Then I’m jogging toward my truck, the sound of the sirens already fading into the distance — and the warmth of her hand still lingering in mine.
