Page 44 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
Chapter twenty-four
Ami
“We can do this. Let’s go.” I give Ethan’s hand an assuring squeeze.
He nods firmly, and together we step into the town hall office. The air inside feels charged, heavy with the mix of nervous anticipation and the faint smell of coffee that’s been sitting too long on a warmer. Today isn’t just another meeting. Today, we present our proposals to the town council—the heart of everything we’ve been working toward.
The council members are already seated when we enter. Some faces are familiar; others I’ve only seen in newspaper clippings. Each one wears the look of someone who knows the weight of their decision could shape Seabrook’s future.
After the formal meet-and-greet, Ethan steps forward. His posture is straight, his voice steady, the quiet confidence I’ve always admired radiating from him as he begins explaining his plan for sustainable development—his mission to protect Seabrook’s heritage while guiding it into the future.
“How will you do it, Mr. Campbell?” one of the council members asks, leaning forward, eyes sharp. “You know the already established businesses of the town could take a huge blow. Construction is flourishing. This plan could harm the businesses contributing to our shared economy. We understand the importance of heritage, but we can’t undo every development project. What do you think?”
I glance at Ethan. Calm. Collected. He meets the man’s gaze without flinching.
“We’re not against commercialization,” Ethan says. “Construction can continue—just with a few precautionary steps. All other businesses are free to conduct their work if they ensure their practices are environmentally sustainable. We have a duty not only to today’s Seabrook but to tomorrow’s.” His voice deepens. “The generations before us didn’t think enough about what they were leaving behind. That’s why so much of our heritage has been forgotten.”
I can’t stop staring at him. The way his words pull people in—it’s like watching someone weave threads of logic and hope into something that feels unshakable.
He pauses only long enough to let his words sink in before continuing. “We can’t keep making the same mistake. From construction codes to land usage and drainage systems, our ancestors had sustainable, tested methods. Adopting some of those traditional approaches won’t hold us back—it will strengthen us.”
The council members exchange glances. One of them, an older man with a voice like gravel, clears his throat. “What you’re saying sounds fine on paper, but how do you propose to implement it? We’ve moved far from those older systems.”
Ethan smiles faintly. “Sustainability is never outdated. We can trial these ideas on a small scale, see the results, and adjust as needed. No plan is perfect from day one—it must be lived, tested,refined. If we preserve Seabrook’s essence while still allowing progress, everyone wins.”
I swear the room leans a little closer to him.
When it’s my turn, my heart pounds. Ethan gives me a little nod, the kind that says he believes in me completely, even if my stomach is doing somersaults.
“I’ve made my proposal with Seabrook’s artistic revival in mind,” I begin. “We don’t have enough platforms for artists to develop their skills. I’m proposing an academy where performing arts, music, literature, and design can thrive. We have so much local talent—actors, musicians, writers, designers—but no centralized place to help them grow.”
I tell them about incorporating the arts into school curriculums, about building a gallery and museum to display our heritage and contemporary work side by side. “This is our identity,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “If we mainstream the arts, we give Seabrook the tools to return to its prosperous, creative past.”
There’s a quiet discussion before the current mayor looks up with a small smile. “This is an amazing proposal, Ms. Amelia. Not a final decision, there’s still the special vote ahead—but your ideas deserve to be part of that discussion.”
A rush of relief floods me. Both proposals have passed this first, most critical step.
When the meeting adjourns, we step outside—and the crowd that’s gathered makes me stop in my tracks.
“They’re here for you,” I murmur to Ethan.
He squeezes my hand, grinning. “For us.”
Before he can move forward, I feel another warm hand slip into mine from the other side. I turn in surprise. Aunt Maggie. She doesn’t say anything—just gives my hand the gentlest squeeze, her eyes still on the crowd. It’s not forgiveness, not yet, but it’s… something. And it’s enough to make my throat tighten.
Ethan starts speaking to the crowd, telling them the council has agreed to move forward toward the re-vote with our proposals on the table. There’s cheering, clapping—kids on their parents’ shoulders, teenagers holding homemade signs, elders nodding with approval.
I sneak a glance at Aunt Maggie. Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile, and I realize she’s stayed close enough that our hands remain linked.
In the middle of all this seriousness, a little boy wriggles through the crowd holding a toy fire truck. “Mister Ethan! We saw the smoke this morning! Did you put out the fire?”
The crowd chuckles, and Ethan plays along. “I left that to our amazing fire crew, but I promise I cheered them on.” The boy beams, and I can’t help laughing. “See? You’re practically a superhero now,” I whisper.
“Only if you’re my sidekick,” he murmurs back, low enough that only I hear.
When the speeches wind down, people start coming up to shake Ethan’s hand—and mine. One woman tells me, “That academy idea of yours is exactly what my daughter needs.”
By the time the crowd thins, the sun is dipping low, casting everything in gold. Ethan turns to me, the corners of his mouth lifting. “We’re not at the finish line yet, Ami. But we’re closer than ever.”
