Page 55 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
“Higher, Mama!” Junie chirps, sand already between her toes, hair already salted. Three years old and part mermaid, part mayoral press secretary. She narrates everything as if the gulls signed off on it.
“Higher,” I say, and the swing arcs. My belly tightens with the smallest kick—her sibling’s opinion on the matter. “You have acommittee forming,” I tell my bump. “You’ll learn how things work around here.”
Ethan steps out with mugs—one chipped blue for me, one that says WORLD’S OKAYEST MAYOR for him, courtesy of Jake. He kisses my forehead, then Junie’s, then—because he’s him—my notebook, which is open to a sketchy outline and a coffee ring.
“How’s Chapter Eleven?” he asks.
“Opinionated,” I say. “Wants more ocean.”
“Relatable,” he says, and we both grin.
It’s been eight years since the summer worth writing about, and somehow the pages keep coming. Book one found its readers; book two built me a studio in the front parlor of the family house; book three paid for the roof on the arts center the town built in the old cannery. Now I write here on weekends, in the cottage we patched board by board, while Junie builds seashell kingdoms and Ethan takes calls from the town or the station, whichever needs him first.
He’s mayor now. He still answers the firehouse radios, too—not for every call, not like the old days, but often enough that the siren’s voice is part of our soundtrack. “He delegates,” Aunt Maggie says, which is her way of admitting she’s proud. Jake runs day operations at the station; the town runs on Ethan’s steady, practical kindness. And if a cat gets itself treed, well—Nine Lives Jakeis on speed dial,Meow-Manforever even though he tries to bestow that moniker on Ethan.
“Mrs. O’Hara put us on the ledger,” Ethan says now, handing me my cup. “Apparently we arrived exactly three minutes earlier than we did last Saturday.”
“She’s slipping,” I say, and he laughs.
Junie has discovered her bucket makes a better drum than a castle. “Mama, can we go to the big house later? I want the swing that goes whoosh.”
“That is a very technical description,” Ethan says.
“She means home,” I say, and the word still lands the way it did the day I stepped off the plane. The family house now OUR house, sits between Aunt Maggie and Ethan’s boyhood place like it always knew we’d come back and stay. We live there most days—morning light through my studio windows, lemon oil and salt, the porch light that clicks on exactly at dusk as if it’s been told we’re late.
We use the cottage for weekends. It’s the “and” to our “both”—our wings to those roots.
“Okay, Junie June,” Ethan says, scooping her up so she squeals and the swing squeals back. “We’ll head home after the morning tide. But first, your great-auntie texted. She needs us to taste-test lemon bars ‘for quality control.’”
Junie claps. Our baby boy kicks. Somewhere down the beach, Jake’s ATV rattles and a chorus of gulls complains like old men about it.
“Routine inspection?” I call as he passes.
“Mayor’s orders,” Jake yells back. “Also,Chief Meow-ster, the town cat has issued a statement. Something about trees being taller than they appear.”
Ethan bows, dignified. “Please inform the press we support responsible tree management.”
Junie cups her hands like a megaphone. “No cats in trees!”
Jake salutes. “Message received, tiny voter.”
The ATV buzz fades. The ocean breathes. The baby rolls again, insisting on this moment, this place.
“Still okay?” Ethan asks, hand warm on my belly and eyes searching mine like he never gets tired of being sure.
“Still yes,” I say, and it’s the same yes I gave him on the porch eight summers ago, just bigger, worn soft with use.
We pack the morning into the truck—pails, towels, a dozen sandy shells that will join their cousins in the entry jar at home. As we pull out, the cottage looks back at us with its newlypainted trim and its ridiculous weathervane that points “mostly east.” It’s because that’s who we are: mostly certain, occasionally blown wild on purpose.
Ethan
Town Hall smells like coffee and fresh paper and lemon cleaner Aunt Maggie swears by. She refuses to run for office anymore—says mayoring is a young person’s sport—but she keeps an office here “for ambience” and allows three opinions per agenda item “for balance.” She’s also on the town arts board, the historical commission, and what I believe is a self-created position called Porch Swing Oversight.
This morning’s meeting runs long—storm drains, a pier repair, a grant for the after-school program—but every decision feels like a thread in a net we’ve been weaving since that first summer. It’s not flashy. It holds.
After lunch I take Junie to the station because no one says no to the junior tour guide in sparkly boots. She points out everything: hoses, helmets, the snack drawer. She calls Jake “Deputy Cat” and he pretends to be insulted. He’s the best kind of legend—the kind who shows up with a ladder when all you can see are branches.
By the time we turn onto our street, the day has softened into the kind of afternoon Seabrook does best—sun warm but not pushy, air salted, neighbors waving from porches because that’s the law. The family house sits between Aunt Maggie’s and the one I grew up in, blue door bright, porch swing exactly where it belongs. I still get that same quiet shock: I get to walk upthesesteps, intothislife, toher.
