2. Ami
Chapter two
Ami
I step off the airport transit bus with my backpack slinging over one shoulder. My sigh probably echoes all the way back to the city where I left my job for the summer to come back to my childhood home.
Sea-broooook, I’m back. Yeah. After a couple of years’ break, I’m finally coming back to the beach to see what answers it’ll bring me.
Spending the next three months in this town seems like a daunting idea, but I’ll do whatever I think might help me get past my writer's block.
Even spending a month at that so-called ‘intense writing training course’ didn’t help me much.
What do I have to show for it? A notebook full of doodles, a head full of half-baked ideas, and nothing significant that can help with my ‘writer's block.’ Add to that a Master’s in English Lit, a part-time job that barely pays my bills, and dark circles under my eyes so deep that they could be mistaken for a fashion statement. All the credit to insomnia.
Summertime promises a crowded beach and tourist influx. The air in Seabrook smells like salt and memories, heavy with the sea's promise of calm. But right now, all I want is a bed.
I drag my feet across the gravelly parking lot with my sneakers kicking up small dust clouds.
The town’s streets are basically deserted.
It's spooky enough to make you believe in haunted tales.
Or maybe that's just my overactive imagination talking because of my ability to spin tales in almost every situation.
Then I see the smoke. It’s billowing up from the end of Main Street. It’s too far away to be my house or Aunt Maggie’s bookstore, thankfully. But whatever is on fire is on fire BIG TIME. I’m drawn to the crowd and when I realize it’s the bakery that’s engulfed in flames I begin to pray for Clara.
She’s a town legend and very dear to me.
I can’t count the number of days I spent helping frost cookies at her table as a kid.
I’m pretty sure those ended up as throwaways for her business, but she lovingly let me keep company on those long days summer days.
I only had Aunt Maggie by then, so she was like another family member to me.
As I stand across the street from the flames, I finally see a fireman coming out holding Clara. I’m so thankful I almost go to my knees. As the guy removes his helmet and face gear, I realize it’s Ethan, my childhood friend, or at least my childhood nemesis.
He looks toward me, and we exchange nods. I get the feeling from his demeanor that he doesn’t know who I am. Strange, I haven’t been gone that long. But then, my hair is a lot longer and I have shades and a sunhat on.
I begin to walk toward home as the rest of the crowd begins to disperse. I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow to see if Clara is okay. But now I just want to get home and fall on my bed.
Finally, I swing open the creaky wooden gate of my front yard to the familiar whine, and there it is—the old, weather-beaten cottage that has been in my family for generations. It's where I used to live and where I’ve spent countless summers.
My great-great-grandfather built this place, and it's been handed down through the family like a precious heirloom, or maybe you can better call it an “old, reliable hand-me-down.”
Being an only child, I inherited the house after my parents’ tragic, stormy night crash.
Their car had slipped down a hill, and that was that.
Since then, my Aunt Maggie has been the one looking after me, even as I got older and would come only during the summers.
She would pester me to visit her every year, just like this summer, so I know that she’s been missing me.
I fumble with the key, cursing under my breath. The door finally gives way with a haunting voice, and I stumble inside, flicking the light switch.
The room looks just like I left it. The main room is cozy with an overstuffed sofa in that old-fashioned tapestry look.
The two side chairs are my additions. I found them at an estate sale a few summers ago and they seemed to fit the room perfectly.
The small kitchen is sparkling clean, no doubt due to Aunt Maggie’s oversight.
Opening the door to my bedroom – one of two in the house – shows off the real me, I’m sorry to say.
The bed is half made, clothes are strewn everywhere, and a pile of books on a rickety stand threatens to collapse.
It may be messy but it’s me. Maybe I should be ashamed of how I left it several years ago. Nah .
Aunt Maggie lives next door on my right. She cares for my house while I’m gone, which, of course, is most of the time. It’s my second home, but not my permanent residence. My first home is in California.
It’s literally 2 a.m. so banging on Auntie’s door is not a great idea. She told me to inform her as soon as I arrived, so I sent her a text letting her know I’m here.
I dump my backpack on the floor, take off my shoes, and flop face-first onto the bed.
Ah… Bliss!
The sheets smell faintly of lavender. It's a comfort I didn’t know I missed until now.
I lay there for a while, listening to the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore and the wind whispering through the trees.
My eyes start to droop, exhaustion finally winning the battle. Just as I am about to drift off, my phone buzzes.
I groan, reaching blindly for it on the nightstand. It’s a text from my childhood best friend, Lyla.
Welcome back! How was the journey ?
I snort, thumbs flying over the screen.
More like a nightmare. But hey, at least I am back in paradise.
Miss you, girl. Let's catch up soon.
I smile at her message.
For sure. After I sleep for a decade.
I reply and turn off my phone, snuggling deeper into the covers.
***
The siren wails are the first to pierce the salty morning air, shattering the fragile illusion of serenity. I fling myself upright in bed, the tangled sheets protesting my sudden movement. My heart hammers a frantic tattoo against my ribs, mimicking the erratic rhythm of the approaching fire truck.
Here we go again, Seabrook's annual summer nightmare noises.
Scrambling out of bed, I yank on a pair of shorts and a faded Seabrook Whales t-shirt.
It's a relic from my childhood featuring a cartoon whale with a ridiculously optimistic grin.
It is not exactly beach-chic, but it is comfortable enough for a day spent dodging tourists and rescuing wayward flip-flops from the tide.
As I traipse to the window, the firetruck roars past. Its red blur starkly contrasts with the pastel-painted beach houses lining the street.
Seabrook is a picturesque coastal village that seems to have leaped straight out of a storybook. It’s nestled between rolling hills and the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
The main street is lined with cottages and quirky storefronts.
But the heart of the town is the bustling marina, where fishing boats and yachts bob lazily in the sapphire-blue water. The docks are already alive with activity, with fishermen unloading their morning’s catch and children chasing seagulls.
The boardwalk, with its worn wooden planks and whimsical lampposts, stretches along the shoreline that is dotted with rocky outcrops and tidal pools teeming with marine life, inviting exploration.
Quaint shops and cafes are scattered throughout the town. The old lighthouse, standing tall on a rocky cliff, offers a panoramic view of the entire town and the vast ocean beyond. The tourists come for the serene environment here.
And then my eyes land on the house next door to the left.
Ethan 'Smoke' Campbell's house, and right now, it's undoubtedly not a sight to behold.
A plume of black smoke billows from his backyard, punctuated by the occasional fiery whoosh.
A smile tugs at my lips despite the situation. Classic Ethan.
The man could extinguish a five-alarm inferno with a single raised eyebrow, yet here he is, defeated by a malfunctioning grill. There is a certain satisfaction in seeing the usually unflappable Smoke flustered, primarily because it’s from something so ordinary.
The urge to grab my phone and capture this glorious moment for posterity wars with a competing one - the urge to help.
Seeing him struggle, smoke billowing from his backyard like a scene from a bad reality show, evokes a flicker of sympathy… along with a crazy laugh I cannot control.
Chuckling, I grab a fire extinguisher from the kitchen. It’s there as a precaution after an Aunt Maggie toaster incident the last time I was here.
The salty scent of the ocean mingles with the acrid tang of burning charcoal as I cross through the bushes to his yard. Smoke himself is frantically waving a dish towel at the offending grill, his face smudged with soot, and his usually perfect blonde hair a disaster zone.
He looks up as I approach, his expression a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”
I saunter up, trying not to laugh at Ethan's looks. “Nice barbecue you got going on, Smoke. Hosting a bonfire for the whole neighborhood, or just me?”
Ethan rolls his eyes with a smudge of soot stretching across his cheek.
"Hilarious, Ami. Did you come to help or just to gloat?"
“Oh, a little of both,” I reply, hoisting the fire extinguisher. “Stand back!”
With a satisfying hiss, the fire extinguisher douses the flames, leaving a cloud of white powder and the smell of charred meat hanging in the air. Ethan glares at the now lifeless grill and then back at me.
“Thanks, I guess,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of his shirt to wipe his face, only to spread more soot around.
I can’t help but snicker.
“Here, let me. You look like you just walked out of a chimney,” I grab a napkin from the table, stepping closer to dab at his face.
Ethan endures my ministrations with a sigh.
Why can't this grumpy man smile for once?