Page 7 of The Americana Playbook

He sighs. “Look, I’m booked out for one of the teams’ after-parties, and I already know, with the crowd it’ll draw, I’ll be serving drinks myself. You’d be doing me a favor. And these guys—win or lose—they’ll be here to drink. You can tip out whatever anyone hands you.”

Considering how my car sounded this morning, I guess not only would I be making money if I worked tomorrow, but also saving money because I wouldn’t have to pay to get it towed after it breaks down. There’s girl math somewhere in there.

“Fine.”

“Great. Hand your table off. You’ll only miss an hour. You’ll make it up times ten tomorrow,” Joe says. “I promise.”

I slide over to the computer. “If you say so.”

“Iknowso. Rebels are picked to win big time.”

I freeze, slowly tilting my head. “The Rebels?”

“The New England Rebels.”

“I know who the Rebels are.”

More than you’d ever know, I should add, but instead, I keep it to myself. But of course I know. And that’s not just because I grew up in New England. That’s because once every blue moon, I google Fitz.

“Right. I always forget you’re a Mass-hole,” he jokes. “Just my luck, though, you don’t have one of those fun accents. You know, pahk the cahr in Boston Hahbor.”

“I didn’t grow upinBoston,” I remind him. “About twenty miles south of it.”

Joe changes his tune. “Ah. Right. One of those fancy areas of the great state withLive Free or Dieon the license plate.”

“That’s New Hampshire. Massachusetts’ isThe spirit of America.”

I don’t waste my breath explaining that the slogan originated from a campaign ad in the 1980s and, technically, has nothing to do with the official state motto, which translates from Latin toBy the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty. The state motto, written by one of my relatives in 1775, is older than the country itself. That was the motto of my father’s presidential campaign when I was in high school—Montgomerys have always been and will be for America.

Considering he lost then, and won when he ran again four years ago, I’m assuming he came up with something a little snazzier. I made it a point to not watch TV or glance at a newspaper for the year leading up to that election. I missed voting registration because it took me forever to renew my driver’s license, but if I did, I would’ve voted for the other guy.

“Fancy is fancy,” Joe says. “No matter the state.”

Joe might’ve been wrong about the state slogan, but he isn’t quite wrong about where I grew up.

On the surface, Manhasset looks like any other New England coastal town—shingled homes, sandy paths that feed into old streets. It’s a quaint town with one bakery. Cool summer mornings start with a sweater and jean shorts, but there’s plenty of warmth during the afternoon to ditch the sweater for a bikini top, to ride your bike to one of the beaches. But it’s also home—or a second home—to some of the most wealthy, powerful families in New England.

In my case, I didn’t have to go far to get to the water, only down the gentle slope of the sprawling backyard to the long dock. If you followed it to the end and jumped off, you bypassed the rocky coast flanking Captain’s Cottage, the home that’s been in my family for generations.

It started out that way, as a cottage. My great-great-great grandfather built it by hand. No more than a one-bedroom house with a dock, a place he and his wife escaped to on weekends so he could tune out the noise that came with being the state treasurer. When it came time for him to run for governor, his wife apparently begged and pleaded him to upgrade the home. What would people think of the modest house? Of the dingy dock and patchy grass? He refused.

The original home burned to the ground. According to my grandmother, Honey, his concerned wife set it on fire. But the Montgomery name lived on. The rebuild made the cottage grander than ever. The obsession withhowthings look is ingrained in my family like a generational curse.

“Get some rest tonight,” Joe says. “Don’t go too wild.”

“The only thing wild will be me eating ice cream with freezer burn while I watchGolden Girls.”

Joe probably thinks I’m joking, but I’m not. And I’m eager to have a few old ladies keep me company. That’s enough for me. I’ve never made it through an episode—even the series finale—without a smile on my face. Those ladies, well, they make me think of Honey.

We never called my grandmother anything else.We called her Honey because that’s what she called us.

“Oh, honey, be a doll and fetch my lipstick.”

“Did I ever tell you the time I went on a date with Mr. Kennedy, honey? The father, not the president. I never had a chance to rob the cradle.”

“Honey, good women aren’t fragile like flowers. They’re delicate,”she’d whisper, bopping my nose.“Like bombs. And a good man will protect you only to keep the fuse dry.”

Lung cancer took her quickly. She smoked Virginia Slims until the day before she died when I was sixteen.

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