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 up in Boston,” I remind him. “About twenty miles south of it.”

Joe changes his tune. “Ah. Right. One of those fancy areas of the great state with Live Free or Die on the license plate.”

“That’s New Hampshire. Massachusetts’ is The 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 to By 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.