Prologue - Bootlegger

Bootlegger: a person who makes or sells liquor illegally

Fire Island - July 2020

"It's not fair," Emma whines, throwing herself on the sand. My daughter's fourteen, all long limbs and long faces. Her moods turn faster than the tide.

"No one ever said life is-"

"Oh my God, Mom," she groans, cutting me off. "You have no idea what I'm going through."

"Yes, tortured with a beach vacation. How will you survive?"

Hiding underneath a beach towel, Emma rolls to her side, pulls her knees to her chest, and folds her arms tight across her body. She's a ball of teen angst.

"Why are we even here?" she grumbles.

"Because our family's been coming here forever."

It's true. It's practically in our blood. There are definitely traces of our family's DNA on this sand. Our beach house has been passed down for generations. It'll take more than a global pandemic to keep the Masens away.

"Way to exaggerate," Emma snaps. "It's not even close to forever. Just since you were a kid."

"Much longer than that, kiddo."

Her hazel eyes flash my way, but she looks past me just as fast. She digs her toes into white sand.

"Since Grandma and Grandpa?" she asks off-handed, like the question just happens to fall out of her mouth.

"Your great-grandpa came here all the time. He told me they named this island after him and his friends."

She smirks. "Was he named 'Fire' or something?"

Emma thinks she's clever. She is, although her attitude isn't helping anything these days. I wish she'd tell me what's wrong.

"His name was Edward, not Fire. But he started bonfires here all the time."

"Edward," she murmurs, testing it out. Probably trying and failing to remember stories about someone named Edward in our family tree. "So Great-Grandpa Edward was into bonfires. Was he a big s'mores fan?"

"Bootlegger," I reply matter-of-factly.

Emma's eyes go wide.

Pleased I have the power to surprise a salty teenager, this time I'm the one to smirk.

"What's a boot-licker?" Jason asks, kicking sand everywhere as he runs up to the blanket. "Can I have a juice box, Mommy?"

I hand him a little box of pure sugar. He'll burn off the energy and then some, and still sleep like a baby. One of the perks of summers on the beach.

"Bootleggers were criminals," Emma tells her brother. "They sold alcohol."

"Bad men?" Excited, he aims a plastic straw at us and pretends to shoot over his shoulder as he runs back to the water's edge. "Bam! Bam! I killed you! I killed you, you boot-licker!"

Emma sneaks a look in either direction, purely for dramatic effect. We're socially distancing so there aren't people anywhere nearby. "You're telling me I have a great-grandfather who... broke the law?" she hisses.

"Don't leave out Great-Grandma."

Emma's jaw drops. "Both my great-grandparents were bootleggers? Are you for real right now?"

"Not exactly," I hedge. "Your great-grandma didn't sell illegal liquor, but she was on the run from the police. Which is ironic, since she was the police commissioner's daughter."

I was about Emma's age when my mom whispered the story to me on one side of the big beach blanket, while my grandparents - both in their nineties - sat on the other side.

My Grandpa Anthony taught me how to swim. Grandma Marie made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every day. I couldn't believe they were outlaws. Not until I saw the old family photo album and the yellowed newspaper clippings.

I'm so lost in memories and missing my grandparents, I'm surprised to find Emma sitting right next to my beach chair.

"So?" she asks.

"So what, Em?"

"You cannot leave it like that, Mom. We're descended from criminals? Are you kidding me with this?"

I hold up my hand. "God's honest truth."

"You gotta tell me more."

"And you've got to lose the attitude, missy. I can't take another week of your moods."

Emma clenches her jaw.

"Or you could try telling me what's going on."

My daughter huffs and blows a wisp of honey brown hair out of her eyes. The sea breeze whips it right back again. I can't tell if she's more frustrated with me or the wind. For a second, I see a hint of her great-grandmother in her.

In the picture I'm thinking of, Grandma Marie was caught rolling her eyes as her dark hair blew in her face. You could see a few freckles over the tops of her cheeks and a sarcastic smile on her lips. Her dress was prim and proper, sleeves down to her wrists and the hem brushing just below her knees. It must have been taken right before her flapper phase. Before she met Grandpa. She was only a little older than Emma is now.

"I can't believe something exciting ever happened to this boring family," Emma glances around like she might find some kind of evidence. "And it happened like right here? On this beach?"

"Their story really started in New York City."

"Were they like Bonnie and Clyde?"

"A little bit. Maybe. I think of them more like Romeo and Juliet. Everything Edward and Isabella did, they did for love."

A/N: Thanks to Lizzie Paige for the beautiful banner, SueBee for making the switch from Catholic capitalization to bootlegger slang, and to Chrisann & Kate hotteaforme for holding our hands.

Chapter 1 will post on Friday & updates should be on Fridays from here on out (pretend-God willing). We'll be sharing teasers and having fun in our Dark, Dank Box on Facebook and on Twitter. Links are in our bio. Until Friday, dolls...