Blue Moon

Luanne

Rice

PENGUIN BOOKS

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

S
ome said Mount Hope was founded on love, and some said it was founded on war. Peter Benson, a shipbuilding English settler, gave a parcel of land on the harbor to his daughter Alice the day of her marriage, and she and her husband, William Perry, founded the town. From their wedding day forward, the Perrys built ships for the Revolution, and their descendants built ships for the War of 1812, the War Between the States, the First World War, and the Second World War.

From May until September, on certain October weekends for the foliage, and on two consecutive December Saturdays for the Christmas Strolls, Mount Hope would fill with tourists. Deluxe motorcoaches from New Jersey and Ohio brought folks hoping to breathe New England salt air, to walk the tawny dunes of Spray Cove at sunset, to gaze at sleek white yachts longer than their tour buses, to drive past the
belle époque
palaces of robber barons while over the loudspeaker the tour guide delivered salacious gossip about the barons’ fortunes and depravities—and to eat Shore Dinners.

Shore Dinners were hefty meals of clear-brothed Rhode Island clam chowder, briny steamer clams, chunks of milky-white codfish dipped in succulent beer batter and deep-fried until crackling and golden, butter-broiled sea scallops, sweet corn on the cob, and lobster. Tradition had it that Shore Dinners must be eaten within sight of salt water. For the best Shore Dinners in Mount Hope, people went to Lobsterville.

With four big picture windows facing the harbor, Lobsterville had the nicest view of any restaurant in town. No one minded the
hour or longer wait for a table, because the bar served the biggest drinks on the waterfront. Drinking their whiskey sours, diners loved to drift along the wharf, listening for bell buoys, halyards clanking in the wind, and the strains of the Dixieland band playing two docks away at Brick’s.

The breeze turned chilly after sunset, and people put on sweaters. They watched the harbor launch chuff from mooring to mooring, ferrying the sailors from their boats into town. Sea gulls cruised the air. Fishing boats stopped at the end of the dock, past the sign declaring the area off-limits to tourists, to unload their catches. It was exciting to know that the fish you were about to eat was
that fresh.
Women in bright cotton dresses leaned into the arms of their husbands, for warmth. Waiting to hear their names called over the Lobsterville loudspeaker, men never felt stronger.

The Keating family had owned this spot on the Mount Hope waterfront for three generations. Battered by a century of northeasters, and worse, it was a working-fishermen’s wharf, glistening with fish scales, reeking of cod. The family owned a fleet of boats; tethered to the wharf, they were painted the bright primary colors of children’s building blocks. Most of their daily catch went to the Boston fish auction. But the most prized fish went to Lobsterville, the family restaurant, which occupied the same wharf as the boats that caught it.

People joked that the clamming rakes crossed over the bar were the Keating’s coat of arms. Regulars knew the story of how Eddie and Sheila Keating had started the business with a bushel of clams and a case of whiskey. Lobsterville’s red leather menus contained a page listing historical facts about Mount Hope, the fishing fleet, shipbuilding, Mount Hope’s gilded era, the Bensons, and the Perrys. Right at the top, in old-fashioned script, as if handwritten, were the words: “Some say Mount Hope was founded on love, and some say it was founded on war.”

The Keatings considered Mount Hope’s love-and-war business romantic hooey, fodder for the tour-bus drivers. The Keatings said Mount Hope was founded on cod, pollack, haddock, hake, ice to keep them fresh, and lobster. Especially lobster. The Keatings said Mount Hope was founded on fish, plain and simple.