“Yeah,” Carol said. “Except that you can’t drink in your car, and since we’re actually in Massachusetts, it’s thirty degrees out in that parking lot if we’re lucky.”

“Dream killer,” Michael said.

“I think we should just go in,” Billy Jr. said. “We can sit in the bar. Dad won’t even notice us. He’ll be too busy making applesauce with some baby cakes.”

“You sound just like him,” Christine said.

“How about this,” I said. “I’ll run in and make sure the coast is clear. And check to see if there are any seats left at the bar. And also make sure Dad’s not with one of his bad old girlfriends.”

“If it’s Dolly, run,” Michael said.

“Or Sweepstakes Sally,” Christine said.

“Now you’re scaring me,” I said. “Maybe somebody better come in with me.”

“Dad’s less likely to spot just one of us,” Carol said. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pull right up by the front door and keep the engine running. We can always high tail it back to Marshbury and get a drink at High Tide if we have to.”

“Whatever,” I said. I tried to slam the side door behind me for emphasis, but it had some kind of anti-slam feature, like the vehicular equivalent of a soft-close kitchen drawer. What was the world coming to when you couldn’t even slam a minivan door anymore?

“Hey,” Michael was saying as the door shut. “Is that my favorite jacket from high school?”

I ignored him. The long suede fringe on the jacket swung back and forth as I walked away. I could see my breath in the frigid air, so I pulled the jacket tighter. Maybe my father was inside with his bosses, the Bark & Roll Forever ladies, having their own little holiday party. If so, we could all hang out. I loved spending time with them—they were hip and ageless and hilarious and gave me hope that by the time I got to be their age, I might actually have my act together. Plus, I could ask them about the best way to get Pebbles and the cats acclimated to the rest of the house.

I pulled the restaurant’s heavy door open, walked through the lobby and glanced into the half-empty bar. Nobody stopped me, so I rounded the corner to take a peek at the restaurant side.

My father was seated at a candlelit booth tucked away in a corner.

He was a holding hands with a woman across the heavy pine tabletop. He was leaning forward and lifting up the woman’s chin with two fingers of his other hand. She was looking into his eyes. They were both smiling.

It was Polly.

Chapter Twenty-Seven