Our father’s dating escapades may have been responsible for varying levels of discomfort in his six adult children, but he’d yet to connect with a woman who hadn’t contributed at least one casserole to sustain him against the ravages of widowerhood. Even the women who owned Bark & Roll Forever paid him in casseroles they acquired by bartering with a friend who had a catering business.

One of the upsides about buying the family house was that I no longer had to drive across town to shop my father’s refrigerator. The casseroles came with the house. I loved the way they filled the freezer. The way there was always something for dinner if you didn’t mind waiting long enough for it to thaw and cook. The way those casseroles kept me from looking like I was slacking and John was doing most of the cooking.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sarah. If you go all the way around to the other side of the house and in through the mudroom door, you’ll find my father’s new place. I don’t think he’s there right now, but make yourself at home if you want to wait.”

“Hi, I’m Christine,” my sister said.

I held out my hands before Christine got any big ideas about taking a casserole home with her.

“I can take those for you if you want,” I said. “I’ll put them right in the fridge for my father.”

The women introduced themselves. I smiled but let their names slide in one ear and out the other. The truth was I didn’t bother to retain anything about the women in my father’s life until at least the fifth date. Or after the third casserole, whichever came first.

The shepherd’s pie lady took a moment to write a note on the back of a receipt and tuck it into the fold of the foil. The other woman had already taped a card and a big blue bow to her seafood lasagna.

They handed the casseroles over to me. I forced myself to remain dignified, as opposed to jumping up and down and cheering.

“Thanks so much,” I yelled as they walked away. “We worry about our dad getting enough to eat.”

Chapter Fourteen

I got both casseroles safely tucked away with the others in the house. Then I ran back and picked up my brother Johnny’s mammoth tie-dyed backpack again. My sister Christine was just standing there doing nothing, so I turned the doorknob with one hand while I gracefully kicked open the trailer door with the other.

My three brothers looked up. They were jammed into the trailer’s little dinette like giant sardines, each with a bottle of Sam Adams in front of him on the teensy tabletop.

“You want a hand with that?” my brother Johnny said.

“Yeah.” I sighed and gave the backpack a martyr-like shift on my shoulder.