A/N: Uhhh hey there! Greetings from what is hopefully the end of a depressive episode.

Obviously this is super behind and late now, so I apologize. But, for me, an episode means zero writing because it's impossible to string coherent thoughts together (let alone actual words on "paper") and the famous Guilt Spiral rears its ugly head.

But at least this chapter is long-ish! Lots of important stuff happens, which is why I wanted to make sure I got it right (and maybe why I felt a lot of pressure in finishing).

Anyway...thanks to everyone reading this for coming back ;)

"So we're not having turkey and stuffing?"

For what feels like the hundredth time since she announced they'd be helping with Thanksgiving dinner at Mount Carmel, Sharon fields a complaint on the topic from her daughter. As she seals a large Tupperware bowl, she answers, "I could swear you're the same girl who turned up her nose at turkey and stuffing last year."

"But it is Thanksgiving, right?" Emily plants a palm on her hip, in a show of attitude too assured for her age. "Because it doesn't seem like we're celebrating."

"We are celebrating, by giving back. You and Ricky are both old enough to appreciate that, now. It's the perfect occasion to consider those less fortunate than we are."

"Less fortunate," she quips, "but they'll be eating turkey."

Perhaps Sharon made a mistake in mentioning the separate volunteer potluck to her daughter.

Then again, maybe her failure is larger.

She bites back a hard retort about the privilege of always knowing where your next meal will be, opting for cool logic instead. "After we help serve dinner, we'll pack up whatever's left of the donated food, so it can be handed out to people preparing to spend their night on the street." She can't resist twisting this into a point as she snaps a second lid in place. "The volunteers have a carry-in every year, that's why I made broccoli slaw and jigglers."

Frankly, the sharing approach turned out to be the perfect setup for a head chef who had neither the time nor the desire to make a full holiday dinner this year. But that's beside the point.

As Emily pulls another eye roll, Ricky pops his head through the door. "Jigglers? Did you make them with the blue Jell-O?"

"Of course." Sharon can't resist returning his grin as she holds the treats out to him. "Can you take them to the car?"

"Yeah!"

After he darts outside, she hands the salad to Emily. "Maybe we'll end up liking this more than our usual way of celebrating."

"Sure." She turns heel, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder as she goes. "Whatever."

Sharon draws a calming breath as she locks the door and heads for the garage. It's going to be a long day; she can't let Emily's near permanent foul mood infect her own.

Ricky must have the same idea. As she settles into the front, he's ending some exchange with his sister from the backseat. "…all sorts of people, it'll be cool. They'll probably bring stuff Mom doesn't usually make for us."

"Yeah," Emily scoffs, "we all know you're only going for the food, Pit."

Sharon fixes her with a level stare. "Stop."

She drops the eating angle, but Ricky — bless his heart — doesn't. After several minutes of uninterrupted road noise, he asks, "Mom, do you think someone will bring those little sausage things? I like when they're in barbeque sauce. Ooh, or wrapped in bacon!"

With a smile in the rearview, Sharon says, "I think mini sausages make an appearance at most potlucks, in one form or another."

"Yesss." He grins out the window as they roll off the freeway and onto the surface streets of Silver Lake. "I'm gonna have, like, a hundred."

She smothers a snort as she glances at the flier Andy had put together for volunteers. The typed directions leave her pulling onto the school grounds and parking near a set of athletic fields. From there, it's clear where the action is. Several groups gather along the sidewalk leading to the tall gym building, adults chatting as kids play nearby. The nearest door stands open, displaying a posterboard "Happy Thanksgiving" sign that was undoubtedly the loving creation of Mount Carmel students.

Inside, narrow tables laden with food are arranged in a long line, parallel to a wall with several pass-throughs looking into a kitchen. Large windows fill most of the far side of the building, pulling in abundant sunlight. Most of the floor is striped with tables and chairs, laid out like a makeshift restaurant. What Sharon assumes to be pristine, polished wood underfoot is covered and protected by a layer of thick gray vinyl which spreads across the entire space.

"Hey, LT!"

Andy's signature greeting pulls her attention from the setup to where he steps from behind the serving line. The smile he stretches on leaves her own lips curling as she explains, "I brought a few extra hands." She settles her palms on the kids' shoulders.

"Nice!" He nods toward the kitchen. "We've been putting the potluck stuff in the back fridge — there's a sign on it — and there's a coat rack just around the corner from there."

Sharon nudges the kids in that direction, sending her jacket on Ricky's elbow. She takes a moment to take in the gym again, wrapping her imagination around it until it looks like something approaching Whoville. "So this is our canvas, hm?"

"Yeah, it is. I think we can whip it into shape." He lifts an arm toward the kitchen. "Alex should love this, for the food setup. The school expanded this when they renovated the gym a few years back. They went ahead and added doors and windows on this side, so they can serve meals in here when the cafeteria gets too small."

"On a day like today, for example?"

Andy turns to the center of the cavernous room, with its grid of tables. "Yep, definitely like today."

A group of teenagers roams through the seats, wiping down surfaces and sweeping the aisles. "I hope we didn't already miss the bulk of it."

"Oh, nah, don't worry." When he angles toward her again, Sharon can't help but notice the lack of tension in his features. It was once his signature characteristic, replaced now by something… oddly calming. A grin tilts his lips. "We had one big rush around noon. But we'll get slammed again soon, if last year is any sign."

"You got here early, then?"

"Ah, I've been here since…" He rubs at the back of his neck. "I dunno, eight? We had a bunch of tables to set up." He nods at the far wall, where a telltale climb of wooden slats toward the ceiling mark retractable bleachers. "And we had to figure out how to get those things shoved into place, to make room for everyone."

Amid this explanation, Ricky's tennis shoes slap his sprinting arrival. "Oh, I know how to do those!"

"Hey, Ricky." Andy pairs the greeting with a creased brow. "You know how to work the bleachers?"

"Uh-huh, with the pole thing." He mimics a pushing motion. "I help Mr. Donovan with the ones at school, sometimes."

At Andy's questioning look, Sharon clarifies: "The maintenance tech up at Saint Joe's. The kids sign up to work with different staff members on service days."

"Yeah," Ricky grins, "and Mr. Donovan has all the coolest stuff."

"I bet."

Emily appears, casting her dark eyes around the gym. Her arms twist into a hard knot across her chest. Sharon reaches for her shoulder, redirecting her attention. "Andy, this is my daughter, Emily."

He offers a wave. "Hey Emily, nice to meet you." At her wan smile and slight nod, he rubs his hands together. "Well, how'd you two like to be the most popular people here?"

Ricky tilts his head, weighing the offer. "That sounds pretty good…"

"Yeah?" Andy points to the end of a long line of tables stacked with food. "You wanna go down there and help Mrs. Sellers hand out the cake and pie?"

This option is enough to soften Emily's approach. "We can do that." She pairs the answer with a a palm on her brother's shoulder. "C'mon."

Sharon watches them go with a few slow blinks, as if she might have dreamed the exchange. "Well. That was less painful than I expected."

"Ah, there was some arm-twisting involved in getting them here?"

"Not with Ricky, no. But at this point I probably couldn't get Emily excited to go for ice cream or a weekend at the beach, let alone volunteering." With a shake of her head, she turns back to Andy. "So what's the plan?"

"I think cooking and clean-up is pretty well staffed for now, if you want to help serve." He chuckles. "As the resident vegetarian, of course I'm over here passing out turkey."

"How did you manage that?"

Andy lifts a shoulder as he rounds the serving line. "Just jumped in where there was an opening." Pausing at the tables nearest the kitchen, where warmers crowd the tables, he glances around. "Ah, let's see. Misty, did you say you have to take off soon?"

A woman with close-cropped black hair looks up. "Yeah, I'm supposed to be up at my in-laws' in an hour."

He turns back to Sharon with a grin. "How do you feel about slinging stuffing?"

"I can handle that."

As she accepts an apron from Misty, she can't help but notice that the stuffing is housed right next to the turkey. Andy sidles past with a fresh tray and settles it into the neighboring warmer while she laces the apron around her waist. The arrangement sends a prickle of recognition through her, that he'd choose to have her in such close proximity.

In a blink, she flicks it away. It's nothing. Just jumping in where there's an opening.

And the openings are few and far between, even if Sharon doesn't recognize most of the volunteers. "I don't see many LAPRRA people here."

Andy shrugs. "It's been enough. And some of them have already come and gone. Your friend Brad," he laces the name with a hinted dig, "was here earlier with a few other guys."

"Oh, good," she says, allowing her relief to overwhelm his slight sarcasm.

On a lifted shoulder, he adds, with unlaced sincerity, "It was a good thing they came when they did. They were a big help with setting up and finishing the first round of food. Brad even got whisk-deep in some potatoes."

Sharon lets out a short laugh at the thought of her cooking-averse friend in such a compromising position. "Okay, I'm sad to hear I missed that."

Before she knows it, Andy has leaned close enough to leave her shoulder warming in proximity to his chest. He mutters, "There may be photographic evidence," before pulling back, wearing a tricky smirk. "Jay loves that stuff for the newsletters."

The mysterious Jay. Sharon grins to herself, brushing off his delivery. "Is he around today?"

"Oh, yeah. This is his show. And he specifically said he wanted to thank you for getting people to pitch in."

"Nonsense. We should be thanking him for helping us out."

"Ah," Andy stretches the sound of recognition into a tease as his eyes catch on a point across the room. "You're about to get your chance. There's our knight in shining armor now."

She follows his line of sight, to where a middle-aged blond main — clad in an unmistakable combination of black slacks and shirt with a white collar— has entered the gym.

"You mean the priest?"

"Yeah, that's Jay."

Sharon shouldn't be surprised. True, the past few principals at Saint Joseph's have been lay education doctorates, and that recent history colored her assumption as to who Jay was. But when she was coming up through diocesan schools, her principals were all priests or nuns.

No, the oddity lies more with the man who describes Mount Carmel's leader as 'an old friend.' She shoots Andy a glance and a sly grin. "I wouldn't peg you as someone who'd be hanging out with the clergy."

"Well, I mean, he was my friend way before he was a priest." After arranging several slices of turkey onto an offered plate with a grinning nod, he explains. "My family moved from Brooklyn out to New Jersey when I was in elementary school — probably around second grade? It was a close-knit neighborhood, and we were fresh meat. Frankly, Jay was just about the only kid who wasn't a complete jerk." He smiles at Sharon's sharp laugh, but it fades into something wistful before he says, "And then, when my dad died about a year after the move, his parents helped me out a lot."

This bit of history squeezes at her chest. To lose a parent that young… "That must've been awful."

He's nonchalant. "I mean, it was, from what I can remember." He pauses in his story to greet a family coming through the line and allow Sharon to follow suit, holding until each person has their pick of turkey and dollops of stuffing. "My ma was pretty far out of it for a while, so my oldest sister ended up dropping out of her senior year to get a job at the assembly plant in town. Then my brother and other sister were picking up whatever after-school work they could. I was too little to help out much, so while they were out the Cavellos kept me fed and supervised."

A hand claps onto his shoulder, followed by a chuckle. "Well my folks tried to provide supervision. Somehow we always found a way out of it though." The blond priest — Jay, apparently — has appeared behind them. "We must've had about ten ways to sneak in and out of their old house."

"Yeah, at least," Andy laughs. "Jay, this is Sharon Raydor. She's a lieutenant down at Parker Center— "

"Oh, right, the one you told me about."

Andy's usual swagger takes an unusual and curious downward swing as Jay extends his hand to her. "Uh-huh, because she's the Christmas party chair."

"Ah, yes," he gives Sharon's hand a squeeze. "The one who keeps everyone coloring inside the lines."

It's a not-unkind observation, but the specificity of it, coming from a stranger, leaves her brow lifting. "So everyone tells me."

"Every good team needs that kind of leadership." Jay's mouth curls into a wry grin. "A shocking concept coming from a priest, I know."

"Well," Sharon reflects on the few familiar faces she's found this afternoon. "Sorry that leadership doesn't extend to getting more volunteers to your school."

"No, no, you've helped out plenty. Every volunteer is a blessing, really. As you can see," he nods toward a group entering the gym, "we're gearing up for a full house."

"So I guess that means your extra outreach worked, huh?" Andy asks.

"It did." Jay goes somber. "Lots of people being overlooked in this neighborhood. I'm glad we could bring at least some of them in." He turns to Andy, "Speaking of…"

The rest of his comment is lost to murmuring. Andy responds to whatever he says by backing away from the line, untying his apron and handing it over. "Yeah, sure. No problem."

Jay ties the fabric around his own waist as he watches Andy wade into the tables. A faint smile turns his lips. To Sharon, he says, "That guy finally reminds me of the kid I knew, growing up. It's been such a gift to get this posting in LA." He nods toward nothing in particular. "For both of us, I think."

"How long have you been here?"

"Just about three years now." He waves at a new group trudging through the front door. "My first assignment out of seminary was in Bolivia. It was incredibly rewarding, but it was a lot, and it was far from…well, pretty much everything. By the end of it, I was burned out and withdrawn, both spiritually and physically. I jumped at the chance to come to Mount Carmel, get closer to home."

Sharon lifts a brow. "'Home' being New Jersey?"

He flashes a smile. "Closer than Cochabamba! Besides, my parents moved out to Scottsdale a few years ago." On a shrug, he says, "Of course, I knew Andy was here, and that was another drawing point. I looked forward to catching up with him. What I didn't know, before I showed up, was that he was burned out, too. Struggling."

Sharon offers a level hum at this read. 'Burned out' is an understatement to what Andy had been buried in, before. 'Struggling' is more apt. He'd been racking up official demerits at work for years, earning a reputation as a powder keg, ready to explode at the slightest poke. In IA, it was an open secret that he'd drunk himself to near-poisoning on several occasions. No matter how good of a detective he was — and he was among the best — his behavior veered toward the inexcusable. He was a liability that no one could reel in. It wasn't until he was on the verge of dismissal that he'd agreed to seek treatment for his alcoholism and anger issues.

"Thank God," Jay says, signaling he'd revisited a similar string of memories, "we each got ahold of ourselves before we lost more."

Their conversation settles into a pleasant lull as the line extends to its promised length. The gym fills with happy sounds, laughter and embraces between friends, a community joining together. Sharon greets each person who passes, offering smiles and good wishes in addition to the food.

A break in the flow finds Jay nudging her arm, nodding to where Andy sits next to an older, weathered woman at an otherwise empty table near the door. They're deep in conversation.

"I'll tell you," Jay says, "he has a knack for reaching the unreachable."

"Oh?"

"A lot of the people who come in here confuse priests for saints. They're not interested in taking advice from someone they think hasn't struggled against their demons." He shakes his head. "I have plenty of demons, believe me, but many of our visitors tend to find Andy's more credible."

With an understanding of the respect and perfection the faithful tend to project onto clergymen, Sharon nods. "He has a…" She pauses, searching for the right descriptor. "He's straightforward about discussing his past troubles and his addiction. I imagine that helps."

"Ah, so you know about that business."

She shoots Jay an amused look. "I'm the one who keeps everyone in line, remember?" At his slow, polite nod, she clarifies. "I work in internal affairs. I'm surprised Andy didn't tell you, with how often he complains about us."

"Oh. No, he didn't mention anything about that."

Something in this emphasis, combined with Jay's calm grin leaves Sharon's eyes narrowing.

"Alright," a clap behind them marks Andy's return. "We done over here?"

Jay's expression twists into amused disbelief. "Not quite. I know those old knees of yours needed a break, Andy, but…" He rounds out the taunt by giving his watch a pointed stare as he hands off the tongs and backs away from the table.

"Yeah, yeah." Andy snaps the utensil after his friend's retreating form, muttering, "Smartass," in his wake. At Sharon's sidelong look, he says, "Hey, I'm allowed to give him a hard time."

"If you say so." A grin colors her words.

With a glance toward the ceiling, he says, "I haven't been struck down yet, so I think I'm in the clear." He pats the front of his shirt, frowns, holds an arm out to where Jay chats with a group of kids. "And Saint James walked off with my apron, too." He ducks into the kitchen for a new one before returning to his spot.

Sharon can't help but be amused, watching Andy's lighthearted exasperation. "He makes it sound like you help out here a lot."

"Oh, well, I dunno that I'd say 'a lot.'" He repositions the tongs to hang on his tray's edge before slipping the apron over his head. "I go to meetings over in the rec hall a few nights a week, and the parish hosts a soup kitchen in the cafeteria on Wednesdays. Every now and then he has me stop in to chat with someone who seems to be struggling."

"That's really great, Andy."

"I mean, I'm already here, so…" he trails off, shakes his head. "Some days, it still feels a little crazy for me to be any kind of spokesperson for sobriety. After everything."

"Like you told me, you've made a lot of changes since then."

He smirks, and the mood around them flips in an instant. "And yet, the self-improvement list never seems to get shorter."

"That's just being human, I think." She lifts a shoulder. "Or maybe it's just being Type A."

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

"Every cop I know is Type A, even if it's deep down inside."

"Well," he waggles — actually, full on waggles — his brows, "I'm not every cop you know."

Sharon directs a laugh skyward, recovering just in time to serve a new line of guests. "Isn't that the truth?"

A steady stream of diners occupies their attention for a long stretch after that, though — in true form — not even a semi-hectic rush could prevent Andy from tossing out one-liners that keep her smiling. It seems impossibly soon when the orange sun dips into view through the windows. By the time their focus shifts to filling plates for delivery, Sharon's watch shows several quick hours have passed.

In the wind-down, Emily appears across the table. "Father Jay said they're starting a wiffle ball game with some of the kids outside and he asked if we wanted to play."

"Well…" Sharon looks down the now-deserted food line. Other volunteers mill around, chatting, or carrying empty trays into the kitchen.

"We should be about done here," Andy says. When Sharon slides him a glance, he adds, "For what it's worth, anyway," before giving Emily a wink.

Her eyes narrow, but a grin sneaks through before she holds her arm toward the outside door. "Yeah, Mom, look. Most everyone is heading out to watch."

"Should be a good one," Andy cajoles.

Sharon quirks a brow at him. "So you want to go play wiffle ball, is what I'm hearing."

"Oh, I do." He chuckles, before lifting a plate. "I really do, but I told Jay I'd get these ready to go out."

To Emily, she says, "Okay, you and Ricky can go play for a while, but we'll be doing dinner soon, so—"

She turns heel without waiting for the rest. "Okay, thanks Mom!"

Sharon rolls her eyes. "If only the take-off-before-hearing-the-particulars strategy remained viable into adulthood."

With a stone-straight face, Andy asks, "Who says it doesn't?" before breaking into a smile at her answering stare. "Teenagers make it work as long as they can." With a faint nod following Emily's path, his voice goes soft. "My daughter's about the same age, and she's the type where you're lucky if she even slows down long enough to hear what you have to say."

Something about this scene, the generous man who'll spend an entire holiday serving the needy, who'll drop what he's doing to speak with a struggling addict, hits a brick wall when Sharon considers his family and their conspicuous absence.

It isn't fair — or, at least, it probably isn't fair — but her own recent history leaves her voice glinting like a blade when she asks, "And will you see her today?"

"No." He goes stony. "I won't."

His hard silence indicates he won't offer more information, and this isn't the time to press. They continue filling plates, with only scraping and rustling between them. But, after passing several helpings down the line, he flicks a glance at her and mumbles, "My ex doesn't want me around the kids."

Sharon finds her lips parting, but words don't follow. She's batting 0-for-2 on assumptions, today, and that last swing should have her thrown out of the game. As she slides another plate to the left, her mind swirls with the litany of reminders she has to give herself, these days: Not every man is Jack. Not every addict is Jack. Not everyone slinks away from problems like Jack. Not every father is as negligent as Jack…

From her dry mouth, words escape before she knows what they'll be. "That's awful, Andy. I'm sorry."

With widened eyes, his reaction approaches a startle. "Don't be sorry. It's a messed-up situation, and I did more than my share to get it that way."

With her knowledge of his professional history, she can't help but extend parallel lines to his personal life, draw inferences as to what that might have looked like. But, again, she doesn't know. And, from her view, he's come a long way from his regular, bloodied appearances in IA's offices.

"Still," she says, "that can't be easy."

After they nudge two final scoops of food from their trays, he crooks his head toward the kitchen, not quite meeting her eyes. Through the door, they find a large counter covered with food laden plates and a harried-looking older gentleman angling back and forth, searching for something.

Andy lifts his chin in the man's direction. "What's up, Art?"

The man presses his palms into the countertop. "I can't find the aluminum foil. I told Maxine I'd get these," he drags a deer-in-the-headlights stare over the plates, "wrapped up and ready to go, but I still have to—"

With a raised palm, Andy interrupts. "I got it, don't worry."

Art stills. "You sure?"

"Positive." He reaches high, pulling a long, narrow box from a nearby shelf.

"Well, no wonder I couldn't find it," Art sighs before bustling out into the gym.

Andy takes his place at the counter and pulls a length of foil. He lifts his chin in Sharon's direction. "Mind giving me a hand?"

"Sure." She joins him in the middle of the room, where tension still stretches between them. "What can I do?"

"Just stack these," he nods to a nearby pile of boxes, "in those as I get them wrapped."

After crimping the foil around a plate's edge, Andy slides it toward Sharon. He repeats the process twice before heaving a sigh. "It isn't easy, being away from my kids." He arranges another line of plates. "In fact, Jay started dragging me in here on the holidays, since they're the hardest…" With a shake of his head, he trails off, his hands still busy with wrapping. "Never mind. That's all…" he flicks his fingers, as if he could swat the truth aside like a pesky fly.

Silence falls between them as Sharon tries to untangle what he was going to say. Their quiet mood is a marked contrast from the jovial dishwashing happening just around the corner. As Andy wraps, Sharon takes care to layer the packaged plates into a box, in neat lines three deep. They've filled four such boxes before she pulls a lung-filling breath and toes into a topic she rarely broaches.

"My husband… well, we're separated, but still…" Her face warms at her sudden, odd need to specify her official distance from Jack, but she maintains focus on her task as she continues. "Anyway, he wants nothing to do with our children. He hasn't for years." She slides a filled box to the end of the bench and reaches for an empty one. "So just… don't undervalue your desire to be part of your kids' lives and don't stop trying to see them." More quietly, she adds, "They'll understand your efforts, someday. Just like my kids will understand the lack thereof from their father."

Having finished his wrapping, Andy's stare weighs heavy on her for several moments before he says, "I'm sorry you have to deal with that, Sharon."

"There's nothing to deal with, anymore." She lifts a shoulder. "I'm more sorry for Emily and Ricky."

A warm weight settles onto her hand. She requires a moment and a surprised downward glance to realize it's Andy's palm. "Just because he's not here," the quiet rumble of his voice sends a chill up her spine, "doesn't mean there's nothing to deal with."

The truth in his words, the one she is in a constant race to outrun, leaves a lump in her throat. She can't swallow it, and she won't let it choke her voice. But the hum she offers as a response is rough and uneven, saying everything she wanted to avoid.

And what now? Where does the conversation go from here? The moment is so unexpected, so foreign, it seems to spin beneath her feet. But it grows more solid when she looks up, finding him watching her with a slight frown.

Jay breezes through the door carrying laughter from his last conversation. "How goes things in here?"

As if they're flipped magnets, Andy and Sharon slide in opposite directions along the counter, offering overlapping descriptions of how well the packing went.

"Great, just finished up."

"I think it's all ready to go."

"Good, good." Jay's eyes sparkle in a knowing way, leaving Sharon scanning the kitchen for another point of attention. "Well, I told everyone we'll get the potluck going in a few. I'll carry these boxes out to the drivers."

"I'll help with that." Andy's in motion before he finishes the sentence.

With the loading handled, Sharon wanders outside to pull Ricky and Emily away from the wiffle ball game. On the way, she trades greetings with Pete, who's come to clean up, as promised. Down the sidewalk, under high, bright lights, a small cross-section of the city gathers around the school's baseball diamond as the last hint of sunlight glows orange to the west. At the plate, Emily holds a plastic bat aloft, anticpating a pitch. Ricky angles into sprinting form at third, waiting for contact. On the other side of the mound, another boy stands with his sneaker against first.

The pitcher rolls through a lazy wind-up, tosses a gentle curve over the plate. Emily's swing is stiff and late; she's never had her brother's easy aptitude for sports. A makeshift umpire screeches, "Striiiike!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ricky steps off third with his hands in the air. "Time!" Sharon crosses her arms, wondering what embarrassment he might try to inflict on his sister while she's situated on his turf.

As he jogs toward the plate, he says, "Em, here, you gotta…" He guides her hands into a more natural position at the bottom of the bat, speaking words that don't carry up to Sharon. With a short sidestep, he demonstrates a swinging motion, giving her a chance to try it herself before he flashes two thumbs-up and backs toward his base. His final piece of advice, a shouted, "You can do it!" leaves Sharon's heart glowing.

Emily squares to the pitcher with more confidence than she'd had on her first attempt. A second pitch finds the dirt at her feet, but the third flows down the middle. Her swing sends the ball thwacking over the second baseman and well into the outfield, curving toward the right field line but landing just fair. The fielders have to scramble after it.

Ricky is almost home when he yells to his sister, who watches the hit fly with a smile. "RUN, EM!" His command startles her from her reverie. When she starts up the line, he adds, "Not with the bat!"

She drops the stick and rounds first. Sharon joins in with the cheers rising up around the diamond as Emily hits second and keeps going. A long throw from right field curls off-line, well away from the third baseman. Ricky, having taken the role of a base coach, points toward the plate, screaming, "GO HOME! GO HOME!"

Emily slows only enough to ensure she touches third, then stretches her legs into each step of the final sprint. Her sneakers hit the plate with a faint slap as she lifts her hands in a victory pose. A group — her makeshift teammates — gather around, celebrating. A few nearby adults give them a moment before stepping in to nudge the game onward.

Sharon takes this as her opening, cupping her hands to her mouth to yell, "Ricky! Emily!" When their attentions lift to her, she beckons them toward the school. They turn back for a few more high-fives and laughs before following her silent request.

Ricky, arms outstretched, reaches her first. "Mom! Did you see that?"

"I did see that!" Over his shoulder, Sharon nods to Emily, who's still heaving breaths from her trip around the bases. "You might be a natural-born hitter."

"Yeah right," she laughs. Her unburdened happiness, so rare nowadays, feels like an extra victory.

As they set off toward the gym, Ricky cranes around, wearing a furrowed brow. "Hey, I helped."

"Yes, I was impressed by your maturity." Sharon squeezes his shoulder, suppressing a laugh at his efforts to take credit. "It's a little Thanksgiving miracle, seeing the two of you working as a team, for a change."

They meet her sentiment with twin groans. Even today, it's too much to expect their unity to be anything other than short-lived. Still, she takes a moment to appreciate the three of them, strolling together in near-peace. With her cubs already pushing beyond the den, these moments might soon become more difficult to find.

As they step up to the door, Ricky breaks the tranquility with a muttered, "Can I have a jiggler now?"

Sharon shakes her head with a smile. "You can, once you've washed your hands and eaten some real food."

"Ugh."

"Go on," she nudges him inside. "I think they'll be wanting to start dinner soon."

As he races off, Sharon catches her daughter's eye. She's still glowing with triumph, more luminous than she's been in a long while. "So, is this looking any better than turkey and stuffing at home, yet?"

"It's pretty okay." Her lips twist, an unsuccessful attempt at eliminating her smile. "I guess."

"I'll take 'pretty okay.'" Sharon points her toward the restrooms. "Go wash up, and we'll have some dinner. I think I saw some of your favorites in there."

Emily spins, backing away as she asks, "Like what?"

"Like baked mac and cheese? Soft rolls? Spinach dip? Apple pie?"

"Okay, okay!" She holds up her hands in surrender and turns around, calling over her shoulder as she goes. "I'll be right back!"

Sharon finds herself grinning after her, glad to see a glimpse of the carefree girl Emily seemingly tries so hard not to be anymore. Not for the first time, she wishes she could convince her daughter there's no need to rush into the gloomy seriousness of adulthood. She's sketching out a way to use today as an example in such a conversation when quick, purposeful footsteps up the sidewalk steal her attention. She turns to find Caroline Shaughnessy pacing toward the gym.

Her expression brightens. "Oh, hey, Lieutenant, I'm not too late, am I?"

"No, of course not." Sharon takes in her dark pants, chunky patrol shoes, and navy t-shirt. She'd no doubt left her uniform shirt and badge in her car, along with her belt. "You just finished your shift?"

"Yeah, the Sarge gave us a little extra time today." She shrugs. "I wanted to stop by and do my part."

"You're feeling up to that?"

"It was a light day. Well," she glances upward, with a smile, "as light as patrol gets, anyway."

Sharon squeezes her shoulder and guides her into the gym. "Yeah, I remember." With a point toward the kitchen door, she adds, "If you go through here and to the right, I think that's where most of the action is at the moment. Pete should be in there, too."

"Sounds good."

She trails Caroline to the kitchen, from there hanging a left. In the prep area, potluck food now lines the counter that held their travel-ready dinner plates. Most of the volunteers have already gathered into a line that snakes to the door on the far side of the room.

Ricky waves at her from the end of the row, next to where — of course — Jay and Andy are chatting, gesturing back and forth, seemingly gauging the turnout.

Jay motions Sharon over to stand in front of them, then shuffles Ricky and a freshened-up Emily to her side. With one final look around the room, he announces, "Okay, I think we've got everyone who isn't working on clean-up." With outstretched palms, he crooks a grin, "Indulge me in a brief prayer, and then we'll jump in."

The benediction is short, as promised, but displays Jay's smooth, confident speaking style. He releases the group toward the food with an extended arm and a broad smile.

Once they've made it to the counter, the kids fill their plates with enough cheese and starch to make Sharon's stomach ache on sight alone. But the potluck is their reward for helping, so she doesn't as much as mention the vegetables they skip over. She limits her intervention to prying the serving spoon from Ricky's hand after he takes three scoops of the promised barbeque mini sausages.

Further down the line, Emily leans forward, peering into a glass casserole dish. Andy follows her attention and explains, "That's a frittata."

"What's frittata?"

"Kind of like an omelet. It's got eggs, potatoes, red peppers, cheese…" At her hesitation, he reaches for the pan. "Here, I'll get you a little slice. You'll like it."

Surprisingly, she holds her plate out for him. "Did you make it?"

"Yeah, that," he nods toward other end of the counter, "and the baked ziti back there."

Her mouth turns to an impressed arc. "Wow, I've never known a guy who could cook so much. I mean, other than Uncle Gavin."

"Uncle Gavin, huh?" Over her head, Andy catches Sharon's eye and chuckles, no doubt placing the name. To Emily, he says, "Well, hey, I say a guy who says he can't cook is just a guy who won't cook, and that's a person to avoid, in my opinion."

The kids pause at the end of the counter, staring at the desserts. Sharon nudges them onward, "That's for later," with a nod toward the table filling with volunteers out in the gym.

As he plops into a chair across from Jay and Andy, Ricky picks up the culinary thread. "I can cook!"

"Yeah," Emily scoffs settling next to him, "PB and J, maybe."

"No, it's more than that! I can make mashed potatoes, garlic bread, mac and cheese, muffins… ooh, s'mores… Rice-a-roni…"

When the gap in his list goes long, Andy nods. "Not a bad start. Hits all the major carb groups."

"Uh-huh, but now I wanna learn to make this." Ricky jabs his fork into the pile of ziti on his plate.

Having spied a full helping of roasted vegetables in her own serving of the pasta, Sharon asks, "Really?"

"Yeah, it's so good!"

"Glad to hear it." Andy's eyes glint with warm mischief as they meet Sharon's. "I'll have to give your mom the recipe."

Across the table, Jay watches the conversation, his attention darting back and forth as a smile turns his lips. Sharon distracts herself with a drink of lemonade before answering Andy's offer with a level, "Please do."

As the cleanup team comes in to tackle the potluck spread, Pete departs on a wave, blaming his still-stuffed stomach for skipping the festivities. Caroline hangs behind, wiping her hands on a towel as her face falls. "Oh, I didn't know… I didn't bring anything."

Andy points her back into the kitchen. "We've got more than enough, Shaughnessy. Jump in there."

The table goes more crowded, more raucous, more entertaining. The mix of LAPRRA members and Mount Carmel parishioners meld together as a makeshift family. For Sharon, it's almost like being back east, home with her parents and siblings for the holiday. And, like those Thanksgivings past, conversation drags out over dessert and coffee, long into the evening. When Ricky's eyes start drooping, she pushes her chair back from the table.

"Okay, kids, you ready to head home?" The tired, blinky stares she receives in response point toward 'yes.' "Let's get up and moving, then."

At the edge of her vision, Sharon notices Andy drop his mouth open, then close it again without speaking. When she angles to glance at him, he says, "Hey, I've got plenty of ziti left over, if you want— "

"Yes!" Ricky, suddenly awake, makes a dramatic show of splaying his chest and arms onto the table. "I will eat it alllll."

Even as he earns chuckles, Sharon squeezes her son's shoulder. "Manners, Richard."

"It's not a problem," Andy says as he stands. "I barely get a chance to eat at home these days, and I wouldn't want it to go to waste." With a crook of his thumb toward the kitchen, he adds, "I'll pack it up for you."

"I'll help!" Ricky's out of his chair before Sharon can stop him. So much for being sleepy.

Emily, in contrast, hasn't moved from sitting with her chin propped in her palm, elbow braced against the table. Sharon smooths her hand over the top of her ponytail. "That wiffle ball game wore you out, hm?"

"No, it's just from," she rolls her eyes as she pushes up from her seat, "doing stuff, all day."

"Imagine that." Sharon sighs a laugh, leaves Emily to collect herself as she spots her empty Tupperware on the long table where they'd served turkey and stuffing earlier.

Jay joins her. "Thank you, again, for recruiting more volunteers. The extra hands made a huge difference, and it's always great to see young people getting involved."

"We were glad to help. And thank you for helping us out of our Christmas party jam."

"Well, Andy gets a lot of ideas, as I'm sure you've figured out…" Jay trails off with a glance skyward. "But he can be a hard person to get to know, for some people. Or a lot of people, actually." A grin turns his lips as he hands Sharon her Tupperware. "I'm always glad to see someone else who can crack him open."

"Oh, um," she curls the containers under her arm and hopes her face isn't turning as pink as it feels. Has she, in fact, 'cracked Andy open,' over these last few weeks? Surely it's been easier than that…

Sharon brushes off the reflection with a lift of her shoulder. "It's amazing what being on the same side of a battle can do to people. Just ask my kids."

"You have a point," he laughs. "Regardless, I'm glad to meet you, and I hope to see you again sometime."

"Likewise." Sharon finds herself offering the answer without a thought. But, even after a blink of consideration, it feels right. Jay is an interesting man, and she does hope to see him again, no matter what the circumstances might be.

Movement in the doorway steals her attention. Ricky exits the kitchen with a wide smile, grasping a good-sized container between his palms. He's found his hoodie, which hangs open from his shoulders. "Got it!"

Rather than encourage him further, Sharon rolls her lips together until her urge to laugh has passed. "And what do you say?"

His head drops back with slack-jawed indignation. "I already said 'thank you,' Mom."

"He did." Andy steps through the door, carrying two familiar coats. He holds the pale pink one out to Emily. "I heard this belongs to you, ma'am." After she takes it with a grin, he turns to Sharon. "And yours."

"Thank you." She hooks the jacket over her elbow, convinced the air outside remains warm enough not to need it. "I'll get your container washed up and back to you when we're finished."

"Do that, and I'll trade it for the recipe."

"Sounds like a deal." As Sharon points the kids to the door, their earlier conversation rises to her attention. With curiosity tickling up her spine, she angles toward him. "Andy, despite everything, I hope you've had a good Thanksgiving."

"I have, yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck as a faint smile tilts his mouth. "It might be hard to top, next year."

Sharon meets this with a nod, a grin of her own. "We'll see. Have a good night."

"You too."