Some dialogue inspired by the songs 'tis the season and loml by Taylor Swift.

Wave after wave of emotion washed over me as I entered the Burg. It was a mix, both good and not so good: the pull of the apron strings was strong and I was excited to see my family, memories of some of the best moments of my life filtered through as well, but the one with the heaviest pull was the one filled with my darkest days. It wasn't the near-death experiences, the kidnappings, or the stalkers. What haunted me most was what I'd come to admit, if only to myself, was the loss of my life. I'd lost everything: my best friend, biggest supporter, lover, and by the time all was said and done, I'd lost some respect for myself. In the end, that loss was the catalyst for my move. I was disgusted with who I'd become, what he'd turned me into, or more accurately, what I allowed him to turn me into. This last year was about healing my heart. I wasn't sure how successful I'd been, but I guess I was about to find out.

As a surprise to my family and partly to assuage my guilt for not coming home earlier, I'd moved up my trip when we wrapped a big case at work early. It meant I could book a red-eye flight, arriving two days earlier than originally planned. While not excited about the overnight flight, I figured I wasn't sleeping well in my bed, not sleeping well on a plane wouldn't be that different. It wasn't too bad, it was a nonstop flight, I got upgraded to first class and could catch a few hours of sleep.

Since the schedule of holiday events never waivered, I knew that today, December 22nd, I wouldn't find anyone at home. Dad would be out in the cab - these couple of weeks were his busiest time of year as he ferried travelers to and from the bus station, train station, and the airport. I also knew that my mom, grandma, sister, and nieces would be at the Methodist church along with half the women of the Burg. While it may have been nice to have a little peace and quiet, settling in at the house before the madness began, I felt the busier I was while I was in town, the better. If I stayed busy, the weight of my return and all the emotions it brought to the forefront could be shoved into a tidy little box in the back of my mind, only to be unpacked and examined once I returned to the West Coast. Or not. It wasn't lost on me that I didn't think to myself, I could deal with things once I returned home. As hard as I tried to make it so, California was not home. I recently admitted to myself that to me, home was not a place so much as a person. Unfortunately, I'd been evicted. So what do you do when you no longer have a home? A lump formed in my throat as I realized I was equal parts worried about running into Ranger and terrified that I wouldn't. Jesus, I needed to get a grip or I was never going to survive the next two weeks.

I parked on the street between the Methodist church and the school that used to be mine. Cleveland Elementary was named after the only U.S. President from New Jersey. I was almost positive there was a school named for him in every district in the state. I giggled, thinking that I didn't think any schools were named after more recent New Jersey residents. How kickass would it be to attend Bon Jovi Middle School or Springsteen High? Just imagine the mascots! We were just the Cleveland Chargers. I thought it was lame, but my niece Mary Alice is thrilled to be a Charger, although she related more to the horse than the knight in full armor who sits astride him.

Stepping out of the car I was grateful for the packable down coat that folded up small enough to fit in my suitcase. It was 68 degrees when I boarded the plane at LAX last night. The projected high in Trenton for the day was 31 degrees. There were about 12 inches of snow already on the ground with

3 more in the forecast for today. Slipping on my hat and mittens I walked past the schoolyard on my way to the front entrance of the church hall. My heart lurched as my eyes settled on the swings. The swings had always been my favorite, not only as a kid but even now. Other than the 4-second free fall off the roof when I was seven, it was the closest I ever got to flying. I found tremendous peace here over the last few years when it all became too much: the nagging from my mom, the fights with Morelli, car fires, and watching people who were supposed to be my friends exchanging money - benefiting from my misfortune. On those days, the ones I felt most like a failure and a disappointment I would take a walk at night, unable to sleep. More often than not I would find myself here, on the swings. The wind blew through my hair as I pumped my legs, soaring higher and higher, trying to find some happiness, to remind myself that I could fly.

While I felt a sense of peace in being alone with my thoughts it was no comparison to the feeling I got when Ranger would inevitably show up to check on me. It was one of the few times I didn't resent him tracking me. I had no idea if it was my phone, a tracker in my key ring, or my sneakers, but he never failed to find me. It happened so often that I came to think of this school playground as ours rather than mine. I was extremely grateful when the GPS found me when I was in physical danger, but this meant more to me. He was seeking me out to see how I was doing emotionally. In my mind, it was just another way he showed me he loved me. He'd slip out of his car and as he approached he would assess my mood, taking measure of the depth of my sadness. Without a word he'd step up behind me and begin to push, offering his silent support and taking on some of the weight of helping me fly.

If it was a really bad day he would up the ante, tickling me or squeezing my ass each time I would swing back to him before giving me another push. If that didn't get me out of my funk he'd pull out all the stops and take the swing next to mine, challenging me to a contest; first to see who could go higher, faster and then who could jump farther in a dismount, with extra points awarded for a clean landing. I didn't think he was like this when he was with anyone else and the fact that he was willing to share this side of himself with me meant more than he could ever know. After, we would retake our seats on the swings with him sitting silently, listening as I twisted gently in mine, confessing all my spiraling thoughts and worries. He would just listen, offering his silent support, not judging me or trying to fix the problem. No one else in my life had ever done this for me. I didn't know how much I would miss that about him until our relationship imploded. When I was done venting, he'd help me out of my swing and just hold me for a long beat before throwing his arm over my shoulder and steering me towards his car. He'd drive me back to my apartment, check for boogie men, and tuck me into bed. It was a night just like that which started our ill-fated relationship. That's what it was, a relationship. I refused to call it anything else, no matter how much he denied it.

A skip had set the car Ranger had loaned me on fire and Joe showed up completely irate, especially when he found Ranger had beaten him to the scene and had taken me into his arms to comfort me. He'd held me, murmuring to me in a mix of Spanish and English that everything would be okay, cars could be replaced but people couldn't. He paused for only a moment to threaten bodily harm to the police officers who were too busy settling their bets to do their job securing the scene. As soon as he arrived Joe ripped into me in front of God and everyone, belittling my skills and my intelligence before starting in on my relationship with Ranger. After accusing me of whoring myself out to Ranger and possibly his men in return for his support things got ugly. I kept Ranger out of it, begging him with my eyes to let me handle things. He didn't like it but he relented as I told Joe exactly what I thought of his opinions, his boys as well as his own reputation as a slut. With a couple of choice Italian hand gestures I walked away from him and never looked back.

That night when Ranger tucked me in I asked him to stay. I needed the comfort of his body as well as his quiet strength and unwavering support. He hesitated for only a moment before stripping out of his clothes to crawl in beside me. He made me forget all about the car, the bets, and even my breakup with Joe. It wasn't until the morning after that he laid out the terms of our arrangement. If I thought the morning after our first night together was painful, this was pure torture. I felt stupid thinking that the night we'd spent together meant we were finally giving in to what we felt for each other and someday was finally here. Once he made it clear to me that's not what happened, I hid my disappointment and agreed to his terms, desperate to have any part of him he would allow.

Shaking myself out of the past, I tried to put the memories behind me. Snow had started to fall so I hurried up the walk, letting myself into the building. There was a dull roar and a certain energy that always accompanied the organized chaos of this event. The women of the Burg were hard at work as they sorted, wrapped, and stacked toys, clothes, books, and games. Families in the Burg were steadfast in their commitment to their faith, the lines clearly drawn between the Catholics, Methodists, Lutherns, and Episcopalians. Most folks had their weddings and eventually, their funerals in the same church they were baptized in. But when it came to community service the separation of faiths was put by the wayside. Having the largest community hall, the Methodist Church ALWAYS hosted the all-day event readying the gifts for the Trenton area Toys for Tots campaign.

Removing my hat and mittens I entered the fray searching for the Plum women. I knew my mom would be in the kitchen, making coffee, sandwiches, and plating cookies to feed the workers, and the men from the VFW who would arrive later in the day to pick up and deliver the presents. My sister Valerie who was perfect in every way would be manning a gift wrap station, producing perfectly wrapped packages with crisp corners, beautiful bows, and gift tags in her immaculate handwriting displaying each recipient's name as well as indicating the giver was no other than the big jolly man himself. Lisa would be in the nursery being watched by teenage girls with all of the other children too young to be put to work. Angie and Mary Alice were runners, tasked with delivering unwrapped packages to the wrapping stations and taking the wrapped gifts to the sorting station where the women consulted their clipboards before grouping the packages by family and then into larger neighborhood groups for efficient delivery. Grandma Mazur would be helping to create gift baskets for the parents so no one would feel left out.

Over my lifetime, I'd tried nearly every position. I'd excelled as a runner but eventually outgrew it. I was finally reassigned when I was 11 and got into an argument with a 7-year-old over who got to deliver the Wonder Woman Barbie to the wrapping station. I'd asked Santa for that doll for Christmas, but after snooping in my mother's bedroom closet I knew I was getting an Easy Bake Oven instead, which was fated to go up in flames before the New Year. I wasn't going to take the doll, I just wanted to admire it while I carried it, pretending for a moment it was mine. I was a miserable failure at wrapping. I guess I wasn't supposed to use a whole roll of tape on one gift. Working in the nursery and kitchen lasted less than an hour each before I was transferred. For the past several years I've found success splitting my time between sorting gifts into neighborhood groups, where my experience as a bounty hunter was helpful. I was familiar with the majority of the addresses. Unfortunately, I'd learned that the cross-section of the population who needed assistance to make Christmas special for their children overlapped significantly with the FTAs I was assigned to bring in, often their crimes were committed out of necessity and then going FTA after not having the luxury of taking a day off to appear in court. It was heartbreaking. The other half of the time I spent with the gift baskets for parents. I selected items from each category for baskets before handing them off for someone else to arrange and wrap with cellophane as both of those were outside of my skill set.

It was Mary Alice who first spotted me. Her eyes went wide and she squealed in delight, nearly dropping the beautifully wrapped gift she carried that was nearly as big as she was. She quickly set the gift on the nearest table and came running over to me. "Aunt Steph! Aunt Steph! Aunt Steph! Mom said you wouldn't be here until Christmas Eve!" She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed. I returned her hug, marveling at how she'd grown. She was at least 3 inches taller than when I'd seen her last, her hair, which was a curly mop like mine had grown out nicely after the great bubblegum incident necessitated an emergency trip to the Clip 'N Curl. We'd Facetimed once a month and my sister shared pictures often, but it was nothing like seeing her up close and in person. I squeezed her tightly and squinched my eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Her grip lessened and I stepped back from her, our hands still linked as I somehow morphed into every older female relative I'd ever encountered at a family gathering, "Let me look at you! I can't believe how much you've grown!" My words sounded strange to my own ears and I wondered briefly if I reached into my pocket I might find butterscotch candies wrapped in gold cellophane or if I should check the sleeve of my sweater for a slightly used Kleenex. Yeesh! By that time we'd drawn a crowd and the next thing I knew I was dead center of a family group hug. Everyone was talking at once, exclaiming surprise at my early arrival, questions about the trip, and why didn't I tell them I was coming. At first, I was a bit stunned, the Plum women didn't do hugs and we certainly didn't do it in public! But then the moment passed and I just enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by people who loved me.

My eyes did get misty as everyone eased back and my mom took my face in her hands, twisting it this way and that, looking me over before pulling me back in for another hug. "Stephanie, I'm so glad you're home." She sounded a little teary herself and I made eye contact with my sister over mom's shoulder with a look that said what the hell is going on? Finally, my mom released me, stepping back and morphed back into the Helen Plum I knew. She wiped her hands on her apron and said, "We'll catch up later. I need to get the soup on the stove." With that she turned and strode to the kitchen, discreetly wiping her eyes with a tissue I was pretty sure had come from her sleeve.

Grandma Mazur's voice held a hint of authority as she directed the crowd that had gathered, "All right everybody, get back to work. Those handsome men are going to be here at noon to collect the packages!" As everyone dispersed she turned to me and grinned, elbowing me before adding, "And when their hands are full of gifts, maybe I can get my hands on their packages!" I guess some things didn't change while I was gone. I spent the rest of the morning helping out where I could, chatting with everyone and I do mean everyone. Okay, maybe not everyone, I gave Joe's Grandma Bella a wide berth, not wanting to risk her wrath. It was like I was a B List celebrity or a world traveler who came to share news about what magical lands lay outside the Tri-State area. Even people who used to gossip about me or give me a hard time about my job were kind and seemed to be genuinely glad to see me. Hmmm. Maybe I should have left sooner.

The morning passed quickly and the saying, many hands make for light work rang true. By 12:30 all gifts were wrapped, labeled, stacked, and sorted. The lunch buffet was being set out and all of the leftover paper, bows, and gift wrap was being packed up for next year. Mom and Angie were busy playing hostess, welcoming in the men from the VFW, thanking them for their help, and directing them to help themselves to some lunch. I was helping Grandma pack up the extra gift baskets when she let out a low whistle. A little tingle ran up my spine as she cackled, "Damn. I told Santa that I've been a good girl this year but if I could get my hands on one of those hotties I could get put on the naughty list real fast." I rolled my eyes at her. Grandma's idea of a hottie and mine were not always the same. Her last young stud was 75 years old.

Turning to see what poor octogenarian Grandma was about to harass, I stopped dead in my tracks. Amidst the senior citizen set was a wall of black, tall, muscled, handsome Rangemen. Before I could retreat, pull myself together, and figure out how I was going to handle seeing them or him again I saw him, or rather he saw me. I was eyeing the group of Merry Men, trying to see which door would be easiest to make a quick exit when I felt him. My body warmed all over as I turned to see him talking to my mother. My body and mind were at war, trying to decide if I should cry, throw up, or faint dead away. All were distinct possibilities. Before I could do any of those I saw his head turn towards me, a brief look of surprise crossed his features before he schooled his features and his blank face dropped into place.

Bah humbug.