Author note: I posted on my profile about a giveaway I'm doing to thank you for all of your kind reviews, so head over there and check it out. Also, check your PMs to see if you've won. I've found that messages don't transfer back and forth between the app and the website, so be sure to check both places.
This story is based on the song 'tis the damn season by Taylor Swift. The last line is borrowed from the big green guy himself - The Grinch.
Morning came early, yesterday's interactions with Ranger brought up all sorts of feelings which I, of course, refused to deal with while awake, so my subconscious decided to serve them up to me in the form of dreams. Stupid psyche, did it not get the memo about the 'deal with it later' box? I wouldn't go so far as to call the dreams nightmares, but they were haunting. Scenes flashed before me, of the road not taken, would Ranger and I both be better off if we never got involved, or never met? The thought of never knowing him made me physically ill. No matter how much pain and misery I've suffered in the last 18 months, I could never wish for that. But, what if I'd stayed, would I be better off than I was now? Would he have changed his mind or would it have gotten worse, would we have caused even more damage to each other? It was a lot of what-if scenarios hitting me all at once. That's not to say all of the dreams were bad, there were also good ones, memories of the countless times he came to my rescue or supported me in the other million ways that made him My Ranger. The last dream was the worst, or the best depending on how you looked at it. In the wee hours of the morning, I woke from an extremely erotic dream that had me in quite a state. It wasn't so much a dream as a series of exceptionally vivid memories that drove home the loss of connection we'd shared, the depth and intensity like nothing I'd ever experienced with anyone else and was certain I never would again. There was no sleeping after that.
If my mom was surprised to see me in the kitchen before 6:00 am, she never said so. I found her at the stove, the air filled with yummy smells, including the coffee she'd already made. I poured myself a mug and doctored it up with cream and sugar. While she was making waffles and scrambled eggs, I started to prepare for the day. I may not be a master baker but prep work was within my skill set. Today was a big day, December 23rd was ALWAYS Mrs. Claus Cookie Day in the Plum family. For as long as I could remember my Grandma would come over and spend the day in the kitchen with my mom, Valerie, and me and later Angie, Mary Alice, and Lisa. All day we baked, creating more than a dozen types of cookies, six types of candy, sweet breads, and pastries produced with Italian, Hungarian, and American influences were evident.
While my mom had been baking holiday treats since the day after Thanksgiving, those were for events around the Burg, like the Toys For Tots gathering yesterday, church coffees, and cookie exchanges. Today's baking was special, these treats were gifts. Since our family's primary love language was food, it was the busiest and one of the most important days of the year. My maternal line firmly believed in the value of a handmade gift. They knew you could buy a gift for anyone, but for the special people in your life, you honored them with something you made, a gift from the heart. Both my mom and grandma were talented seamstresses and quilters. Even Grandma Plum was a talented crocheter - is that a word? She had a wicked sense of humor, if she was sitting down, she was never without yarn and a crochet hook in her hand. She used to call herself a hooker. She and Grandma Mazur got along well. Every gift they made for me was special because I knew it was made with love, even those sweaters that weren't exactly my style or the little zippered set of bags Grandma Mazur made me with half-naked men on the fabric to keep my 'nightstand tools' in. Yikes. While I wasn't the craftiest person or the best baker, I was always willing to do my part. I loved the idea of giving someone a gift I had a part in making, so until I figured out something I could make on my own I was happy to be a cookie elf. I made a mental note to add finding a crafty hobby to my New Year's Resolutions.
During the day, as the kitchen produced massive quantities of baked goods, they would spill out onto the dining room table where the finishing touches would be added: icing, sprinkles, jam, chocolate stars, or a dusting of powdered sugar. Those manning the stations at the dining room table were also tasked with keeping my dad from eating too many, although there wasn't a female in the house he couldn't sweet talk into sampling some treats. He liked to call it quality control. After everything was ready we would fill tins, trays, and holiday Tupperware with goodies to be delivered to neighbors, friends, the mail carrier, the hairdresser, the doctor's office, and anyone else who was appreciated for making life a little better in the last year.
I got the 20 lbs of butter and 10 packages of cream cheese we would need from the fridge and set them on the counter to soften. Opening the pantry, I pulled out the bin with the holiday cookie cutters, mint molds, and the box of brightly colored sprinkles. Lisa will be the sprinkle elf for the cream cheese mints this year. Mom was always good at finding something for everyone to do at their skill level but that wouldn't ruin the final product. It wasn't always easy, considering the girls' ages and my skill level. The smartest thing I'd ever seen her do was color-code the frosting. When the girls were big enough to want to help, but too young to resist the temptation of licking their spatula in between cookies, my mom gave them their own frosting color, whatever their favorite was. With Mary Alice it was blue. When she was 3, she happily sat in the high chair for hours decorating cookies. She probably ingested more frosting that made it onto the cookies, but she was happy and not underfoot. Mom just posted a note that said, 'Don't eat the blue cookies' and it worked like a charm.
Grandma came down the stairs shortly after I did, Dad arrived just a few minutes later. We all had a quick breakfast before Dad headed out for a morning fare, kissing my mom on the cheek before telling her not to worry, that her taste tester would be home just after lunch. As he was heading out the door Mary Alice came bursting in, ready to get started. All three girls had on holiday sweaters and headbands. MA's was a battery-operated Christmas tree with colorful lights and a flickering star at the top. Angie's headband was a dainty Santa hat with a little tiara around it. Lisa's was reindeer antlers, complete with bells which would be helpful later as a location device. She tended to wander around the house and sometimes got into things she shouldn't. I'll never forget the day my mom called me having a meltdown because Lisa had gotten into Grandma's room and came out with a giant purple, rotating, light-up dildo. She thought it was the best fairy wand ever and refused to give it up. She was pretty fast for a toddler and made it out to the front lawn shrieking and running from my mom who was trying to take away her new toy. Poor mom. Since then Grandma's room has been locked and everyone keeps a closer eye on Lisa.
In no time the production line was in full swing. Mom and Valerie were in charge of the mixing and baking, and Grandma and I assisted with the scooping, shaping, and filling as well as overseeing the girls who were icing, decorating, and sprinkling powdered sugar. As Mary Alice and Angie got older they were each given more responsibility. Mary Alice was now in charge of making the fudge. My mom called it 'Cheater's Fudge' because it had marshmallow creme and you didn't have to beat it forever. I couldn't taste any difference. Angie had graduated to toffee making. She had a particular knack for it, never using a candy thermometer, she could tell it was ready by the color and the smell. She was never wrong. Valerie joked that she learned it in utero because the year she was pregnant with Angie she stood at the stove and made 11 batches of toffee on cookie day.
I think she got it from my mom, her specialty was divinity, a white fluffy sugary candy. She learned to make it from Grandma Plum after marrying my dad, it was his favorite. It's tricky to make because it's made with egg whites and if the humidity is off it won't set up right. But my mom mastered it and it always turned out perfectly until the Christmas when she was pregnant with Val. My mom said she tried three different batches and they were all failures. On the fourth try she could tell it wasn't going to work so she opened the back door and pitched the batch into the snow, pan and spoon included before going to bed. The next morning she came downstairs to find the pan and spoon washed and put away, and my dad never spoke a word about it.
I got to be in charge of the cream cheese mints. They were pretty hard to screw up as there was no actual cooking or baking involved, the only ingredients were cream cheese, powdered sugar, peppermint or almond extract, and food coloring if you wanted. The dough gets pretty stiff and I've started using my hands to mix it after the year I shorted out my mom's Hamilton Beach hand mixer. Oops. After it was mixed, the dough was pressed into sugared molds. When I was a kid you could be sure they'd be served at every graduation party, baby or bridal shower, and weddings. They could be formed into graduation caps, diplomas, swirls, roses, leaves, or any other number of shapes and colored to match school colors, pink or blue for babies or to match the bridesmaids' dresses. I loved them and every time I'd eat so many I'd give myself a stomach ache and swear that next time I wouldn't eat so many, but every time I did. I would like to think that as an adult I've started to learn from my mistakes so I don't keep repeating them, but I'm not sure how successful I've been. In truth, I was sure I was still terrible at it, but I didn't want to think about it right now.
Since the mint dough was essentially the consistency of playdough, it was an easy project to do with my nieces. While the older girls were busy, I put Lisa in the high chair and we cranked out dozens of mints. We had an excellent partnership going. She would pick up a mold, her favorites were the Christmas tree and the bell, she would add sprinkles to the mold, each time narrating her movements, "Shake, shake, shake!" I would pinch off a small amount of dough for her to smush into the mold before she'd hand it to me to turn out and set aside to dry. Some were equal parts sprinkles and mint but they all tasted delicious. We all worked for the better part of the day, taking shifts to stop and eat sandwiches my mom had pre-made for lunch. It was warm and cozy in the small kitchen, and being part of this tradition never failed to bring me joy. For as crazy as my family made me, I loved them all. While I didn't see myself as someone with a burning desire to be the caretaker of a husband and children of my own, I loved this day, with these women, in this space. There was something special about knowing that women in my family had been doing something like this for years before me and would probably continue long after I was gone. It made me feel connected to them like nothing else ever had.
True to his word, my dad showed up for lunch, bravely checking every variety of treat for the safety of others before whisking Mary Alice away for a couple of hours for their annual turn at ringing the bell in front of Givochinni's Market for the Red Kettle Campaign for the Salvation Army. I used to go with my dad and then Mary Alice started coming along and now it was the two of them. I loved having that time alone with him and suspected she did too. They both braved the cold, damaged their eardrums, and smiled until their faces ached. When they returned home with cold fingers, toes, and noses they settled in front of the Christmas tree with big mugs of hot chocolate to warm up. Taking a break from kitchen duties, I joined them with my own mug to ask how it went.
"It was great!" Mary Alice exclaimed. "I saw like 6 kids from school, Mrs. Vito - my 2nd grade teacher, Father Corleone, Mrs. Morelli, AND Mr. Ranger!" I followed along with her list, for a kid to see a teacher outside of school was surreal, but it all seemed like the typical Burg population until she got to Ranger. Why was Ranger there?
Managing to not choke on my hot chocolate I tried to sound as normal as possible, "Ranger? What was Ranger doing there?" My question was directed at Mary Alice, but my eyes cut to my dad.
Even more excited she told me, "He was driving by and then backed up when he saw it was us! AND he put a whole bunch of $100 bills in the kettle!" The part about the money didn't surprise me, the first part did. I never knew Ranger to visit the Burg unless he was headed to Vinnie's.
My dad gently reminded her, "Remember, it's not polite to talk about money Mary Alice. People give what they can and some people have more to give than others, it's the giving that's important, not the amount." I knew he was right, but to a girl her age seeing that amount of cash was a thrill.
She nodded at him, "I know Papa. I just thought it was extra nice because Mr. Ranger looks big and mean on the outside but he's nice and generous under all of his scary black clothes. Right Aunt Steph?" She turned to me as she said the last part.
I flushed a little, distracted by the memory of what was truly under Ranger's scary black clothes, the word nice didn't even begin to cover it. I nodded as I managed to answer, "He can look scary when he needs to, but he is very generous." And I believed it, he was generous, with everything but his heart.
Before the discussions of Ranger's virtues could be continued, Valerie called from the kitchen for Mary Alice to come and help. She slurped down the last of her cocoa and headed back to work. That left me with my dad. I supposed now would be a good time to ask him my questions about Ranger since we were already on the subject.
Making sure I looked him in the eye, I asked, "So, you've been working with Ranger? You never mentioned it."
He studied me for a beat before responding, "He and his team were a great help with the mess after Tommy got attacked. The guys have been hanging out at the VFW, so I've gotten to know a few of them. I asked for his help on the deliveries this year, to ensure everyone's safety." He answered part of the question, but not all of it.
"And?" I prodded.
He tilted his head slightly, "And I never mentioned it because you never asked." Bullshit.
"How would I know to ask if you were hanging out with Ranger? I didn't know you'd ever seen him except when I brought him to dinner." My dad loved to share information just about as much as Ranger did.
Completely unbothered, my dad informed me, "I've talked to Ranger a few times over the years. Different times I'd come to check on you when you were in the hospital and he'd be there with you." I had no idea! Reading the look on my face he answered my question before I could ask, "Most of the time you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you. I could see he had everything under control." Well, that makes sense I guess. "As for not mentioning Ranger, I didn't know if you'd want to know." He paused for a minute to let his words sink in. "I don't know what happened between you two and it's none of my business. I know how he looked out for you when you were bounty hunting, that you worked for him, and you told us you stayed with him when you were in danger. I know there was more than one occasion that man put his life on the line to save yours." My dad paid a lot more attention to my life than I gave him credit for.
I swallowed hard, his tone told me that he appreciated all Ranger had done for me. He'd never had a kind word to say about Joe. I think Daddy never really forgave him for the Tasty Pastry incident. There have been times in my life when I wondered why I did. My dad moved from his armchair and came to sit next to me on the couch. He took my hands in his and continued, "Pumpkin, I don't know what happened to send you running across the country. You said it was a great job offer, but I figured there was more to it. You seemed so desperate to leave." I didn't bother protesting. "I knew you were hurting and it had to be pretty bad for you to leave like that." My eyebrows rose, my dad knew? He'd never said a word. "You hid it well, but I could tell something wasn't right with you the last few months before you left. You'd come to dinner and act like your normal self, smiling and laughing in all the right places, but when you thought no one was looking, you'd let the mask drop for a second or two, like you needed a minute to gather the strength to keep pretending." I dropped my eyes from his, the memory of that time too painful. He squeezed me to him. "You never said anything and I figured if you wanted me to know, you would have told me."
I slid my arms around him and hugged him tight. With my face buried in his chest, my voice was muffled, "How did you know it was Ranger?" If my dad told me he had magical powers and could read my mind, I wouldn't have been surprised at this point. Or maybe he had ESP like Ranger, maybe they teach you that in the Army.
Rubbing my back he chuckled, "I didn't, not until you just told me." Dammit, that also seemed like Ranger, tricking me into telling him something I'd rather not. I tried to pull back, but he held tight, "I didn't have any idea until I ran into Ranger at the VFW after you were already gone. He'd come in with the guys to tell Tony they'd hauled that cazzo back to jail and assured him Ranger had explained in great detail to your cousin Vinnie what would happen to his favorite appendage if he bonded the guy out again." My dad almost growled, but then his voice softened, "I thanked Ranger myself. I felt responsible for what happened to Tony." I tried to protest, but he cut me off, "I know it's not my fault, Ranger told me the same thing. Anyway, he let me buy him a beer and we sat and talked. There was something different about him. I'd known guys like him in the service, hell, I was like him back then, all hard edges and focused solely on the mission. When he was at the hospital with you, he seemed centered and confident, like watching over you gave him purpose. But that night he seemed flat, like he was just going through the motions because he had to, but there was no force behind it driving him." I'd seen the same thing the few times I caught glimpses of him in the last weeks before I left. It played a part in my decision. I felt broken, but to see Ranger like that was more than I could take. I hoped my leaving could heal us both. I was dead wrong on my part and it didn't sound like it had helped Ranger either.
"He didn't ask me about you, which I thought was strange. When he agreed to work with me on the Toys For Tots deliveries we'd meet up, at his office, the VFW, or sometimes here. By then you'd been gone a while and he still hadn't asked, so I started to ask him about working with you. The change in him was instant, for a guy that talks less than I do he went on and on about you; how smart you were, how you saved his ass a few times, and how proud he was of you." I lost the battle with the tears I'd been trying to keep at bay, they were falling hard, combined with big ugly sobs. Daddy rubbed my back and whispered the same calming words in Italian as he did when I was a little girl. Once I got myself under control he handed me his handkerchief. He waited while I mopped up my face and blew my nose. "After that, I tried to bring you up whenever I could, stories of when you were a little girl or some case you cracked that at your new job. He tried to hide how desperate he was to hear how you were, but I could see it. That man was missing you. Hell, he even agreed to stay for dinner a few times when the whole family was here." Dad said the last part as if he questioned Ranger's sanity, can't say I wasn't doing the same.
I laughed, a hiccup escaping at the same time, "Is that why you had me ride with him today?"
"Can't get anything past you, can I?" He chuckled. He tipped my chin up so I had to look at him, "Pumpkin, I don't know what happened but I do know you can't keep running and hiding from your feelings. You need to talk to him. You running that far, that fast, and staying away for a whole year tells me it's not going to be a simple fix. But whatever the problem is, both of you need to make peace with it." I was stunned, my dad and I never ever talked about feelings and the only advice he ever gave me was something vague about not buying a foreign car.
"Thanks Daddy, I'll try." He pulled me to him again in a fierce hug. Before I could say anything else, the doorbell rang.
My mom yelled from the kitchen, "Frank, it's the pizza! Tip the boy and give him the box of cookies on the hall table to take to Anthony Pino for me." This was the only time during the year we ordered pizza for dinner. There was no time to prepare dinner on cookie day! Dad released me and went to the front door and I ran upstairs to wash my face and fix my make-up.
We didn't just have pizza on cookie night, we ate it in the living room! Gasp! My mom laid a picnic tablecloth on the floor and we all sat around it eating pizza off paper plates, drinking soda, watching Elf, and laughing like loons. It was quite literally the best. After dinner we packed up the holiday treats, most would be delivered in the morning, but I had a few to drop off tonight. Bundling up, I headed out with my precious deliveries buckled into the passenger seat, making my way to my old apartment building. I left a tin of cookies on Mr. Woleski's welcome mat, positive he'd already taken out his hearing aids for the night, but he'd find them waiting for him in the morning. I found Mrs. Bestler manning the elevator. She was thrilled to see me, but it took her a minute to remember that I didn't live in my second-floor apartment anymore. It made me sad, but not as sad as the fact that all the other neighbors I knew had either passed away or moved into assisted living. Another reminder that time continued to tick away even if I wasn't around to witness it. Dillon was still there though. I delivered his oversized box of goodies, accepted a beer, and sat to watch the hockey game with him. Hanging out with Dillon was easy, there was no talking, except for yelling at the TV, as if the officials and players could hear us. It was nice. I didn't have friends like this in California, I need to find some I thought, adding another resolution to add to my list. The game ended and I thanked him for the beer and wished him a Merry Christmas. He told me he missed me, but said his workload had been cut significantly since I left. I grinned at him while giving him my favorite hand gesture. The game had gone into overtime, so it was late by the time I headed to my car. I'd texted my parents earlier so they wouldn't worry, which seemed silly. I was in my 30s but it felt like I was in high school again. It was nice to be back, I thought as I drove. The night was still and quiet, the air crisp and cool, and the light from the full moon reflected off the snow. It was perfect. I yawned a bit, it had been a long day, but a good one. Of all the family traditions, baking day was by far my favorite, but it was also a lot of work.
The talk with my dad still had me reeling. I'd never realized how much he noticed or recognized what was happening in my life. I knew he would always be there for me, but my heart warmed at the idea of him being there for Ranger too. Just the idea of my dad and Ranger talking at all, much less about me was crazy. I knew my dad was right, I couldn't keep running, we needed to talk. If only I knew what I wanted to say, or what Ranger would say. That was the part that made me so angry, in the past, it didn't matter what I said, Ranger did what he thought was best for both of us, the noble ass. My dad said Ranger missed me, but what did that mean? Did he miss me in the same way I missed him? Oh god, I missed him. Ranger himself told me that he wasn't proud of some of his behavior regarding me but which behaviors? I needed to get my shit figured out so I knew what I wanted to say to him. If I didn't have a plan, things wouldn't go well. Even with a plan I wasn't sure how it would go. I knew I'd get emotional and say things, not things that I didn't mean, just things I'd rather keep to myself. In the last few months before I left, I'd laid myself bare for him on multiple occasions, in more ways than one. By the end, I felt like just one massive open wound. I'd packed up the pain and the hurt just like I'd done with all my possessions, but when I unpacked my clothes and belongings in California, I left the grief and heartache stashed away, only opening the box long enough to stuff more in when I got angry or sad about something that made me think of him. Dammit. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration.
I must have zoned out while driving because rather than find myself in front of my childhood home, I was parked between the Methodist church and the schoolyard once again. I guess my subconscious was still trying to tell me something. Maybe I should listen for once. This was as good of a place to think as any. I made my way to the swings, using my mittened hand to brush off the snow before taking a seat. While it wasn't too cold to be out, as I started to swing faster and higher, the wind whipped through my hair, my cheeks pinked and my nose and ears got cold. I didn't care, I felt free and happy, and like myself for the first time in a very long time. But the feeling was marred by the sense of being incomplete, like I was only half myself, something was missing. Someone was missing. This place wasn't mine, it was ours. While swinging made me feel free, I never felt more free than when I was with him. I missed him so much: his support, his warmth, his love, his smile. The ache was so strong, it had just become a part of me, like someone who'd lost a limb and still felt it there, still throbbing, a constant reminder of what was lost. Phantom pains they were called. I'd bottled up every thought and feeling about him, hoping that I would simply grow numb. It hadn't worked. Shit.
My nose started to run and my eyes clouded, and not from the cold. I slowed my movements, digging in my pockets for a tissue. I swear I grabbed some before at the house, but couldn't find them in any of my coat pockets. Maybe they were in the back pocket of my jeans? My nose started to drip, so I leaned forward to search, the mittens making the whole production more difficult. Forgetting I was still in motion, I shoved both hands in my back pockets, accidentally pitching myself forward, nearly going ass over tea-kettle. I was caught in a strong grip before I could faceplant in the snow, then held tight to an equally strong body. Ranger.
Hate, hate, hate. Double hate. Loathe entirely.