Arranged (3 page)

~~~

Dad drives us to the funeral. Everything is gray. Gray-faced people, gray skies threatening gray rain, gray roads. The church is warm, golden relief. The priest goes on and on and I know if Grandpa were alive he’d be complaining loudly how bored he was. Mom’s sobbing and Dad’s stone-faced, eyes wet. Even Riley’s somber. Aunts and uncles and cousins have flown in from as far as London. It’s an open casket. Mom grips my hand tightly and we go up together. Grandpa’s wild white hair sticks out of the casket. His face is too still, too plastic with makeup and the greasy shine of candles. Dad links his arms around Mom and helps her to her seat when her crying gets so hard she has problems standing. I watch them go with a tiny seed of pride – they really do love each other. Riley and I are so lucky that they’re still together and in love.

“Bye, Grandpa.” I look into the casket. “We’ll take care of your farmhouse and garden, so, you know.” I sniff and bury my face in my sleeves as the tears overwhelm me. “Sleep well? Is that what people say at these things?” I rub my eyes hard. “I’ll miss you. Thank you. S-Sleep well.”

The wake is easier than the hordes of crying people in the church. In the stuffy, potpourri-smelling funeral home there’s punch and cookies and I can put a room, a wall, between myself and Grandpa’s body. Relatives hug me and tell me I look beautiful (a lie, I’ve got permanent dark circles from late night studying and I’ve gotten even flabbier), and ask me about school. I spout the stock-phrases they want to hear (going well, difficult but fun, lots of planning for the future).

A tall, older man walks up to me. He looks comfortable in his well-tailored suit. Salt-and-pepper streaked hair only make his handsome, dignified features stand out.

“Rose Jensen, I presume?” His voice is rich and has a slight accent. We shake hands.

“Yeah. Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“I’m Farlon. My father was a good friend of your grandfather’s. My sincerest condolences.”

“Thanks. Is…your father here, too?”

“No, he passed away last month, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. I was wondering – are you available after this?”

I nod. “But why -?”

“My sincerest apologies.” Farlon snaps his fingers over the heads of the crowd. A short, pudgy man in a suit carrying a briefcase oozes out from the mass of people. “This is my lawyer, Guillermo. He was my father’s lawyer as well. Your grandfather and my father had a joint will agreement.”

“Oh.” I frown.

“I know it’s too soon to talk of such things,” Farlon’s eyes soften. “But your grandfather’s lawyer has agreed to meet us after the wake for a discussion. You are also required there.”

“I don’t understand. Why me?”

“Everything will become clear if you join us at the meeting. Here’s the address.” He fishes a business card out and scribbles on the back with a pen – Gerard’s, a fancy restaurant in town. “We will be waiting for your arrival eagerly.”

“If this is legal will stuff, you should talk to my parents.”

“Ah, senorita.” Farlon’s smile widens. “You are nineteen – the will and the legal system consider you an adult, and all your actions in this sphere are your own. If you feel uncomfortable, however, feel free to bring your parents. My most heartfelt condolences for your loss, again.”

And with a brush of spicy cologne, he and his lawyer are gone.

I turn over Farlon’s words in my head when we get home. Mom rests in her room, and Dad works in the office. Riley meets his girlfriend on the curb and they go for ice cream at the corner store. She’s a cute brunette – short, with big cheeks and an angelic smile. They look good together. My pocket’s stiff with Farlon’s business card. I turn it over in my hands. A will means money. It’s a joint will. I don’t know what that means, but if there’s a possibility I could get a chunk of money, I could use it to help Mom and Dad out of their jam. But they’d never let me do that. They’d insist I save it for myself. I can’t go to the meeting with them – it has to be alone.

I pull off my black dress and put on a blouse and jeans. My old car – Dad’s volvo – sits in the garage, keys in the tray by the door where he always leaves them. I bundle up in my thickest coat against the night cold and back the car out. Gerard’s is a fancy Italian restaurant in town, just across from the bookstore. The parking lot’s nearly empty, and the restaurant itself is all red carpet and dark wood tables and low, flickering candles. The hostess flashes me a smile.

“You must be Rose. This way, please.”

I nervously follow her to the back, where Farlon and his lawyer sit in a booth, sipping wine. Brett, a bespectacled younger man and Grandpa’s lawyer, sits across from them. They talk in low, serious voices. The last guy at the table is familiar, almost too familiar. My eyes widen - Lee. He’s in a suit, tie loose and two buttons undone from the top of his shirt. His face is set and serious. I almost turn around and leave, but Farlon smiles brightly.

“Rose! Please, do sit by Mr. Gregory, here.”

I sit by Brett, who flashes me a strained grin. “Hi. Long time no see. I’m your grandfather’s lawyer, Brett –”

“I know. I remember you from when I was younger,” I murmur. “Nice to see you.”

Lee’s looking at me, hazel eyes glowing gold in the candlelight. His dark hair isn’t messy, back isn’t slouched, and there’s no hint of that signature easy smile. It’s like he’s a completely different person.

“Please, take off your jacket, get comfortable,” Farlon insists. “You are too young to drink, yes? But you can have anything you like on the menu. You must be starving.”

I shoot a look at Lee. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just confused, why is -”

“My son here?” Farlon finishes for me.

“Your
son
,” I repeat, my fingertips slowly going cold.

“Mr. Gregory, if you please.” Farlon waves his hand. “Explain things to her.”

Brett pulls out papers from his briefcase and nods. “Right. Rose, your grandfather left you a good sum of money in his will.”

My eyes widen at the figure on the paper. Three hundred thousand dollars.

“W-Where did he get that?”

“He might not have looked it, but James was an avid stock market enthusiast. He and his friend Carlos made it together. They made most of it when you were born and then put it in an IRA, to be released to you when they both died.”

“But the money doesn’t go to my Mom?” I squirm under Lee’s hard gaze. Why is he so serious? Where’s his light, easy smile?

“He left your mother the house.”

“Houses take a long time to sell,” I sigh. I hear people talk about the housing market all the time – it’s in the pits. The chance Mom and Dad will be able to sell it quickly and get the money for the company is slim.

“What was that?”

“N-Nothing.” I shake my head. Farlon and his lawyer are conversing in low, rapid Spanish.

“There’s a letter here, for you. Your grandfather wrote it when he drafted the will a year ago.” Brett hands me it. I open it and read.

Dearest
Rose,

If you’re reading this, it means I kicked the bucket.
Hah! Don’t be sad, sugarplum. Wherever I am, I’m fine. I want you to be fine, too. That’s why I’ve drafted this new will and given Brett this letter.

I should probably say I love you and Riley equally, and that’s true, but I know you’ll do bigger things with the money than he will. Besides, most of the money was made that March week when you were born, so I kinda see you as the lucky charm that made it all happen. You’re at UCLA now, a freshmen, and goddamn if you aren’t going places. I always knew you would, and I hope this money will help you do the things you want to with your life.
Use it for your college, for yourself.
Don’t blow it on boys and booze.
Hah!

Brett’ll give you the details, but here’s the lowdown – I want you to have the money. I really do. But see, me and an old friend of mine made a bet a long time ago, when we served in the war together. We promised if we got through it alive, we’d
link
our families up. Your Mom was already head-over-heels for your Dad (in seventh grade, bleck)
-

I smile, my eyes watering, but quickly muffle it in my sleeve and go back to reading.

- so we decided to go to our grandchildren. You were five, and Carlos just happened to have a grandson who was your age. You might not remember it, but Carlos brought him over during the summers.

I don’t remember any of that, and I don’t like where this is going.

It was a drunk, stupid bet,
Rose. But it’s a bet between gentlemen, between lifelong friends. Carlos never thought
a smart girl like you’d ever stay with a rambunctious kid like his grandson. I said you would.
I saw the good in him. He might be wild,
but he’s grown up honest and kind, and that’s more you can say of most men.

Look, the point is, this is a dying man’s wish. Me and Carlos’ wish. If you want the money, you’ll have to marry Lee. Stay together for at least three months. At the end of ninety days, half the three hundred thousand is
yours. Lee gets the other half, and you two are free to divorce after that if you really can’t stand him. But give him a
chance. I’m sure he’ll see just
how wonderful and amazing you are. And if you two don’t get along, fine. I lost the bet, but I’ve got no regrets. You’ve got the money to do what you want with at the end either way, and that’s what makes me happiest.

I love you,
Rose. Kiss your Mom and Dad and Riley for me. Hug them. Know that every day is a
blessing. Be happy and healthy.

Love,

Grandpa Jim

Farlon claps his hands. “Now that everything’s cleared up, we can begin –”

“One moment.” Brett raises his hand. “Let me confer with Rose.”

The friendly look on Farlon’s face cracks, sour impatience showing. He smooths it over in a split second and nods.

“Of course.”

Brett looks to me. “There’s a joint contract. Lee’s already signed it. All you have to do is sign it, and you’re agreeing to it.”

“Marriage?” I snap. “Not to him. I can’t, Brett. Marriage for money? How old fashioned and ridiculous is this? You can’t expect me to do this. There’s
no way
I’m doing this.”

I stand and grab my coat and purse. Lee jumps up and blocks my exit.

“C’mon, Rose. Just stay and listen to what we have in mind.”

“Is that why you kept trying to talk to me?” I say. “Because you knew about this?”

Lee frowns. “Yes, I knew about this, but -”

My heart gives a little sputter of defeat. Why else would a handsome, sort-of witty swim team playboy bother with me if not for money? Why else would he joke with me? Talk with me? He never liked me as a person at all – he just liked the money. I steel my quivering lip and smile as best I can.

“I would rather die than marry you,” I say. My tears well up. I can’t be here anymore. I brush past him and out the door.

“Rose!” Lee shouts. “Wait!”

I stride into the freezing night. A large hand on my arm whirls me around, pinning me to the brick wall. Lee pants, eyes burning into mine.

“It wasn’t just for money, I swear –”

“Let go of me!” I beat his arm off with my purse. He stands back, catching his breath.

“You have to believe me –”

“Just leave me alone!” I snap. I hurry to the parking lot and collapse into my car. I look back at the dark sidewalk – he didn’t follow me. I’m halfway down the freeway before I realize I can’t see because of all my tears. I gasp and press my sleeve to my eyes. The tears keep coming, and I have to keep wiping. Finally, I pull over and cry, harder than at Grandpa’s funeral.

He’s just a boy. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. I didn’t even know my hopes
were
up until now, where I can see the shattered remains of them. Somewhere deep inside, I’d hoped Lee and the brief moments we shared meant something. I should have known better. Guys don’t like me. And I understand that. I’m not very interesting or all that pretty. I’m just good for mooching off my study notes. And marrying for money.

Just once. Just for once, I wanted a guy to like me for who I am and not what he could use me for.

Chapter Three

In Which I Meet Lee Montenegro’s Supermodel Sister

I sleep in until lunch. Mom knocks on my door but I stay quiet until she leaves. Riley knocks on my door later, but comes in anyway. He sits on the end of my bed.

“What’s got you all angsty?”

I pull the covers over my head. Riley leans in.

“Is it a
boooooy
?”

“Shut up,” I grumble. He claps.

“It is! Holy shit, tell me about him!”

“There is no ‘him’!” I sit up and scowl. “So stop asking.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Riley sighs. “The first time you come home crying about a boy and you don’t tell me anything? It’s not fair. I told you about Elaine.”

“That was your first crush in second grade, Rile.”

“Exactly! We have to be open with each other.”

“Just go away. Please.”

“Finnneee. But Mom and Dad are wondering what’s up. What should I tell them?”

“I met with some friends from high school last night.”

“And why did you come home crying?”

“One of them said I’ve gotten fat?” I try.

His mouth twists into a smile. “Like they’ll believe that.”

He skips downstairs with an enviable amount of energy. I roll too far and fall off the bed in a tangle of blankets. Great. Even gravity’s being a jerk to me, too. Mom and Dad tactfully edge around the question of where I was last night, and when I refuse an extra pancake, Dad gently reminds me I’m not fat. I shoot Riley a glare and he laughs into his melon slice.

Thanksgiving is a somber affair – Dad still puts up the traditional turkey made of pinecones as the table centerpiece and Mom still frets that he’ll ruin the cooking, but there aren’t as many jokes at the table. Riley’s girlfriend is sweetly polite, which is a step up from his girlfriend this summer. The next few days are a blur of leftover turkey sandwiches and football games I only half pay attention to. Mom spends a lot of time accepting casseroles from neighbors who heard about Grandpa. I go with Dad to the office once or twice - a warehouse off the highway where their soap company ships out from. The same packers and line managers and marketing people are there. They’ve known me since middle school. Betsy, Dad’s shipping manager with a platinum blonde beehive hairdo, grasps my hand.