The Romeo Arrangement

“What’s up?” I force the question through clenched teeth. “Noelle…what happened?”

“Well, uh…God, I hate to say this, but…something’s come up. You and Uncle Nelson aren’t going to be able to stay with us after all.”

No.

My heart hits my stomach and shatters like a snow globe on cement.

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” Noelle says, sniffing like she’s on the verge of tears. “I hope you have somewhere else.”

Sure.

If we had somewhere else, I’d have never called her and wept with gratitude when she said we could come. It’s not like we were asking to move in.

We only needed a month or so, a few weeks, just enough time to check on Dad’s health and figure out our next move.

“What changed, Noelle?” I ask. Then, because she’s known to sugarcoat things, I add, “Tell me the truth.”

Her sad, heavy sigh echoes in the phone.

“I didn’t hear the message. James did. It was on the voicemail at the gift shop. It mentioned you and Uncle Nelson…something about not making everyone in the family sing the ‘Old Milwaukee Blues.’ It was menacing and it came from an untraceable number. James wouldn’t let me or the kids hear it. I’m…I’m so sorry, Grace. I hate this, but we have children. We can’t get involved in—”

“I get it,” I snap, rubbing at the awful pain in my temple. “No, you can’t risk it. You…you did the right thing.”

The words feel so numb, I have to keep repeating it over and over in my head.

But there’s a deeper question nagging me.

How did they know?

Dad hasn’t talked to anyone, and I sure as hell haven’t.

We’ve given that maniac everything. More than everything, but it’ll never be enough.

Not for Clay Grendal. He’s a flipping two-bit gangster, but in his mind, he’s Al Capone and El Chapo spliced together.

“Gracie, I’m scared for you and Uncle Nelson,” Noelle whimpers, her voice so low. “You need to call the police, the FBI, somebody. Get help!” she hisses. “Go to the law before it’s too late.”

My stomach churns, pushing angry bile up my throat. My head is pounding; I still haven’t had anything to eat, and now with this bomb I’ve had dropped on my head?

Appetite, gone.

The police can’t do anything for us. No one can. The time to risk something like that was years ago, not while my father might be down to his last precious days on earth.

Dad doesn’t need even more stress, his hourglass running out under the gun. Literally and figuratively with constant interrogations. Maybe they’d even lock him up.

Years ago, while working at the railroad yards in Milwaukee, my father took on a side gig helping transport goods that weren’t quite legal.

Actually, it was as illegal as it gets. Both the transporting and the goods.

“I just…I thought Uncle Nelson was done with all that mob stuff,” Noelle says quietly. “I thought he got out when he bought your farm years ago? When you moved out of the city?”

My teeth pinch together so hard it hurts.

He had gotten out, or so we thought.

For a little while, life was good, until my mom got sick and the medical bills started coming fast and furious. Dad reached out to his old associates for a loan.

At the time, Grendal said it wasn’t a loan, but a gift, for Dad’s past services. Then the bad luck started, and Dad found out fast what kind of strings came with accepting that gift—vandalism, a fire in the barn, and a string of other events that truly had nothing to do with random chance.

It left us destitute, barely scraping by on miscellaneous pumpkin sales plus Dad’s railroad pension. Clay doled out more money, and this time he expected repayment—with interest.

We gave him everything we had, even offered the farm, but it wasn’t enough. He insisted on his pound of flesh. I think even if we’d won the lottery, it still wouldn’t have been enough.

He knew what he wanted out of this all along, and it has nothing to do with money.

“Grace? Are you still there?” Noelle asks. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”

My stomach revolts. The bitter taste of bile burns my throat, coats my tongue, and I swallow hard not to gag.

“Still here,” I tell her. Still hopelessly cursed. “Dad’s out, just like I’ve told you for years. Don’t worry, you aren’t in any danger.” I’m certain of that. Clay Grendal only wants one thing.

I know because I had to face the devil himself, and I’ll never, ever do it again.

“Where are you? Are you safe?” Noelle asks.

“North Dakota now. Don’t know the town, but we’re not that far from the Montana line.” I turn around, pacing the small area between the vanity and the stalls, desperate to get my head screwed back on.

“Oh, Grace. I’m sorry. I truly, truly am.”