What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  Wrong.

  Now I pick up the phone and try again, tugging the brim of my cap even lower: “Pearl,” I say into her answering machine. “It’s Natalie at the Gazette—again. I’m starting to think I might need to call the police and file a missing persons rep—”

  I slam the phone down mid-sentence as I spy Justin strolling across the bullpen. I have to admit, he looks frankly lickable, with a chambray shirt rolled up to his elbows and a pair of dark corduroys. “There you are,” he says, stopping by my desk with a friendly smile.

  “Um, yup,” I squeak, sounding more like a Powerpuff Girl than a professional adult woman. “I’m here. In my cube. Doing . . . work?”

  “Glad to hear it,” Justin says, looking at me with something that might be amusement or might be utter confusion, it’s hard to tell. “Hey, thanks again for tracking down the horoscope column last night. When you see Pearl, will you tell her to keep up the good work?”

  “Oh!” I chirp, nodding maniacally. “Sure. Will do.”

  “It was one of her best, I think.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. I enjoyed myself, sure—it was kind of a trip, googling the supposed strengths and weaknesses of each astrological sign and trying to figure out what they might need help with—but it’s hilarious to think I might have an actual talent for it. “Thanks.” Shoot. “I mean, I’ll be sure to tell her. Pearl, that is. Who wrote the column. Just like always.”

  Justin doesn’t seem to notice the way my entire circuit board is currently crashing, thank God. “Yeah,” he continues thoughtfully, “it was great advice.” He cocks his head to the side, lips quirking. “Maybe I should follow it.”

  I laugh nervously. “Maybe so,” is all I say before he strolls away.

  I exhale in relief, then reach for my phone again. I may have escaped with my life—and job—intact, but that just means there’s five hours until tomorrow’s column is due. “Pearl,” I whisper-hiss. “Seriously, call me back. This is important!”

  * * *

  I keep calling all morning, but with no success. Still, when I go meet April and Poppy for lunch at our favorite little bistro, I toast my near-miss. “To having a job for at least one more day,” I say cheerfully, half-drunk with relief as I clink my glass of Diet Coke with theirs.

  “That’s the spirit,” Poppy agrees. “How is it?”

  “And by ‘it,’ we mean, ‘he,’ ” April adds.

  “It’s fine,” I say, busying myself with my burger. “And he is too. Unfortunately. Too damn fine.”

  “Poor you,” Poppy says with a smirk.

  “It’s not a good thing!” I protest. “As if I don’t have enough to be worried about, I have to spend precious energy trying not to fantasize about my boss! I was just lucky I managed to keep it together long enough to pull off this horoscope switcheroo,” I add. “He had no idea. In fact, he seemed to believe in it. I can’t believe a guy like Justin takes that stuff seriously.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” April says, nibbling thoughtfully at her BLT. “I do, too. Kind of.”

  “Me too,” Poppy chimes in, picking a fry off April’s plate. “At least, when it says good things. I mean, astrology goes back centuries. It would be crazy to just totally dismiss it out of hand.”

  “Wait a second,” I say, looking back and forth between them dubiously. “You seriously think the stars can tell your future?”

  “I mean, it’s not that simple,” April says with a laugh. “And I don’t think it’s super specific or anything like that.”

  “Not like, the hot stranger who feels you up in a broken elevator will turn out to be the new CEO of your newspaper,” Poppy puts in helpfully.

  “Exactly,” April agrees, grinning as I ball up my paper straw wrapper and toss it across the table in their direction. “But big picture? We’re specks in the universe, Natalie. And if the stars can offer us clues, or guidance, or even just a good laugh about ourselves . . . I say we’d be silly not to accept and say thank you.”

  April is always looking for the good in things, but I think about that for a moment. I guess I can see why people might be attracted to the idea of the future being written in the cosmos, their fortunes and follies predetermined by some grand interstellar plan. After all, better that than a sea of randomness.

  Better that than no plan at all.

  “If nothing else,” Poppy says finally, “it’s nice to read them every morning, even if it’s just to agree with the good predictions.”

  “Exactly,” April says. “For example, this morning Madame LeFarge told me I’m going to come into great wealth.”

  I burst out laughing. “That was me!” I remind her. “I’m Madame LeFarge!”

  “Oh yeah.” April pauses, then breaks into a smile. “Well, in that case: I guess you’re paying for lunch!”

  My phone is ringing when I get back to my desk, and my heart lifts when I spy the number on the caller ID.

  “Pearl!” I cry into the receiver, like she’s a long-lost lover from whom I’ve been separated by a horrifying natural disaster, and not a middle-aged, chain-smoking coworker with whom I have occasionally chatted about Fixer Upper at holiday parties. “Are you OK?”

  “Never better, peanut!” she says cheerily. I can hear the plinking strains of what sounds suspiciously like a Jimmy Buffet song in the background. “How are you?”

  “A bit lost without you, actually,” I admit, trying to keep my voice even. “Where are you? And when are you coming back to work?”

  “On a cruise in the Caribbean, of course!” she informs me, casual as if she’s just down the hall in the bathroom. “Which is why I’m calling: I’m taking a little break.”

  I feel all the air go out of me. “Wait, what?” I ask. I sink down into my desk chair, suddenly weak-kneed. “You can’t go! The paper needs you.”

  “Oh, please,” Pearl says, with a pause just long enough, I suspect, for her to take a drag on a Marlboro light. “You all will be just fine without me—for as long as the paper survives, that is. I hear things aren’t looking good, sugar.”

  I grimace. “It’s not so bad here, Pearl, really! Justin—our new CEO—is doing everything he can to avoid layoffs.”

  “Sure he is,” Pearl says darkly, her suddenly dour tone a striking contrast to the chorus of “Margaritaville” still audible from the deck of her cruise ship. “I don’t buy it for a second, peanut, and neither should you. Those Rockfords are all the same.”

  I open my mouth to argue before deciding it’s probably pointless. “Shouldn’t you . . . tell someone?” I ask at last. “If you’re not coming back for a while?”

  “I’m telling you, aren’t I?” Just like that, Pearl’s tone is bright again—imagining, probably, her brand-new life of flip-flops and white sand beaches and having sunscreen rubbed onto her naked body by handsome young pool boys. “You can pass it along to the new CEO. He’s a snack, I’ll admit that much—I saw him on the Google. But I’m not about to sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting to get the axe. Mama deserves a break. If you’re still in print after the holidays, call me!”

  I rake a panicky hand through my hair. What am I going to do? Pearl’s column is the one thing about the paper Justin actually seems to like. Once he finds out she’s left . . . I try to think. “Can you . . . refer me to someone to fill in for you?” I ask desperately. “Another psychic? There’s a network, isn’t there? I’m pretty sure there’s a network.”

  “Oh, peanut, I’m not a psychic!” Pearl laughs, sounding absolutely tickled. “I don’t even have a background in astrology. I worked as a Pilates instructor before I got this gig from my second cousin’s ex-husband’s sister. I’ve been making up the column for years. We all have.”

  “What?” I actually feel my mouth fall open. It’s like finding out Santa isn’t real plus Brad and Angelina breaking up all over again. “It’s all fake?”

  “Of course it’s all fake,” Pearl says, sounding blissfully unconcerned. “Any monkey with a typewriter can
do it. Just read a book or two, tell people what they want to hear, and be as vague as you possibly can.” She hacks out a rattling smoker’s cough that echoes in my eardrum. “Now if you’ll excuse me, peanut, there’s a pina colada in a coconut calling my name. Good luck!”

  Pearl hangs up before I can reply.

  I sit back in my desk chair for a moment, feeling shell-shocked. It’s not that I’m surprised the column was a hoax, exactly—after all, wasn’t I just telling April and Poppy how ridiculous I think horoscopes are? Still, I have to admit I’m taken aback that Pearl owned up to it so quickly. Shouldn’t she believe her own hype, at the very least?

  Of course, none of that actually matters now. I’ve got way more pressing problems: namely, where on Earth I’m going to dig up another astrologer on short notice. Or even a fake one. I need a plan, and fast, but I’ve barely got time to pull out my trusty reporter’s notebook to try and make it before Justin is coming out of his office, clearing his throat loudly to get everyone’s attention.

  “Hey there, everyone,” he says, smiling an annoyingly charming smile. “I know the rumor mill has been working overtime lately, and I just wanted to thank you all for your hard work and good faith. We’re doing our best to restructure around here with as little chaos as possible. I won’t lie to you all, it’s going to be tricky. But the hard road has the most rewards, right? We’ll all do our best to stay the course.”

  I blink. Something about his phrasing rings a bell at the back of my head, but it takes me a moment to put two and two together. When I do, I almost fall right out of my wobbly chair. The hard road being the most rewarding, staying the course . . . it’s advice straight out of Justin’s horoscope this morning! Did he really take the column to heart . . . so much so that he’s using it to make a business plan?

  I think again of what Pearl told me on the phone, about anyone with a typewriter being able to take over for her. And didn’t Justin say himself that this morning’s column was one of the best he’d read? Maybe there’s no harm in me filling into Madame LaFarge’s sparkly caftan—temporarily, of course.

  And if Justin’s horoscopes just happen to nudge him—and the future of the Gazette—in the right direction . . .

  Well, who am I to doubt the stars?

  6

  Natalie

  Aries: Tread lightly, and treat those around you with extra consideration and care. Difficult circumstances may hold unexpected rewards.

  * * *

  I’m running late for work the next morning, and as I hurry down the narrow staircase of our old building, I almost bump straight into Lucinda, my downstairs neighbor. She’s a semi-retired actress in her sixties with bright red hair and a real fondness for leopard print—and extravagant stories about her glory days on Broadway. Today, she’s standing in her open doorway saying goodbye to a handsome stranger I assume is a younger relative, or delivery guy of some kind—that is, until she grabs him by the lapels and drags him in for a long, wet kiss.

  Not a relative.

  Damn, Lucinda. I blush at the sight of the guy’s wandering hands—and eager tongue. Way to go! She winks at me over Hottie McHothot’s shoulder. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I could use some of whatever she’s got.

  “See you tonight,” she tells him, sending him off with a slap on the ass. “Natalie, darling, how are you?”

  “Not as good as you, clearly,” I tell her, smiling.

  She laughs. “I met him in acting class.”

  “You’re teaching?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Heavens, no. A student, my dear. One needs to keep the skills sharp. You never know when a new opportunity might present himself. Besides, orgasms keep you young. Better than any skin cream, I tell you.”

  She swans inside with a wink, leaving me to pat my face in worry. I need some new moisturizer. Or orgasms. But I’m guessing only one of them is available at Sephora.

  I head out, stopping by the coffee shop around the corner from the Gazette offices to grab Justin his usual latte—and, OK, maybe a chocolate croissant for myself. The line is nearly out the door, and I cringe, glancing at my watch. Punctuality or carbs? Dammit. Then I realize Justin himself is making his way up to the registers.

  “Hey!” he calls, face breaking into a grin when he sees me. It’s so different from the worried scowl I’m used to seeing on his face that I actually glance over my shoulder to see if there’s someone else he’s talking to.

  Nope, all me. I spot my chance, and skip the line to scoot in next to him—ignoring the scowl from the dude behind us in line.

  Sorry, all’s fair in love and croissants.

  “You’re in a good mood this morning,” I note.

  “I guess I am.” Justin tucks away the newspaper he’s holding—but not before I notice it’s open at Madame LeFarge’s column. He pulls out his wallet. “Here, allow me. What are you having?”

  “Oh, thanks!” I place my order, then look at him more closely. Could his sudden good humor have anything to do with his horoscope? Part of me thinks that’s totally ridiculous—but then again, a free croissant doesn’t lie.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “So, how’s your week going?” Justin asks as we head back toward the office, coffees in hand. “I mean, aside from your workplace descending into anarchy, obviously.”

  I laugh, I can’t help it. “Aside from that, no complaints. My friend is a florist who volunteers at an animal shelter, so I spent last night helping her make flower crowns for a bunch of pit bulls so they could take glamour shots and get adopted faster.”

  “That’s awesome,” Justin says with a smile. “My grandma had a mutt when I was growing up that she adopted from a shelter. She was a total sweetheart, but never quite learned not to pee on the floor.”

  “The dog or your grandma?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  I’m afraid he’ll get offended, but Justin laughs out loud. “I mean, she always blamed the dog,” he deadpans.

  Justin is surprisingly easy to joke around with for a gajillionaire CEO who’s probably going to destroy my career, and we keep up a light, easy banter as we make our way across the lobby. Then we step into the elevator. Alone.

  I swallow. “So . . .” I wrack my brain for something to say that doesn’t involve the elephant in the room.

  The hot, sexy, mind-bending elephant.

  And how great it felt for him to kiss me. With that mouth . . . that tongue . . .

  “Do you like muffins?” I blurt.

  Justin looks confused, and I don’t blame him. “Muffins?” he repeats slowly.

  “There are two types of people in the world,” I continue, babbling. “Muffin people and croissant people.”

  “Spongey or flakey?” Justin asks, his lips twitching with amusement.

  “Exactly! Muffin people like to pretend they’re being healthy. But really, muffins are just socially-acceptable ways to eat cake for breakfast. A croissant at least knows what it is. Butter. Just a whole pack of butter, folded up thinly. Have you ever seen one getting made? Your arteries will clog just at the sight of it.”

  Oh for the love of God, just stop me now.

  Maybe I should have written a better horoscope for myself: Not all thoughts are outside thoughts. Silence is golden.

  I shove my croissant in my mouth to shut myself up, and thankfully, we arrive on our floor. I’m just about to bolt for my desk to avoid any further embarrassment, when I spy two expensive, entitled-looking suits standing outside his office.

  “Brock!” Justin greets the taller of the two, holding his hand out. “Parker. Good to see you guys. Natalie, these are two junior VPs at the Rockford Group. Guys, this is my assistant Natalie.”

  “Soy latte,” Brock barks immediately, barely sparing me a glance. “No foam.”

  “I’ll take an extra-hot Italian roast,” the other chimes in.

  I look back at Justin, but he just offers me an embarrassed, apologetic smile. “Would you mind?” he asks.

 
So much for skipping the coffee line, I guess. I turn around wordlessly and head back toward the elevator.

  This time, funnily enough, I don’t fantasize about Justin on the way down.

  Justin stays cloistered away in the conference room with the VPs for the rest of the day. And yes, they send me out for lunch, and snacks, and a 4 p.m. pick-me-up caffeine hit, too. I should have a FitBit with all these steps I’m getting in. And a coffee shop loyalty card.

  Still, it gives me time to polish up some pitches. Because yes, I’m technically a PA right now (not to mention secret astrologer), but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep hustling for some bylines. I have a great story about an old Italian guy in Brooklyn who is stymieing a group of high-powered developers by refusing to sell them his old apartment building. They’ve bought out his neighbors for some big apartment complex and are doing everything they can to drive him out, including playing Taylor Swift at full volume day and night. My dad was over there fixing the pipes and convinced him to talk to me. I just know it’s the kind of story that will get eyeballs, and the city desk editor agrees . . .

  If I can get Justin to let me write it.

  By the time the newsroom empties out, I’m ready to go home and collapse, but the light is still on in Justin’s office. I figure I might as well go see if his cheery mood from this morning survived the work day, enough to take a chance on my pitch, anyway. I take a deep breath, then smooth my hair and head across the bullpen.

  I catch sight of him at his desk through the barely cracked door, raising my hand to knock and then abruptly dropping it when I realize he’s on speakerphone. “Dad—” he’s saying, looking pained. But the voice on the other end of the line cuts him off.

  “Enough, Justin. We’re not playing around here. I’m not about to let you screw our shareholders for the sake of following some ridiculous whim—”

  “It’s not a whim, Dad. Did you even look at the reports I sent over? I can get this paper back into the black. All you have to do is give me a chance.”