What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  “Hey, Derek,” I answer, but his voice is static and muffled. I check my bars. “Hang on,” I tell him, “let me find a good reception and call you back.”

  I grab my laptop and head downstairs. The party is just getting started, but I find a spot on the back veranda with better reception. I feel more relaxed than I have since I took over the paper—and not just because of the vacation sex. For the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m actually going to be able to make this all happen. I’m going to prove to my dad I know what I’m doing, and save the newspaper, too.

  “Oh, yoo-hoo.”

  I turn. Pearl LeFarge is sitting on a velvet settee in the corner, dramatically pressing a cloth to her forehead.

  “Pearl, how are you?”

  “Oh, you know, taking some downtime before I tread the boards again.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I realize all of a sudden she’s dropped her accent completely. Is Madame LeFarge actually from . . . the Bronx?

  “Are you enjoying the weekend?” I ask, getting a sneaking suspicion that something’s going on. “You and Suki seemed to hit it off.”

  “Oh yes, darling girl,” she replies. “Don’t worry, I won’t let Natalie down, I promise—after all, dahling, I’m a professional—but I won’t lie to you. Faking it for a whole weekend is different than a night on stage.”

  I pause. “Faking it?”

  “You know, this whole astrologer act,” Pearl says. “I think I’m holding up pretty good, although I keep mixing up my Geminis and my Pisces. Who knew there was so much to this star-reading thing?”

  Who knew? I stare at her in disbelief. Well, she should. If she was actually Pearl LeFarge, famed astrologer.

  “Still, you’re never too old to learn,” Pearl continues. “And of course poor Natalie couldn’t very well pretend to be Pearl herself, I mean, the girl has been cranking out those columns, but you need someone with real aplomb to sell this act. We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? Lucinda Donofrio,” she says, sticking out a bejeweled hand. “Natalie’s downstairs neighbor. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I say automatically, though my mind is racing. Lucinda? Neighbor?

  What the fuck is going on?

  Lucinda heaves herself up off the sofa, reaching for her martini one more time. “Well, I’ve got to rehearse for tonight, dahling,” she says. “I’ll see you at the party!” She leaves in a swish of fabric, a cloud of patchouli and gin trailing behind her.

  I watch her go for a moment before my knees turn to water and I sink down onto the couch.

  Natalie’s been the one writing the columns?

  Natalie’s the one whose guidance I’ve been relying on all this time?

  She’s been lying to me. All along.

  21

  Natalie

  I have to say one thing about eccentric billionaires: they know how to throw a party. Or the professional team they hired do, but either way, this place is next level. Votive candles float in the massive swimming pool, a pair of swans strutting its perimeter. A jazz band is set up at one corner of the patio. Beyond the garden is an old-fashioned hedge maze lit with tiny twinkling lights, beckoning lovers to get lost in its winding depths, and I make a mental note to drag Justin back there later for a little late-night canoodling.

  Plus, the food. Oh boy, the food.

  I’m in heaven, staking out a corner of lawn right by the exit from the kitchens, so I’m first in line for all those trays of deliciousness. “Lobster roll?” one offers.

  “Why yes, thank you.”

  I snag two, and pluck a glass of champagne off a tray proffered by another waiter, then make my way through the crowd, feeling more relaxed than I have in days—weeks, even. Sure, it may not be a one hundred percent done deal, but I know in my gut the paper is safe thanks to Justin’s deal with Walter. And I’ve got the handsomest date at the party. All that’s left to do is enjoy myself, Daisy Buchanan style . . .

  That is, without the car crashes, alcoholism, and violent deaths.

  I find the man himself standing near an enormous ice sculpture talking to Walter and Suki, dashing in his tux. “There you are!” Suki trills when she sees me. She’s luminous in a long, ethereal white gown, her yellow-blonde hair braided into a complicated-looking crown on top of her head. “We were just asking your charming date where you’d gotten to.”

  “I’m right here,” I smile, linking my arm through Justin’s. “Congratulations on the anniversary, you two!”

  The four of us clink glasses, but Justin feels tense beside me. Poor guy. He’s probably on tenterhooks waiting to find out if this deal is going to fall through. I rub his back. “Everything OK?” I ask quietly.

  “I’m good,” Justin replies, smiling tightly. “Let’s just get through the party.”

  I look at him, concerned. “Is everything OK with the deal?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  As reassurances go, it’s watery at best, but before I can press him any harder I spy Lucinda sashaying across the patio in our direction. “Pearl!” I call warmly, reaching out to steady her arm as she nearly trips over one of her dozen long, gauzy scarves. “How are you?”

  “Oh, just fine, darling,” Lucinda purrs, half sex-kitten and half Miss Cleo. She’s laying it on thick, that’s for sure. “The stars are all aligning, can you feel it in the air tonight?”

  “Is that so?” Justin sounds bitter.

  “It is, darling,” Lucinda tells him. She reaches up and lays a hand on his face. “The stars are calling you toward happiness. All you have to do is make your way through the fog.”

  Justin looks blank. “Let’s hope you’re right,” is all he says.

  Lucinda saunters off to make her celestial rounds, and I feel another stab of guilt. This is ridiculous, I think to myself. It’s Justin. I don’t want to lie to him anymore. As soon as we get back to the city I’m going to come clean, tell him the whole ridiculous story over pizza and beer before making it up to him with a night of epic sex. There shouldn’t be any secrets between us.

  And maybe he’ll find it funny.

  Maybe.

  For now, I just want to enjoy tonight. I take Justin’s hand as Walter makes his way to the top of the white stone staircase.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” he calls, raising his crystal champagne flute. “To my angel, Suki, my best friend and the love of my life. You’ve been my muse and my most trusted advisor since the very first day we met.” He smiles at her, true love radiating from his expression. “I believe it’s a first anniversary gift that’s traditionally meant to be made of paper, not your twentieth, but I’ve never liked to play by the rules. The Gazette is ours, my love. Well, a controlling stake, at least.”

  I gasp, squeezing Justin’s hand in delight.

  “We’re honored to be a part of the Gazette’s storied history as it enters a new era,” Walter continues, “led by a tenacious young CEO who’s deeply impressed me—and my advisory board—with his vision and good sense. Justin, I’m very much looking forward to a long and fruitful partnership with you and the Rockford Corporation.” He smiles out at the crowd, lifting his glass one more time as a cheer goes up and the band launches into an upbeat number. “Now let’s celebrate!”

  I barely resist the urge to hoot like my dad at the deciding game of the World Series, I’m so happy. Relief floods through me like a drug. Walter’s on board to invest! The paper is safe. And now Justin and I can put this whole thing behind us and focus on what really matters.

  The two of us.

  I turn to him, but Justin’s gone. Is he at the bar, topping up our celebratory drinks? I lean up on my tiptoes, trying to find him in the crowd, but there’s no sign of him.

  “Isn’t this fabulous?” Suki smothers me in a hug. “My Walter is so sweet, getting me everything I want.”

  “The sweetest,” I say distractedly. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  I search the party for J
ustin, my confusion growing. He should be on top of the world, here with me. But when I finally find him, he’s alone on the veranda, looking contemplatively out to the sea.

  “There you are,” I smile, handing him a glass of champagne. “I thought I’d come toast the guy who single-handedly just saved my favorite newspaper.”

  Justin doesn’t smile. “My pleasure,” he says, holding the glass up in a sardonic salute before taking a big sip.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. This should be the biggest night of his career—of both our careers. So why is he looking at me like he wishes I’d just slink back to Brooklyn already?

  Justin only shrugs, his expression bitter. “You should know, shouldn’t you?” he asks. “Isn’t it written in the stars, Ms. LeFarge?”

  Oh, shit.

  My stomach drops.

  He knows.

  “Justin . . .” I take a step towards him, my heart racing. “Before you freak out, I can explain.”

  “Explain what, exactly?” Justin asks harshly. His whole body is tense, like he’s barely holding his anger in check. “How you’ve been lying to me the entire time we’ve been together? Or how you used that ridiculous column to manipulate me to get what you wanted?”

  “Wait a second.” I blink, taken aback. “Manipulated you? I never—”

  “Trust your instincts?” he demands, quoting the column. “Stay the course? The hard road has the most rewards.”

  “Please,” I beg him. “Just listen. Pearl disappeared when you took over the paper, that’s all. She literally went on a cruise and dumped her phone into the ocean! And her column was the one thing about the Gazette that everyone could agree was a positive, and I didn’t want to lose that. I was just going to cover for her until the end of summer.”

  “So you just made it all up.”

  “Like she did!” I protest. “And I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, I swear, I just . . .” I pause, guilty.

  “Just what?” Justin’s face is steely.

  I take a deep breath. “OK, I won’t lie—”

  “For once,” he scowls.

  I feel an ache. “It wasn’t a big evil masterplan, I promise. When I realized you were a fan of the column, I hoped maybe I could use the column to nudge you in the right direction,” I admit. “But only because everybody’s jobs were on the line. I would have done anything to save the paper!”

  “Even lying to me.” Justin shakes his head, looking stormy. “I can’t believe I trusted you. I can’t believe I thought I was falling in love with you—” He breaks off, his voice rough and ragged as my heart aches. “But you’re no better than my father.”

  That hits me hard. “Justin, no—“

  “You think you can pull my strings and yank me around? Like I can’t think for myself!” Justin’s getting fired up now, and I can see the fraught emotion in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry!” I protest. “But it wasn’t like that! The minute things got real between us, I stopped using the column like that,” I swear. “I would never have—”

  “How am I supposed to know that?” he interrupts. “How could I trust anything you say to me ever again?”

  “Justin—” I start, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

  “You’re a liar and a fraud, Natalie, and you dragged me into it, too. Pearl’s column was just the first thing on a long list of shit that wasn’t real.”

  That’s when someone clears his throat behind us.

  I see Justin’s face change, and I know this can’t be good. But I don’t realize just how not-good until I slowly turn around and find Walter Vanderfleet himself standing not ten feet away, a cigar in his hand and a seriously unimpressed expression on his face.

  Oh my God. He heard us.

  He heard everything.

  “Walter.” Justin’s face goes white. “We were just . . . uh . . .”

  I can see him searching for an explanation, but there is none. “It’s my fault!” I blurt quickly. “Justin had no idea—”

  But Walter holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I certainly don’t mean to interrupt what’s clearly a personal matter,” he says, brusque and businesslike. “But we should discuss the implications of all this for the Gazette—and for my investment.”

  Oh, shit.

  Panic floods my veins. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’ve just ruined everything important in my life—everything I was working so hard to try and save—in one fell swoop.

  And it’s all my fault.

  Walter strides off, leaving us alone again. I turn back to Justin, reaching out to take his hand. “We can fix this,” I promise. It feels like I’m sliding down the edge of a mountain, desperate to find some kind of foothold. “You and me, we’re a team, right? We can—”

  “Don’t,” Justin says, snatching his hand away. “There’s nothing to fix, Natalie. The paper, you and me—all of it is done.”

  “Wait,” I beg, tears stinging in the back of my throat. Oh God, what have I done? “Justin, please—”

  But he doesn’t stick around to hear my babbled apologies. No, he’s already walking away.

  And he doesn’t look back.

  22

  Natalie

  A few days later, I’m knee deep in take-out boxes and misery. They say time heals a broken heart, but at this rate, it’ll be 2082 before I come up for air.

  It hurts.

  Everything hurts.

  “Special delivery,” April announces, arriving with a brightly colored beverage clutched in one hand. “They were out of the mango, so I got you the pineapple-kale instead. You need your vitamins,” she adds, looking around at the mess of pizza cartons and chips. “A woman cannot survive on carbs alone.”

  “Want to test me?” I ask, barely lifting my head off the throw pillow. I’m lying on the couch in the same position I’ve been ever since I got back from Gatsby-themed hell. I’m pretty sure the cat thinks I’m part of the furniture at this point, and I can’t say I blame her. But what reason do I have to drag myself upright? My job and relationship both have just evaporated in a cloud of guilt and self-loathing, and all I have is this ache in my chest.

  I miss him. I miss him bad.

  “Come on, the last thing you need right now is scurvy,” April says, nudging the smoothie closer.

  I take an obedient gulp, then fish my phone out from in between the sofa cushions. I’ve been checking obsessively to see if Justin has called or texted back—which, surprise surprise, he hasn’t. I’ve been trying desperately to get in touch with him—to apologize, to explain—but he’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again.

  Honestly, I can’t say I blame him.

  “Nothing yet?” April asks, looking sympathetic.

  “He hates me,” I sigh. “And I deserve it.”

  “You were just trying to save your friends’ jobs,” April reminds me gently. “You were trying to save the paper you love. And yes, things got tricky. But your heart was in the right place. Eventually Justin will see that, and he’ll come around.”

  I remember the utter betrayal on his face that night at the party and feel a wash of shame all over again. He trusted me, and I let him down. “I don’t think so,” I say. “And I didn’t even save anybody’s job in the end. The opposite, actually. Without Walter to invest, Rockford is shutting the whole place down.”

  “Well,” April says thoughtfully, reaching out and helping herself to a sip of my smoothie, “can you do something about that?”

  I consider the idea for a moment. Actually, she’s got a point. Even if Justin won’t talk to me, there’s no reason I can’t try my damnedest to make things right at the Gazette. He was willing to make a Hail Mary pass—so why can’t I?

  Which is how I find myself in the lobby of Walter’s uptown offices that afternoon, face washed and hair combed for the first time in days, dressed in my most professional-looking suit.

  Well, my only suit, actually.

  Still, there’s no reason for anyone el
se to know that—although Walter’s lemon-faced assistant certainly seems to have his suspicions.

  “There’s no way for Mr. Vanderfleet to see you today,” he explains tightly. “I can certainly let him know you stopped by, but a man with his schedule simply doesn’t have the time—”

  “I was just at his anniversary party this weekend,” I explain, trying to keep my voice even. I’m fully aware there’s a fine line between this is very important and I’m a crazy stalker come to kill him with a plastic spork. “I was out on his yacht.”

  The secretary looks at me like he’s seriously considering calling security. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re going to have to—”

  That’s when the elevator door opens and Walter himself comes strolling out.

  “Mr. Vanderfleet!” I yelp—almost tripping over my own feet in my mad dash to intercept him. “It’s me, Natalie. From the party this weekend?”

  “Of course,” he says dryly. “How could I forget?”

  I cringe. “I know you’ve got no reason to give me the time of day,” I tell him honestly, “after everything that happened at the party. But if you can just give me a chance to explain. Please? Ten minutes of your time. I brought you coffee,” I tell him, thrusting the paper cup out. “From the place you love on 5th Avenue. You told Forbes it was your favorite.”

  “Fine,” he says, giving me an assessing look. “And you better hope that coffee is hot.”

  * * *

  I don’t waste one second of time, and five minutes later, I’ve explained the whole sorry story. “I never meant to trick you or to take advantage of your hospitality by bringing Lucinda to the party,” I finish, my heart in my throat. “Everything just snowballed. I was trying to save the newspaper, and—” I break off, swallowing hard. “I blew it.”

  For a moment, Walter just looks at me, unreadable as my heart races. Then, to my surprise, he starts to laugh.

  Laugh!

  “Mr. Vanderfleet?” I say uncertainly, watching as he chortles merrily “Are . . . are you all right?”