What’s Your Sign?: A Romantic Comedy

by Monroe, Lila

  “Look at you!” April exclaims. “I’d ask what serum you’re using, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.”

  “Eww!” I protest, flushing. “And also, nothing but sleep and amazing orgasms.”

  “Meanie,” April sighs. “Meanwhile, the closest I’ve gotten to one of those is courtesy of my new Lelo.”

  “Which isn’t to be underestimated,” Poppy reminds her. “Efficient and pretty, the perfect vibrator combination.”

  “True.” April grins. “Although I’d prefer something more interactive.”

  “Any prospects?” I ask. It’s still beyond me why someone like April stays single, but she has a bullshit detector to match her romantic streak, and somehow, no guys get close.

  She shakes her head. “A guy was in the store flirting with me all morning . . . and then his girlfriend arrives. To pick out flowers for their engagement party!”

  “I hope you sent him away with something thorny,” Poppy says.

  “Nope. But I did overcharge,” she grins, and we all laugh.

  We split a basket of fries as Poppy fills us in on her latest client, a jilted husband determined to get his wife back through the power of the pen—never mind that she’s found what looks like actual happiness with a brand-new girlfriend. “How do you make ‘I promise to pick my socks up off the bathroom floor if only you’ll try men again’ sound sexy?” Poppy wonders. “Nat, any thoughts?”

  “What?” I ask distractedly, daydreaming about just what, exactly, Justin did with his tongue last night. I look between them, lost. “I’m sure true love will find a way.”

  “Thank you, Pollyanna,” April says with a laugh.

  “Sounds more like Madame LeFarge to me,” Poppy says.

  “I’m sorry!” I laugh bashfully.

  “No, it’s cute seeing you all marshmallowy,” April insists. “Things must be good with Justin.”

  “They are.” I beam. “I know it’s probably just new-relationship goggles—”

  “You mean sex goggles,” Poppy teases.

  “—but everything feels kind of perfect right now,” I finish. “I’m in serious feels territory over here.”

  “Feels territory!” Poppy echoes with a laugh. “That’s more like it. I wonder if I can use that in the letter.”

  “It’s all yours.”

  “So have you talked about going public?” she asks. “Or are you still keeping things secret?”

  “Top secret: classified information,” I answer immediately. “It would make life seriously complicated at work if anyone found out. And then there’s the whole horoscope thing,” I add with a sigh. “Justin still checks it every morning with his coffee.”

  “Oh man, that’s perfect,” Poppy exclaims. “It’s like your shortcut to his brain. Today is a great time to lavish your girlfriend with extravagant gifts,” she mimics, and I groan.

  “No, see that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid! It feels even weirder now that things are hotting up between us. I’ve stopped writing anything to try and nudge him into doing stuff, it’s all generic things for his star sign now, but still . . .” I wince. “Maybe I should come clean and just tell him it’s been me all along?”

  “Or you could keep quiet until Pearl’s back?” Poppy suggests. “It’s only temporary, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, still torn. “I just hate keeping secrets.”

  “It’s up to you,” Poppy says, with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure he’ll laugh it off, either way. I mean, it’s not like the future of the Gazette is resting on that column!”

  I head back to the office, still deliberating coming clean. It didn’t seem like a big lie starting out, but now that Justin and I are growing closer, I hate keeping something like this from him—and sneaking off to write the column while he’s distracted with other work.

  When I walk in, I find the whole place buzzing with the kind of grim electricity that’s become all too common lately. “What’s going on?” I ask Lori, who wordlessly hands me a double-chocolate scone.

  “We’re sunk,” Carl announces mournfully, sinking down into his desk chair. “Ashland

  Rockford is suspending our operating budget, effective Monday. All of us are going to be out on the street by the end of the week.”

  “Wait, what?” I gulp. I glance toward the closed door to Justin’s office. So much for secrets! He hasn’t said anything to me about his dad pulling the plug. “That can’t be right.”

  He shrugs. “I just read about it in Forbes. We’re dunzo. Do you think they’re hiring at the Poughkeepsie News?”

  I manage to wait a safe amount of time before grabbing some official-looking papers and crossing to Justin’s office. “Is it true?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.

  Justin looks up from his desk, ashen. “It’s true,” he says, running both hands through his hair. “My dad wants to call it. I tried everything I could think of to convince him—I offered to put my own shares of the company up as collateral, even—but he wasn’t buying. The most efficient thing to do is to sell the Gazette for parts, and my dad is—and always has been—about the most efficient thing.”

  “Seriously?” God, I’d like to strangle that guy with his $300 tie. “What is his problem?”

  “It’s business,” Justin says dully, in the voice of someone who’s spent the last thirty years being told just that at every turn.

  "But there has to be something we can do!” I blurt, my head spinning. “Find the money somewhere else. Some other investor, or something!”

  He nods. “I’ve been on the phone all morning, calling every private equity group in town. But none of them are willing to take the risk, except . . .” He trails off.

  “Except who?” I demand eagerly.

  “Have you ever heard of Walter Vanderfleet?”

  “The anti-slip tycoon?” I can’t help but laugh. Back in the eighties, Vanderfleet Industries patented a special kind of high-performance rubber that’s used in roughly a million industrial applications, from rumble strips to subway platforms to military uniforms. I once read—in the Gazette, actually—that the average American encounters a Vanderfleet product roughly three times a day. “Isn’t he kind of, well, eccentric?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Justin nods. “But there’s a chance he might invest. Turns out, he got his start running a newspaper route as a kid. And guess what publication he was out tossing on people’s doorsteps?”

  “The Gazette!”

  “Bingo.” Justin nods. “I’ve been trying to set a meeting, but the guy is something of a recluse. I did manage to wrangle an invite out to his Hamptons compound for the weekend,” he adds. “He and his wife Suki are throwing some kind of anniversary party. I figured it was worth making an approach.”

  “That’s something,” I say, trying to sound encouraging, even though we’re at Threat Level: 100 here. “You’re literally the most charming guy I know—you’ll totally be able to win him over. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “You won’t have to,” Justin says, giving me a smile. “The invite is for me and a guest.”

  “You want me to be your plus-one?” I ask, feeling a glow. That’s awfully official . . .

  “If you have a ’20s outfit handy,” Justin continues. “The party is themed. The Great Gatsby.”

  I snort with laughter. “Because billionaires don’t know about dramatic irony. Sure, why not?”

  “Don’t forget to practice your Charleston.” Justin grins. “Oh, and there’s one more thing. Can you get in touch with Pearl?”

  What?!

  I almost swallow my tongue. “Pearl?” I ask, my voice high and squeaky. “Um . . . Sure. Maybe. Why?”

  “They’ve requested the pleasure of her company. Apparently, Mrs. Vanderfleet is her biggest fan,” Justin explains with a wry smile. “Reads her column every morning, even the horoscopes that aren’t hers. I know she likes to keep out of the public eye,” he adds. “But bringing her along would seal the deal. How cou
ld they possibly say no to investing in the paper after that? It would be like going against the cosmos,” he adds, smiling.

  I nod so enthusiastically I think my head might pop clean off. “Of course,” I gulp, “I’ll, um, try to track her down. But she might not be able to make it,” I blurt. “Health problems. And, um, she has this pet parakeet that needs round-the-clock care.”

  “Whatever it takes, we need to make it happen,” Justin says. “It could be our last chance to save the paper.”

  Well, when he puts it like that . . .

  I nod. “One star astrologer, coming right up!”

  I spend the rest of the afternoon in a panic. I dial Pearl’s number over and over, only to be met with an outgoing message announcing that she’s thrown her phone in the Atlantic Ocean and will get back to me approximately never. “Pearl,” I beg into her voicemail, on the off chance she’s bluffing. “Please call me back. It’s an emergency!”

  By the time I head home that afternoon, I’ve worked myself into a full-on meltdown. What the heck am I doing to do? I definitely can’t tell Justin the truth now—that the horoscopes he’s been reading the last few weeks were penned by none other than yours truly—if it means tanking the paper’s one chance for survival. But he’s going to figure out the whole charade pretty fast when I can’t produce Pearl.

  It’s a beautiful day, those first notes of fall crispness on the air and the leaves beginning to turn bright-orange and yellow. Normally, I’d head across the street to the greengrocer and pick up a pumpkin for our front stoop, or text my friends to see if they were around for an impromptu happy hour involving apple cider-themed cocktails, but instead I plunk myself down on the front stoop of my building, feeling utterly hopeless.

  I’m going to lose my job.

  I’m going to lose Justin.

  I have no idea what to do.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, staring vaguely in the middle distance, before my neighbor Lucinda comes strolling up the front walk in a slinky leopard-print dress and a pair of enormous sunglasses, her hennaed hair gleaming in the sun. “Why the long face, darling?” she asks, pulling her keys out of her jeweled handbag. “Don’t tell me that delicious man of yours is up to no good?”

  “Oh, no,” I assure her. “He’s fine, Lucinda, thanks. How are you?”

  “Demoralized!” she proclaims immediately, like she’s been waiting for someone to ask. “I’ve just come from an audition. Got to keep those acting chops sharp, you know, even if all my agent wants to sign me up for these days is adult diaper commercials.” She turns in a circle on the front walk, her jewelry jangling. “Now, tell me, darling. Do I look like I have incontinence to you?”

  “No!” I assure her quickly, laughing. “You look very . . . continent.”

  “That’s what I keep telling them!” Lucinda sighs dramatically. “I’ll tell you, darling, the most grievous crime an actress can commit in this town is to let herself get old. Lord, what I wouldn’t do for a juicy part.”

  I blink.

  Could I . . . ?

  No, I stop the thought in its tracks. That’s just crazy-talk. But then I wonder . . . Nobody’s actually met Pearl. She’s just a byline on the column. A name on the page.

  The Vanderfleets want to meet the great Pearl LeFarge. But nobody said which one.

  “Lucinda?” I ask, my heart pounding with newfound hope. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  19

  Natalie

  With the Pearl problem solved—kind of, I hope, please Lord?—Justin and I sneak out of work early on Friday. Even though we’re technically making our debut as a couple this weekend, I’m still weirded out by people at work knowing I’m banging the boss, so I have him pick me up around the block with my bag and snacks for the road.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  I force a smile as we get going. Normally there’s nothing that boosts my mood like the prospect of a road trip—good music, the open highway, and, most importantly, car snacks—but today I feel queasy in the front seat of Justin’s Audi—and it’s nothing to do with the butter-smooth drive.

  I was up half the night composing an epic list of everything that could potentially go wrong this weekend, and I came up with way too many options for disaster. What if Walter Vanderfleet decides he doesn’t want to invest in the paper after all? What if Lucinda forgets what she’s supposed to be doing altogether and treats us all to her favorite monologue from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? What if Justin and I find out we hate each other when faced with the prospect of a whole weekend together in such close quarters?

  OK, that last one feels unlikely, especially now as I glance over at him in the driver’s seat, taking in his profile as we head for the highway. Strong jawline, delicious mouth . . . It’s all I can do not to tell him to pull over for a quickie right there on the side of the Long Island Expressway.

  But still.

  Justin glances over at me. “You OK?” he asks over the purr of the engine, and I nod, mustering what I hope is a chill, cheery smile.

  “I’m great,” I assure him. “Seriously, what’s to be stressed out about? A weekend in the Hamptons, at a reclusive billionaire’s luxurious estate, with a guy I sort of even like a little?”

  “Sort of, a little, huh?” Justin asks with a smirk.

  “Maybe,” I say, raising my eyebrows teasingly. “Can’t let you get too cocky.”

  “I’d never,” he says, then reaches down and takes my hand. And he doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive.

  The Vanderfleet estate is massive, a lavish compound set on fifteen immaculately manicured acres by the shore. I mean, I watch property porn shows with the best of them, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything as epic as this.

  “Understated, huh?” I say, my jaw dropping as we wind our way up the neverending driveway, past the rose gardens, and the tennis court, and the Olympic-sized outdoor swimming pool with a perfect view of the ocean.

  “I guess Walter doesn’t see any point in hiding his wealth,” Justin comments.

  I glance over. “You mean, compared to the restrained, modest style of the Rockfords?” I tease.

  He grins. “I mean sure. We only have three guest houses at our place in Kennebunkport.”

  I snort with laughter as we approach the main house.

  Did I say house? I meant, “fifteen thousand-square-foot castle in the style of a French chateau.”

  “Is this place for real?” I breathe as we pull up out front. I did a Google deep dive on Vanderfleet last night and he’s known for never doing anything halfway. This party is a perfect example: the main celebration isn’t until tomorrow night, but already the lawn is studded with dozens of guests in full jazz-age regalia. Waiters in tuxes and tails serve cocktails to croquet players while glamorous couples lounge lazily in Adirondack chairs.

  “Welcome.” A valet whisks Justin’s car off to some unseen garage and a dapper old butler in white gloves takes our luggage, offering us a tiny bow. “Mr. Rockford,” he says warmly. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come right this way.”He leads us through the castle’s grand front entrance and into a massive foyer filled with plush, antique rugs and old furniture . . . along with half a dozen suits of armor and a full-size stuffed black bear with both paws up as if poised to attack. “Mr. Vanderfleet is something of a collector,” he explains as we pass a tall china cabinet full of what appear to be vintage Lego models.

  “I . . . see that,” I manage. Justin coughs to cover a laugh.

  The butler leads us up a set of wide, carpeted stairs, then down a long hallway and up another staircase before finally unlocking the door to a large, sunny suite. This room, at least, is blessedly free of any bears, or other beasts. “Your home for the weekend,” he says grandly. “On behalf of all of us at Vanderfleet Industries, we hope you enjoy your stay with us. Please don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

  Once we’re alon
e, Justin and I burst out laughing. “Did he order him from a catalog?” I ask, spluttering. “Wanted: snooty British butler.”

  “This is wild,” Justin agrees. His gaze lands on the enormous four poster bed, and he lifts an eyebrow. “You know,” he points out, sliding his hands around my waist. “We don’t have to be downstairs for cocktails for another hour . . .”

  “How will we ever fill the time?” I grin.

  Justin pulls me down onto the mattress in answer, rolling me onto my back and kissing me hard as he goes to work on the button of my jeans. He peels them down, kissing his way down my body and making me moan in the process. My head falls back against the pillows, and I sigh in bliss as his hands and wicked tongue find my core. Damn, he’s good at that. I stretch my arms above my head, grabbing on to the intricately-carved headboard as he slips two fingers inside me and pulses.

  Who knows? Maybe I won’t have so much trouble relaxing this weekend after all.

  An hour later—OK, two—we dress in our best ’20s finery and head down for cocktails. I want to be sure to grab Lucinda the minute she steps foot on the property, so I suggest we park ourselves on the front lawn to listen to the band-slash-keep an eye on the new arrivals.

  “Look at all the outfits,” I nudge him, wide-eyed. “People have gone all out for this.”

  “You’re the most beautiful one here, though,” Justin tells me. I bite back a laugh.

  “Thanks, but sure.”

  He’s not looking too bad himself. He stopped short of a full-on white tux, but he still looks dapper as all hell in a tailored gray suit, with a blue tie that makes his eyes pop. I cross my ankles in my heeled Mary Janes, smoothing down the fringed dress I found with April at a costume shop in Greenpoint. A sparkly headband holds my hair out of my eyes. People are dressed to the nines, in feathers and jewels and long strings of pearls wrapped around their elegant necks.

  I want to relax and take in the view, but I can’t stop scanning the crowd for Lucinda. Justin arranged for a car and driver for her—excuse me, he arranged for a car and driver for Pearl LeFarge—but so far I haven’t spotted her. I’m starting to worry she’s not going to show, when she steps out onto the veranda, the same butler from earlier helping her across the threshold.