💫💫💫“The Astrology House” by Carinn Jade💫💫💫

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Farah brushes my arm with her fingertips. “Oh, Aimee, you’re still young,” she says. As always, Farah sees through to the core of me.

“Forty is on the horizon,” I admit.

“In three years.”

Ignoring Farah’s insistence, I fixate on Rini. Her youth isn’t the only thing nagging at me. I zoom in on the picture with my thumb and pointer finger, but I can’t place her, or the feeling.

“Well, I’m glad we’re doing this. The house is certainly pretty,” Farah says. “Shall we check in?”

It’s not our usual modern luxury resort, but it is charming. The Victorian house on the bluff. Green manicured lawns. The ocean in the background. The graveled road leading to the house is framed with tall knotty trees, their limbs gnarled in disjointed directions. The character of this home is so real that it greets us at the door, along with the astrologer, who introduces herself.

“This place is beautiful,” I say. As for meeting Rini, she doesn’t look as vaguely familiar in person.

Rini leads us around the first floor, pointing out the amenities and specialty rooms with practiced perfection. I notice the library is stocked with every Audra Rose novel in print and smile to myself. Rini couldn’t possibly know it’s my Adam who writes as Audra Rose, but he will be thrilled to see his thirteen published books displayed like treasure.

We ascend the grand staircase to the second level, where Rini explains that we are forbidden from using any of the rooms in the second wing unless we want to incur “exorbitant” housekeeping charges. Farah laps it up; she loves rules.

“What about the turrets?” Farah asks.

“There’s no access to them,” Rini answers tersely, as if she’s been asked that a million times before.

“Too bad, I bet the view is amazing from there.”

Rini leans in conspiratorially. “Can you keep a secret?”

Farah and I nod at the same time. Farah might be discreet, but I’m the one who’s as impenetrable as a vault.

“They’re purely decorative,” Rini states.

“Why? That’s such a waste,” I say.

“The zoning code would have recategorized me as a three-story B and B rather than a two-story vacation rental and that would have subjected me to more regulation without adding any bedrooms for increased capacity.”

“Ah, well, from the press it sounds like you’ve done right to stay in the good graces of the zoning authorities,” Farah says.

Rini clasps her hands behind her back, and I wonder if they teach that in Hospitality 101.

“Well, that’s it for now. Any questions?”

“None, thank you,” Farah says.

“Actually, yes,” I say at the same time. “She’s an obstetrician. We were at a farm stand earlier, and she said something that stuck with me.”

“What did I say?” Farah asks.

“You said you wished you could pre-deliver a baby.”

“That was a joke.”

“I know you were teasing me, but I thought, ‘Isn’t that what a scheduled C-section is?’ ”

“No, that’s not the same as banking content for TikTok.”

“I didn’t want to argue about my ‘work,’ ” I say, putting air quotes around the word like she does.

“Ladies?” Rini interjects.

I shoot Farah a look that asks her to be patient with me, the way I am with her. I turn to Rini to explain.

“When we filled out the forms for our readings, you asked for our date and time of birth. If a birth is planned ahead of time, do you think that messes up the baby’s destiny? Or what about the mother’s destiny?”

A previous Aimee would have ridiculed the idea that our fate was fixed by some unseen force. Old Aimee knew what she wanted out of life and did everything in her power to achieve it, from submitting extra credit for higher grades in school to breaking up with Adam when he didn’t propose on the right timeline. My specific actions led to my Columbia acceptance letter, and to Adam showing up the next week with a diamond ring. Nothing could have carried me somewhere I didn’t want to go. And nothing could have stood in my way of where I wanted to be.

Yet in the last few years, I’ve found myself believing more in woo-woo ideas like fate and karma. Even this very conversation feels like evidence of their existence. How many times has Farah seen a post of me and the girls go up on social media during the exact minute we’re outside her office having lunch? Enough to know I schedule content ahead of time, and she’s never once said she wishes she could pre-deliver a baby. Not until the moment I have an opportunity to ask an expert. An unseen force has to be at play.

“Aimee, you didn’t have C-sections,” Farah says, confused.

She’s right, obviously, but the question is a metaphor. Could I have made a choice a long time ago that altered this very moment, and I’m the idiot who thinks she’s still driving the bus? Are our futures determined by our pasts? I can’t bear to hear the answer to that direct question, so I ask about C-sections.

“What an interesting inquiry,” Rini says. I smile.

All I’ve ever wanted is a picture-perfect life. The recipe for which is a lot of hard work in the setup, dozens of tries to get it right, and a sprinkle of good lighting.

Place the devoted romance-writer husband by my side. Snap. One magazine-worthy duplex on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Snap. One yummy baby. Snap. Another angelic girl. Snap. A third perfect daughter. Snap.

Me, front and center. The best light, the best angle. Snap.

Lately I’m scared that the next time I capture a shot, the camera shutter will close and—poof—it’s all gone. Collapsed under the weight of a mistake so old that it predates Instagram Stories. A choice that won’t disappear after twenty-four hours no matter how I try to archive it.

STARS HARBOR ASTROLOGICAL RETREAT