ACCLAIM FOR E. LYNN HARRIS AND
Any way the Wind Blows
“E. Lynn Harris delivers juicy tales … laced with romance and spiked with sexual encounters. He also has a knack for creating characters that readers love to hate.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“A gripping revenge yarn.”
—New York Daily News
“E. Lynn Harris … has been called the Luther Vandross of literature.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“ Harris’s books are hot, in more ways than one.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Harris is a great storyteller who knows how to tug on the heartstrings with wit and sensitivity.”
—USA Today
“[E. Lynn Harris] tucks in plot twists bound to keep his readers turning pages late at night.”
—The Washington Post
“Filled with sensuality, deception, friendship, and love.”
—Ebony
“Harris is a wonderful writer. His romantic scenes, whether between men and women or men and men, are always touching.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Harris’s ensemble of characters—gay or straight—are entertaining, outspoken, and colorful.”
—Black Issues Book Review
“What’s got audiences hooked? Harris’s unique spin on the ever-fascinating topics of identity, class, intimacy, sexuality, and friendship.”
—Vibe
E. LYNN HARRIS
Any Way the Wind Blows
E. Lynn Harris is a former IBM computer sales executive and a graduate of the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. He is the author of seven previous novels: Any Way the Wind Blows, Not a Day Goes By, Abide with Me, Invisible Life, Just As I Am, And This Too Shall Pass, and If This World Were Mine. His most recent novel is A Love of My Own. In 1996, Just As I Am was named Novel of the Year by the Blackboard African American Booksellers, Inc. Abide with Me and If This World Were Mine won the James Baldwin Award for Literary Excellence. In 2000, E. Lynn Harris was named one of the fifty-five Most Intriguing African Americans by Ebony and inducted into the Arkansas Black Hall of Fame. Harris divides his time between New York City and Atlanta.
Also by E. Lynn Harris
Invisible Life
Just As I Am
And This Too Shall Pass
If This World Were Mine
Abide with Me
Not a Day Goes By
A Love of My Own
It’s All Love
This novel is dedicated in alphabetical order to a trio of three wonderful human beings who have impacted my life by sharing their lives with me. Troy Donato (a.k.a. my Jared) for being my most trusted friend for more than fifteen years, Charles Flowers for sharing his brilliance, friendship and kind, gentle spirit and Janet Hill for friendship, leadership and class second to none.
In Memory
Andrew Harvey (Grand-daddy)
Julian Richardson
Heath Williams
Donald Vincent Welcher
Acknowledgments
It’s a blessing to have a career that I love even on the tough days. I am thankful to my savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, for granting me this blessing and helping me to realize I’m not special, just blessed.
I am thankful to have a wonderful family who supported me when nobody knew my name. There are too many family members to mention here (you know who you are), but I must thank my mother, Etta W. Harris, who taught me to be grateful and humble; my most special aunt, Jessie L. Phillips, who taught me the power of love; and Rodrick L. Smith for support that can’t be described with mere words. My life is better because of these three very special people.
I have wonderful friends. Thanks for being so understanding when I go into writer’s hibernation: Troy Donato, Vanessa Gilmore, Lencola Sullivan, Blanche Richardson, Robin Walters, Cindy Barnes, Garbo Hearne, Debra Martin Chase, Dyanna Williams, Yolanda Starks, Ken Hatten, Regina Daniels, Carlton Brown, Rose Crater Hamilton, Lloyd Boston, Christopher Martin, Sybil Wilkes, Derrick Thompson, Deborah Crable, Brian Chandler, Brent Zachery, Anderson Phillips, Kevin Edwards and Reggie Van Lee.
I also must thank my new friends in Chicago who have welcomed me and offered me treasured friendships. Thanks, Vince Williams, Dexter Arrington, Linda Johnson-Rice, Bonnie DeShong, Desiree Sanders, Stella Foster, Sandy Matthews, Sonya Jackson and Juanita Jordan.
I have been with my publisher, Doubleday/Anchor, for more than nine years and they’ve become my family. I’m proud to work with people who care deeply about the authors they publish. I extend my thanks to: Stephen Rubin, Michael Palgon, Jackie Everly, Bill Thomas, Suzanne Herz, Jenny Frost, Linda Steinman, Laura Wilson, Roberta Spivak, Pauline James, Gerry Triano, Jen Marshall, Judy Jacoby, Kim Cacho, Marni Lustberg, Amy C. King, Allison J. Warner, John Pitts, Anne Messitte, Luann Walther, Ari Jones, Rebecca “The Magician” Holland, and Emma Bolton, whose smile the first time I entered the building made me feel like I was home. I must offer a special thanks to Alison Rich, publicist extraordinaire, for her hard work, professionalism and friendship. Thanks also to the newest member of the family, John Fontana for his patience and a beautiful cover.
I must also give special thanks to my Doubleday Canada family, especially Adrienne Ball and John Neale, for their hard work and kindness during my Canadian tour.
Thanks also to Chris Fortunato and his team.
I have a tremendous support staff of talented people who make my life manageable, and who are wonderful friends as well: my assistants, Anthony Bell and Laura Gilmore; my agents, John Hawkins, Moses Cardona and Irv Schwartz; and my attorney and accountant, Amy Goldsend and Bob Braunschweig. Special thanks to Tony Hillery and his guys at TRZ.
There are several other people (good friends as well) and organizations that have offered me support and love for which I am most thankful. Shannon Jones, Sherri Steinfield, Smith & Polk Public Relations, Taurus Sorrells, Janis Murray, Bobby Daye, Tom Kochan, Yvette Cason, Matthew Jordan Smith, Susan Taylor, Deborah Gregory, Patrick Henry Bass, Monique Greenwood, Stanley Bennett Clay, Essence magazine, Ebony magazine, SBC magazine, The Doug Banks Morning Show, The Tom Joyner Morning Show, The Isaac Hayes Show, The CBS Morning Show, The Steve Harvey Show, Frank Ski and his morning team, Ryan Cameron and his team, Skip Murphy and his crew, Donnie Simpson and his staff, Cliff and Jeanine. I also wanted to thank the numerous booksellers and book clubs, as well as Sigma Gamma Rho, Zeta Phi Beta, Alpha Kappa Alpha, Alpha Phi Alpha, Kappa Alpha Psi and Delta Sigma Theta, the Links and the NAACP. I also must mention the staff at the Trump International Hotel, especially Suzy, Pamela, La Tanya, Dennis and Carlos.
Since I’ve had only two careers, I must turn to others for my characters. These people offered me their time and friendship, and for this I am thankful. Thanks to football greats Robert Bass and Sean James for the sports agent information. The novel benefited from details provided by Dr. Arthur Smith, Rosalind Oliphant and Michel, a young man from Motown whose card I lost but who was so helpful with information on the recording business.
I am proud to be a part of a writers’ community that would make James, Langston and Zora proud. I must make special mention of my mentees, talented writers R. M. Johnson and Bryan Gibson, for teaching me more than I could ever teach them, and Kimberla Lawson Roby and Tananarive Due for always being a smile and a phone call away. And Terry McMillan, Iyanla Vanzant, John Edgar Wideman and Walter Mosley for leading the way with talent and class.
I am thankful for two amazing people, Janet Hill, Doubleday/Harlem Moon Vice President, Executive Editor, and Charles Flowers, Associate Director, the Academy of American Poets, to whom I dedicated this book, for their dedication to my novels and a frie
ndship I depend on more than they know.
Finally, I thank each of you, the readers, for all your prayers, love and continued support. It meant so much ten years ago and means even more today. Thanks for letting me know that I am blessed, I am loved.
That’s it for now … e. lynn harris … New York City.
Side A
Yancey’s Big Reign
When I walk into a room, other women either leave or gather into small groups. That’s the kind of woman I am. So imagine my surprise when that stopped happening when I moved to the West Coast. I was used to the seas parting for me. But I guess LaLa Land hadn’t been warned about me. About a month ago, my record company gave a listening party at one of Hollywood’s newest eateries, Reign, for my soon-to-be-released CD, I’m Not in Love. The party was swimming with members of Hollywood’s black elite and their flunkies and was a west coast version of a Ghetto Fabulous plush bash. It was a great event, but if I had to rank them, it was the second-best party where I was the guest of honor. The best party I ever attended was the day before I was supposed to get married. We had a spectacular party at Laura Belle, in New York City, and as delicious as that party was, my wedding day was an equal disaster. My groom-to-be dropped a full-tilt nuclear assault bomb on me: He decided the morning of our wedding that he would rather spend the rest of his life flip-flopping between the beds of both men and women instead of sleeping with just me.
But when I really think about it, Basil and I had more problems than a college entrance exam. He had a difficult childhood. I had a miserable one. He lied about his past. I embellished mine. He wanted children, while the only thing I desired with the letter C was a Career. And not just any career, mind you, a C-A-R-E-E-R that would rival that of any diva, living or dead.
My name is Yancey Harrington Braxton, now known to the recording world as “Yancey B,” pop singer fabulosa. (Move over, Whitney. Step aside, Mariah. J-Lo, get outta my way.) I relocated to Los Angeles a day after being left at the altar, and it has turned out to be the best move I’ve ever made—that is, if you don’t count not speaking to my former fiancé and my mother.
I arrived in LaLa Land with no agent or manager, no permanent residence and very little money. Thank God the real estate market in New York was so hot; I was able to get a much-needed equity loan against my East Side town house. The L.A. weather was so inviting when I arrived that it was hard to close myself off from the world, as I had intended. I went to Malibu, did lots of window shopping and started reading the trades looking for work. The only contact I had with New York was a call every other day from my good friend Windsor, who was staying in my house until the right offer to sell came along.
One night I found myself having dinner alone at the hotel’s Polo Lounge restaurant. After finishing a chicken caesar salad, I went into the bar, had a drink and soon found myself singing and confiding in the piano player. Turns out Bobby Daye was not only a talented piano player, but a wonderful songwriter as well. After he finished his set, he took me to several other clubs while I told him my life story. When he dropped me off, he looked at me and said, “I’m going to write some songs for that voice.” I thought it was the liquor talking, so I was shocked when he showed up a week later at my suite with five songs written just for me. Three weeks later, we were in a West Hollywood studio recording a demo. One month later, not only did I have a record deal with Motown Records, but an agent and manager as well. Who said dreams can’t come true in Hollywood anymore?
Right now I’m living right in the middle of Beverly Hills, in a lovely two-bedroom guesthouse behind the mansion of my manager, Malik Jackson. Malik (a.k.a. Roosevelt) stopped counting birthdays some fifteen years ago but looks to be in his early fifties. I get to live rent-free; I just have to perform a few duties for Malik every once in a while. Trust me when I say I’m not talking about cooking and cleaning.
I’ve been so busy recording my CD that I’ve had very little time to concentrate on my movie career, but that will come soon enough. I do know that Hollywood is a lot like New York. A few divas (Angela, Nia, Lela, Ms. Jada and Vanessa L.) get all the work while the rest just pray the unemployment checks come on time.
I’m an actress and a damn good one. And if my word isn’t enough, just ask anyone who was at my wedding. Even though Basil had drop-kicked me unmercilessly that morning, I’m a diva and the show must go on. So after all the guests arrived, I stood at the head of the table, poised like I was one of the last two beauties standing in the Miss America pageant, confident that my name would be called after they announced the first runner-up. I told the assembled guests and press that I had had a change of heart and had decided not to marry John Basil Henderson. Damn … if Julia Roberts could leave Kiefer Sutherland on their wedding day, then why couldn’t I leave Basil? At least I showed up. I shared with a few of my guests the exciting news that I had been offered the lead role in a movie being filmed in Toronto based on the life of Lena Horne. I reported that I had beat out Vanessa L. Williams, Halle Berry and Sanaa Lathan. I asked them to keep my news on the QT since the producers hadn’t told the other ladies I got the part. In front of the press, I acknowledged, softly, that Basil was heartbroken and had left the hotel in tears. I even bit my lips as my own tears appeared on cue. I encouraged them to keep Basil in their thoughts and wish me much success. And then I greeted my guests, each one of them, accepting their hugs and kisses for over an hour.
So after a year I think I’m ready to return to the scene of my greatest acting triumph ever. In conjunction with my debut CD, the record company has decided to film my first video in New York City as well and has set up media interviews with BET, VH-1 and MTV. We’re releasing a house version of the first single a couple weeks before the single is dropped. The A&R manager thought it might make sense to do a couple of performances at some gay clubs in New York and Washington, D.C. He told me if the “kids,” as he called them, loved the song, then it would be Billboard number one here I come.
I am a little nervous about returning to New York. But I knew I couldn’t stay away forever. I can’t wait to visit with Windsor, eat some of her cooking and stroll through Shubert Alley. I plan to stop at the stage door of the theater where I first heard the sounds of thunderous standing ovations.
There are a few places I want to shop and some scores I need to settle. Damn … now I’m sounding like my mother, the been-done, broke-down diva Ava Parker Middlebrooks. There was a time when I would have said that with great pride. But every time I breathe the air and look at the sun, I shed layers of Ava. I know that one day very soon, I will finally be the marvelous, amazing and incomparable Yancey I was placed on earth to be. And trust me, everyone will know my name—coast to coast. The real reign of Yancey B is just beginning. To update a line from one of my favorite movies, All About Eve, Strap on your seat belts. And don’t say you weren’t warned. …
Bart’s Sweet Revenge
If anyone ever tells you revenge ain’t sweet, don’t believe him. Just ask me, Bartholomew Jerome Dunbar, a.k.a. Bart. How else can you explain that I’m looking in the mirror and feeling sweeter than a Krispy Kreme double-glazed donut?
It’s been about a month since I returned from Atlanta, where I spent the weekend in the minimansion that my ex-lover, Brandon, shares with his wife and two children. It had been over seven years since I had seen Brandon Roberts, the first real love of my life. We met during our freshman year at Morris Brown College in Atlanta, while both grabbing the last biology book at the campus bookstore. We shared three glorious years together, and I was expecting to spend the rest of my life with him.
So forgive me for being a little surprised when Brandon announced one day in our apartment that he was marrying some lady from Spelman who he had been secretly dating for two years. No matter how much I pleaded, cried, pleaded and cried, Brandon told me his decision was final. In an instant I had become invisible. I was devastated. When my GPA hit 1.3, I got kicked out of school, so I moved to New York. Brandon and I had always planned to mo
ve there once we’d completed our education.
Just when I was finally getting him out of my system, some seven years later, he calls and tells me he still loves me and needs to see me. He’d recently seen me in a magazine layout (I’m a model/waiter/actor), and Brandon had gone to great lengths to track me down, calling over ten model agencies in New York City. When he finally reached my agency he called every other day. Eventually, I relented and called Brandon back at his office. The first thing out of his mouth was “Bart, you look so tight, I’ve been having wet dreams about you for weeks.”
Brandon’s wife and kids were in Paris so I hopped a plane to Atlanta, where for three days we ate, slept and fucked (not “made love”) like we used to, in the bed he shared with his wife. On the day I left, I asked for his home phone number and he told me he didn’t think that was such a good idea and that he would get a voice-mail box so I could leave him private messages. What kinda guy did he think I was? Obviously not a very smart one.
I was so angry I didn’t know what to do. I had to show Brandon he couldn’t treat me like crap. I was fed up with brothas touting that bogus, down-low bullshit. I wanted to scream from the bottom of my vocal cords, “Pick a team and play!”
While Brandon was in the shower, I dialed my home number from his phone. I was planning to harass him with phone calls and hang-ups, late at night, once the wife and kids returned. I had learned from our conversations over the weekend that his wife was a stay-at-home mom, and that he spent long hours at his office. Before I went home, I couldn’t resist leaving Brandon and the Missus a little gift.
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