WE AIN’T THE BRONTËS
WE AIN’T THE BRONTËS
ROSALYN MCMILLAN
www.urbanbooks.net
Dedication
I wish to dedicate this book to my five grandchildren,
Dominique, Malik, Alyce, Noelani, and Darren.
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgments
Putting God first in my life is my mantra. I thank God for blessing me with the talent to write. The Lord knows my heart, and He knows that writing is my passion. Some way, somehow, I knew that God had not forsaken me. He’s blessed me in so many ways and now He’s blessing me again. I pray that my faith stays strong and that I will continue to earn God’s precious grace.
I’d like to thank my agent, Dr. Maxine Thompson, for her patience and hard work. Without her input and suggestions this novel wouldn’t have been published. She is an expert in her field with her own internet radio show as well as being an accomplished author. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better agent.
Carl and Natalie Weber are two professionals that I thank God are on my team. I want to thank my publisher, Urban Books, for believing in my work and giving me the opportunity to make a comeback in the publishing industry. This company is a class act.
I want to thank all of the Book Clubs who supported me over the years. Their allegiance is endearing. Equally important is all of the Black Bookstores that kept my books in stock long after the shelf life had expired. Thank you.
Family is an important part of my life. My sisters, brother, cousins, uncles and aunts, and my four children, Vester, Jr., Shannon, Ashley and Jasmine, never lost faith in me. They encouraged me to keep writing until I received a new contract.
As always, I save my husband, J.D. Smith, until the end. He is my rock, my strength, my special soul-mate who keeps me grounded and humble. We never know how much one loves till we know how much he is willing to endure and suffer for us; and it is the suffering element that measures love. I thank God for blessing me with my husband’s love and passion. I cherish my “old man” and pray that we will have many many years together this side of eternity. And afterwards, I pray that our love will still exist and grow in the lifetime of the Almighty.
1
It’s the first week in June and the city looks like a postcard for tourism. I love visiting California this time of year. My big sister, Lynzee Lavender, paid for my first class ticket to come to the Bay Area. Lynzee has been very generous to me and my twin sons, Javed and Jamone, since she made the New York Times bestsellers list more than twenty-five years ago. I’m very proud of her accomplishments and hope that one day soon, I will be in the same position. I write contemporary fiction. But something just doesn’t seem right about the timing of this visit. Is Lynzee being her usual benevolent self, or does she have something else on her agenda?
I decide not to worry about it since I’m so excited about attending the Essence Awards with Lynzee tonight. It took us three hours to get dressed. I’m wearing a brand new, long black lace empire dress with a hot pink under-slip, which Lynzee let me borrow. She even bought me the Sonya Rykiel black pumps to match it.
We’re in Lynzee’s bedroom and the two of us are checking out our images in her full-length antique mirror. Lynzee has on a beige Richard Tyler slack suit with an antique white lace blouse. She looks fabulous, but something’s amiss. I rush into the bathroom and retrieve her fluffy powder brush and compact. I use the brush to blot the oily splotches on her nose and forehead. I step back and assess her face. Perfect.
I haven’t been to Oakland in nearly two years, and I’m having a great time. Lynzee has a wicked sense of humor and for the past half hour she’s told me non-stop jokes about some of her fan mail. My sides ache from laughing so hard.
I look forward to the awards ceremony, featuring Denzel Washington and his wife Juanita, Queen Latifah, Larry Fishburne, Angela Bassett, Bill Cosby, Vanessa Williams, and Halle Berry. Although the ceremony is being held three hundred sixty miles away in Los Angeles, Lynzee hired a limousine service to drive us down. She could’ve flown us in, but she loves to ride high on the hog in a limo. With the extra leg room we have, our clothes never get wrinkled.
“Charity? Are you ready to go? The driver is waiting,” Lynzee tells me, looking up the staircase.
“Just let me put on some lip gloss and I’ll be right down.” I hurry and finish, then rush down the stairs.
“I’m ready.” It’s a sunny seventy-five degrees outside, so we don’t need wraps.
Lynzee checks her watch as she grabs her purse. “It’s almost a six-hour drive, so let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.” She pauses and fingers one of my tendrils. “You look good, sis.” She kisses me on the cheek.
“You look pretty swell yourself.”
I pick up my purse. “Now, let’s go.”
We hurry outside to the waiting car and allow the driver to open the door for us. Inside the limo it is lush and spacious. Like most limos, a full bar is located on the rear of the driver’s seat. I don’t drink, and watch as Lynzee scoffs down a couple of vodka shots. She exhales, and pours another double. I’m irritated when she lights up a Kool cigarette and blows the smoke right in my direction. She’s pissed about something, so it’s going to be a long ride; that is, unless Lynzee takes one of her famous naps.
And we’re off.
“How’s the twins?” Lynzee asks me. Javed and Jamone are sixteen.
“Happy. They just sold one of their pieces for five grand.”
“You know, I never heard of artists, especially twins, who paint together. That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah, it is. Jett is pretty proud of them too.” Jett is my husband of twenty-seven years.
I pause, and then say, “So, where is Tyler? I miss her.”
“She’s visiting a college this weekend.”
“I’d almost forgotten. Don’t forget to tell her that I said hello and that I love how she redecorated her room.”
We talk about our children going to college and their love lives for a good piece before Lynzee starts yawning.
“Sleepy?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Go ahead and take a nap. I’ll be fine.”
It doesn’t take much coaching. Lynz
ee is fast asleep five minutes later. I admire the lush palm trees, tropical yucca plants, and the beautifully landscaped azaleas. The contemporary homes in the subdivision look like they belong in Architectural Digest. We navigate our way through the narrow streets of Lynzee’s subdivision until we get on the 580 East freeway. Then we take the 5 South, which will take us into L.A. I sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
Something is bothering me, though. Lynzee hasn’t asked about my book contract. Usually, it’s the first thing that she asks. As we make good time on the freeway, I try to think of a good lie to tell her. It’s none of her business where my career is headed.
I don’t realize that I’ve fallen asleep, too, until the driver knocks on the window and says we’re only thirty minutes away.
It’s pitch black outside. Lynzee turns on the interior lights so that we can touch up our makeup. While Lynzee’s face is obscured from mine by her compact, she finally asks the question. “So, how’s your book contract coming?”
“Slow.”
“Do you have a new agent?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
“Because you know everyone in the business and you’re too judgmental.”
“Well, all I’m saying is not to expect the same money that Mitchell and Montague paid you last time.” Mitchell and Montague were the publishers on my fourth novel, New Collar Blues.
“I never told you how much I got paid.”
Lynzee closes the compact and rolls her eyes at me. “It’s my business to know what’s happening in the publishing industry.”
“I don’t like that about you, Lynzee. You’ve always tried to get in my business.”
“Well, baby cakes, I have to look out for my name.”
“Your name? I thought it was our name.”
“Your last name is Evans, remember?”
“I remember that before Mama died she told me to use my maiden name. You agreed. Why all the drama now?”
“Because your publishers are trying to capitalize on my name and I don’t like it. Face it: your books haven’t been selling well. Your sales are way down, possibly because they won’t give you a senior editor to work with.”
“So, you know about my sales, too?” I seethe.
“Like I said. It’s my—”
“Business to know,” I finish. “You know, Lynzee, I wouldn’t be having all of these problems with editors if you’d lift a finger to help me. I’ve never asked for your help. I’m asking you now.” My heart is quivering inside, worrying if she’s going to tell me “hell no!”
“Change your last name on your next book and I’ll see what I can do.” She leans back and crosses her legs. Then she folds her arms across her breasts. She gives me a look that says not to fuck with her.
“My answer is hell no.”
Lynzee looks out the window. “Then fuck you and your career. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing.”
“Isn’t that why it’s obvious that I need your help?”
She leans forward. “Look, I’m not budging on your last name. Your unprofessional writing style is ruining my reputation. I worked too hard to get where I’m at. You think you can just waltz in here and steal the show. I know you want to outsell me. Don’t tell me you don’t, because I heard all about it. You told a bookseller that you want to be the first African American to sell a million hardcover books.” Her mouth bunches together. “Admit it. Don’t lie.”
Of course she’s telling the truth; however, I didn’t think the bookseller would go back and tell Lynzee. I feel trapped. In my heart I know that our mother wouldn’t want us to compete with each other.
“So I said it. I was just kidding.”
“The hell you were.” She snickers. “Your writing is so bad you’ll be lucky if you ever sell a hundred thousand books.”
“Oh, now the truth comes out. So, you think I’m not a good writer.”
“Fuck no. And if it wasn’t for my last name, no one would have ever given you a contract in the first place.”
“You’re a real selfish bitch, Lynzee.” I can’t help it. Tears form in my eyes.
“And you’re the bitch who’s trying to ride my coattails. I wish you would get the fuck off and get your own career before you ruin mine.”
Back in the day, when we were in our early thirties, Lynzee and I were close. She said she loved the idea that I wanted to be a writer and follow in her footsteps. But after our mother died, Lynzee changed from a lamb to a tigress. To my horror, Lynzee trumped up one demand after another. When I wouldn’t give in to her threats, she wrote me the nastiest letter that a sister could write to her sibling. She said that I was the Latoya Jackson of the family, shut out. I cried for days, but I refused to back down. I have fans, women and men who love my writing and identify with my characters.
Fuck her. Latoya’s got pizzazz.
Finally we arrive at the Chinese Theatre. Bright lights abound at the entrance and red-carpet walkway. I’m hurt and don’t want to spend another second with Lynzee. When the driver opens the door, I pull back.
“I’m not going in. I’m going back to your house to pack and get the hell out of here.” I exit the limo and try to find another driver to drive me back to Lynzee’s house. I don’t have enough money on me to pay for a taxi, so I barter with a limo driver who will accept my credit card.
Lynzee comes up to me as I’m getting into the limo. “Suit yourself. It’s embarrassing for me to be seen out with you anyway, so go on home, hussy. You won’t be missed. Most of the people here are my friends, and they don’t like you anyway.” She slams the door and gives the driver instructions.
Now the tears fall. I’m hurt over Lynzee’s hateful words. How can she be so heartless? Plus, I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to see Denzel Washington. He’s my favorite actor. Lynzee told me earlier that we could probably get backstage passes so we could get Denzel’s autograph. Damn, another disappointment and another reason why I should have kept my black ass at home.
The drive back home passes quickly. Once there, I ask the driver to wait so that he can take me to the airport. Thank God I have a key to her house. I rush upstairs and pack my things. I’m back in the limo in thirteen minutes. While riding to the airport, I call Jett. I tell him everything that happened.
“I told you not to trust Lynzee. She’s your sister and she loves you in her own way, but she’s not going to help your career.”
“I know that now.” Fresh tears cloud my eyes. “I’m going to have to fly home standby, so listen out for my call so you can unlock the door. I forgot my house keys.”
“Okay. And, Charity, don’t you shed any tears over Lynzee. Ever since she started making big money, she’s changed. Knowing her, she’ll probably call you and apologize anyway. You know you two can’t stay mad at each other for too long.”
“No. I don’t want to hear from Lynzee. And it’s going to be a frigid day in hell before I call her.”
I feel a little better after having talked to my husband. There’s been some tension between us lately because our finances our tight and the stress is getting to him, but still, he’s a great listener whenever I have problems with my sister.
While I wait at the airport, I watch CNN. The next thing I know, my cell phone is ringing.
“It’s me.”
“What do you want, Lynzee?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I meant everything I said.”
“That’s too bad. I hoped we could come to a truce.”
“If that means changing my last name, you can go fuck yourself.” I hang up.
I manage to get on the next flight out to Memphis. I can’t help but to start crying again. Both of our parents are dead and we have no other siblings. Should I totally cut Lynzee out of my life and never speak to her again, or should I give her another chance to redeem herself?
My cell phone rings again. It
’s Lynzee. I don’t answer. There’s no quick fix to our problems, and talking on the phone is not going to remedy the problem. No, she’s going to have to come and see me in Memphis. If she cares anything about me, she won’t let this argument fester. If she’s the money-hungry, star-struck selfish bitch that Jett thinks she is, I won’t hear from her again.
I don’t know how I make it home. My eyes are blurry as I drive down the highway. As soon as I walk into the house and see Jett, I break down into tears.
Jett is a devilishly handsome creature. He’s as chocolate as a moist brownie with skin that is tender to the touch. He has a long, narrow face, whisper-light eyebrows, small eyes, an average nose, and Michelangelo lips. His bright white, perfectly formed teeth merely highlight his sexy smile. At six foot six, he’s a lady-killer. I should know; he slayed me.
It’s good to see him, but I need to vent. “That Lynzee—” I shout, throwing down my purse on the sofa. “She’ll fuck up a wet dream.”
“Calm down, Charity, before you have a stroke.” Jett comes over to me, but he doesn’t hold me. “Forget that rich bitch. She’s always been nasty to you. I don’t see why you even fool with her.”
I sob and sob as I protest, “But you don’t understand. Sisters are supposed to love each other.”
“She ain’t never gave a shit about you. She ain’t nothing, so stop sweating about her. Besides, she’s jealous of you.”
“Jealous of me? Why? She’s got all the money.”
“Yeah, but can money hold you at night? Yeah, that’s right. She’s mad because you got a good man who loves you.”
Slowly, I start feeling better.
For once in my life, I’m going to try to act like my mother. She’d tell Lynzee to go fuck herself. Will I be able to stick to my guns, or will I allow Lynzee to take advantage of my kindness once again?
“We need to talk,” Jett says to me one night while we’re in bed a few days later. I know he’s mad because I refused to have sex with him, but tonight’s Wednesday. We only have sex on Friday or Saturday night, and he damn well knows it.
We Ain’t the Brontës Page 1