We Ain't the Brontes

by Rosalyn McMillan

Genres: African American; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Charity Evans and Lynzee Lavender haven't always had the best relationship—for the most part thanks to them being writers. But while Lynzee is the wealthy, successful New York Times bestselling author of science fiction books, Charity is just squeaking by. Why is success passing her by? And why is her publisher all of a sudden reluctant to renew her contract? Now Charity suspects the worst: That her own sister has had her blacklisted! With her savings dwindling, Charity struggles to pay her bills, and the pressure is putting an incredible strain on her marriage. The rivalry goes into overdrive when Lynzee reveals that the father of the child she gave up years ago is. . .Charity's husband! Charity's life goes into a tailspin as she struggles to decide if she should tell her husband about the child he never knew he had, or if that would be just the excuse he needs to abandon her for good. She knows she has to do something, but will the path she ultimately decides to take end up destroying them all?

Release date: April 24, 2012

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 432

Sample

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. Lynzee 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 are 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.

“I spoke with my attorney this morning,” he tells me.

I turn on the lamp on the nightstand and face him. I am totally alerted to his tone of voice. I instinctively know that Jett is dead serious. “What the hell is this about?”

“I’m considering a legal separation.” His voice is stern and I know that he’s been thinking about this for some time. “I love you, but I can’t tolerate all of the pressure I’ve been under. I feel ten years older than I am. My blood pressure is high, as well as my cholesterol. If I continue to live this way, I’m going to end up in a nursing home.”

I hold my breath. If this is a dream, somebody please wake me up. When I look at him, his face looks like the auditor’s at the Internal Revenue Service.

“Why, Jett?” I am too hurt to ask the unspoken: Have you stopped loving me?

“Like I said, my health, for one. Number two is money. I’m sick and tired of being broke. We’re in debt up to our nostrils. You should have saved money from your contracts and then we wouldn’t even be in this mess. I’m tired of you being so selfish about your writing career—”

“But—”

“Let me finish.” He gets up and puts on his robe. “I’m going to say this one time, Either you give up writing books and sell this house, or I’m outta here.”

“Have you forgotten that it was my career and my money that provided us with this lavish lifestyle? A lifestyle that I know you’ve come to love.”

“You’re wrong. I want a normal life. I don’t need this huge house.”

He was telling the truth; he had never been as excited about our house as I was. He didn’t even want to live in this state at first.

We built the house when Mitchell and Montague was paying me well. I was the one who insisted we go to Memphis. Lord knows I didn’t want to build our home in Mississippi. When I was in grade school in Port Huron, Michigan, the students from the North used to laugh at the kids from down South. The myth was that they were slow, and were usually put back a grade or two.

I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.

Since the 1980s, the schools in Mississippi have been the worst in the nation. You rarely see a recording artist perform in Mississippi. And going to see a play? Forgetaboutit. And to make matters worse, there are no professional sports teams. Both Jett and I love to watch football, basketball, baseball, boxing, and golf.

We settled on Memphis, Tennessee, and purchased 4.1 acres of land in an exclusive subdivision in Shelby County to build our dream home.

Eighteen months later, our 12,500 square foot home was finished. Neither Jett nor the twins and I could comprehend our good fortune. The house made a statement and our builder, as well as several of our neighbors, thought so too.

Our four-level contemporary brick home, built high on a hill, boasts six bedrooms, a library, dining room, nine bathrooms, two kitchens, three family rooms, exercise room, six fireplaces, a huge office, and a six-car garage. There are two saunas and an indoor hot tub. In the foyer, there is a twin staircase with wrought iron railing that borders a granite star design that cost over twenty grand. Jett argued that it was overkill, but I insisted that I had to have it.

Jett did agree to one more extravagance, the wrought iron fence that frames our lot. Two electronic gates that are interlaced with prancing lions secure the circular drive. An intercom for entrance to our property is a short distance away. Because our home is so elevated, we designed two circular wrought iron staircases installed in the rear of our home, to gain access to the backyard from the kitchen and master bedroom.

I was so excited about the work the wrought iron company completed on our home that I had to share it with someone. Of course, I called Lynzee. At the time, she was considering building a new home too.

I conveyed to Lynzee that the same wrought iron company that worked on Jett’s and my home completed the ironwork on John Grisham’s home in Oxford, Mississippi. “Can you believe it?’ I asked her.

“Uh-huh, that’s nice, Charity.”

I should have known she’d be jealous. However, my feelings were still hurt. Couldn’t she be happy for me for once in her life?

I shake the ugly memories of Lynzee from my mind to focus on the issue in front of me. My husband wants a separation. I am stunned. Now that we might be facing divorce court, even I’m not sure how I feel about our dream home anymore. Maybe we never should have built it. But there is one thing I am sure about: my career as a writer.

I tell him, “I will never give up on trying to become a New York Times bestselling author.”

“Even if it means our marriage will suffer?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Our marriage has never been in jeopardy. You’re beginning to sound like Lynzee.” Oops, I didn’t mean to say that.

“What has Lynzee got to do with our marriage?”

I haven’t had a contract in over a year, and Lynzee keeps telling me to give up. Now here Jett is telling me to choose between our marriage and my writing career. I’m blindsided by his talk of separation, because as far as I’m concerned, we’ve had a calm, normal marriage.

Our weekdays always begin at six with fresh-brewed coffee, bagels, and the morning paper. We exercise between eight and nine. Then I change and go to my office, and Jett works on his two motorcycles, works in our yard, or does volunteer work with high school basketball players. Dinner is served at five, and we’re in bed by nine. I pay the bills and shop for groceries on the first of every month. This has been our schedule for the past seven years. Up until last year, we had more than $190,000 in the bank. We have season tickets for the Grizzlies basketball team. We attend plays at least once a month at the Orpheum Theater, and can’t wait to go to a concert at the Fed Ex Forum or in Tunica, Mississippi, where artists have finally began to perform at the crowded casinos. We vacation twice a year, once with the twins and then by ourselves. Our last trip was eight days in China.

We’ve built a life together out of these little routines. Now all that I love is being threatened.

Just to know that Jett is thinking about a legal separation is enough to piss me off to no end. Who does he think he is, leaving me? I made him the man he is today: a man who is now world traveled; a man who plays golf with celebrities; a man of leisure who was able to take an early retirement from his job with Champion Motors as a superintendent. It wasn’t some skank welfare bitch who made him. Not somebody who only knows how to buy Happy Meals from McDonald’s and doesn’t know how to use a vacuum cleaner. No, Jett got the top of the line. And if he doesn’t respect who and what I am, then some other man will. Hell, maybe I should be thinking about a separation. After all, he’s damn near sixty. Why shouldn’t I give a man in his forties a whirl?

I refuse to continue this conversation with him. I will not talk about a separation. I roll over and turn off the light. Maybe he’ll wake up in the morning and have forgotten all about this nonsense.

“Charity, it’s me.” She’s whispering. “Lynzee?” I’m sitting at the computer in my home. Dozens of research papers and character profiles litter my desk.

“Yes, fool,” she says scathingly. “I’m at Memphis International Airport.”

“At the airport? Why?” It’s ten-thirty in the morning and I’m typing away at my computer, working on my new novel, Shattered Illusions. I’m highly irritated that she’s interrupting my flow. With the ultimatum Jett gave me, I’m writing at a feverish pace now, trying to get a new contract.

“I need you to come here right away.”

What the hell is going on now? Is she ready to apologize so soon? It’s only been a week. “I’m really busy. Can’t you rent a car and drive out here?”

“No!”

“Why not?” I finally stop typing.

“Jett might be home. Is he there?”

“Yes. He’s mowing the lawn.” I stretch and yawn.

“Why am I not surprised? Look, I’m at the Rendezvous Café in Concourse A. Be here in thirty minutes.” She hangs up.

That Bitch! What the fuck is it now?

I grab my purse and keys, get into my car, and head for Memphis International Airport. It’s twenty-three miles from our house, and I make it there in seventeen minutes.

The flowers are in perfect bloom in June. The air is heavy with the scent of floral magnolias and crape myrtles. Birds are chirping louder than ever, and my beautiful surroundings nearly make me forget where I’m headed.

Besides, my mind is on why Jett wants a legal separation. I wonder how much is really my fault. He wanted us to put a third of my salary from my two contracts in the bank. I didn’t listen, and only managed to save a tenth of what I’d earned. It wasn’t enough to pay all of our financial obligations without the benefit of a new contract.

I am too embarrassed to tell Jett that since last September, I haven’t paid my credit cards on time. I don’t want to withdraw any more money from our dwindling savings. Since I haven’t been able to make any deposits, I don’t feel that any of the money is rightfully mine. When Jett isn’t at home, I manage to intercept the creditors’ calls and make payment arrangements.

Presently, my finances are so bad I don’t even have the credit to finance a doghouse. Even so, I can’t let my current situation reduce me to living like a panhandler.

I’m so preoccupied that I don’t notice until I get inside that I’ve lost my parking ticket, probably somewhere in the parking lot. I don’t know how I’m going to cash out when I exit the airport today. I make it to the Café with two minutes to spare.

Lynzee is sitting there with a casual smirk on her face. She’s wearing a Donna Karan olive green suit with a white knit T. She has on caramel Ferragamo pumps that I guess cost about twelve hundred bucks. And the purse she’s carrying is a Hermes. That’s at least thirty-five hundred. She oozes money and doesn’t make any excuses about it.

I’m told that fame is the perfume of heroic deeds. If that’s true, I haven’t caught the scent.

I, wearing my jeans and pink T-shirt, take a seat next to the rich bitch and park my sixty-do. . .