Free Any Way the Wind Blows by E. Lynn Harris

gorgeous he is, he’s still a black man. That’s burden enough. Let him keep his secrets if he chooses.”
    “I hear ya talking, but his little secret might help my singing career get off to the right start,” I said defiantly.
    “Yancey! Why would you want to act so ugly? Great things are happening for you. Your voice will sell itself. Release the thought of revenge and you’ll be blessed,” Windsor said.
    It was no wonder Windsor was pregnant—she was always acting like someone’s mama. But I couldn’t be too mad at her, since she did have a point. So I just looked down a moment and said, “I don’t know, Windsor. His secret hurt me a lot, and I learned as a child not to let people mess over me. When they strike, you’ve got to strike back. Catch them unaware, after they’ve forgotten the pain they’ve caused.”
    Windsor took my hand in hers, looked into my eyes and said, “Whoever taught you that, Yancey, was flat-out wrong.”
    • • •
    T he traffic surrounding Carnegie Hall was hopelessly congested with limos and taxis, but I didn’t care. I was floating on a magic carpet after witnessing my peers put on a show, each trying to outsing the others: Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, Macy, Beyoncé and her backups, Stevie Wonder, Marc Anthony and Eric Clapton.
    But they were not the main reason I was floating. When I walked down the red carpet to enter the hall with Michel, photographers started screaming out my name, “Yancey B, would you stop for me, please?” “Who designed your dress?” “How does it feel to be the new pop diva?” “Why aren’t you performing tonight?”
    It was wonderful as I turned this way and then the other way, smiling all the time while flashes blinded my view. When Patrick Stinson from the
E!
channel pulled me off the red carpet for a live interview, I knew I had arrived. When he asked me about my song and if the lyrics were based on a personal experience, I looked at him, smiled and said, “Patrick, that’s a great question, and I will answer it very soon, but right now I’m just here to support Wyclef and his kids.” Who said beauty pageants don’t serve a useful purpose?
    When Wyclef himself invited me to a private after-party at Lotus, I politely declined, telling him I had an interview with Deborah Gregory of
Essence
the next morning and I wanted to be fresh. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Next time.”
    As I pulled up in front of my town house, a thin dusting of snow was beginning to cover the city.
    “My name is Ruland; here’s my card. It was nice driving you. Call me if you need me,” he said.
    “Thank you, Ruland, and I will,” I said as I put my fur on and headed for my door.
    Inside my house, it was dark as asphalt, and I figured Windsor was asleep. I was tempted to wake her up and tell her about all the stars I’d met, but instead I headed to the kitchen, when I heard the sounds of someone whimpering. I couldn’t tell if it was a human or some type of animal like a cat. I became a bit uneasy, since I had never heard Windsor cry and she knew my rules about pets of any kind. When I turned on the light in the dining room, I was startled to see Windsor sitting in a chair, bent over and holding her stomach.
    “Windsor! What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” I asked as I moved toward her.
    “Yancey, I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go to the hospital,” she said.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “I’m spotting, and my stomach is so upset. Look at my hands,” Windsor said as she moved her hands toward me. They were huge, obviously swollen.
    “Do you want me to call your parents?”
    “I need to go to the hospital. We can call them and Wardell from there,” Windsor said. Her eyes in the dim light were shiny with tears.
    “Let me call the driver,” I said as I reached for the phone. I pulled out the card Ruland had given me and dialed his cell phone number. He picked up after a couple of rings.
    “Ruland, this