A Love of My Own (2 page)

Zola Denise Norwood
__________________

I finally discovered the formula for having love in my life. I call it the power of three. Let me explain: find three different men and together you'll have the perfect man.

Every year I would review the list of things I found important in a man. I wanted someone who would be my best male friend and even appreciate my hobbies like playing classical music on the piano, watching my favorite television shows, going for drinks and having tea. I wanted a man who was comfortable in his own skin, and making a difference in the world. A powerful man. And I wanted someone who'd make my toes curl every time he touched me. A man who knew how to make love to a woman's body completely.

But after being a part of the dating scene for more than three years in New York, I realized my perfect man was going to be hard to find. Besides, love had already tricked me—and once is always enough.

I know love is like the lottery; you take a chance and at most there are only a few winners. I don't like to gamble, especially with my heart. I'm like Janet Jackson; I've got to have “control.”

I love men, but they wear me out with all their confusing issues. One day they say they love you and the next they see someone with a bigger ass, bigger breasts and a prettier face and suddenly they forget about love—or at least loving you. I've had enough, and I'm not having that kind of madness in my life anymore. I got places to go and things to do without love keeping me down like a set of weights. Finding real love was more difficult than catching stars.

When I meet a man who has a powerful and dazzling bank account, he is usually boring and consumed with obtaining more power, which means he doesn't have a lot of time for me or my needs. On those occasions when I find a guy who makes my body rock, he usually has the ambition of a determined picnic ant—he is interested in one thing only, in getting into
my
goody basket.

When I meet a guy who listens to me and I trust as a friend, he usually turns out to be gay or bi-curious at the very least.

So I've finally accepted the power of three, and let me tell you, Zola Denise Norwood is one happy lady. Most times.

First, I have Hayden (no last name, like Cher and Madonna). He's an unemployed Broadway dancer and just one of the best friends I've ever had. We met in a yoga class when I first got to New York and we've been close friends ever since. He's cool for when I want to go dancing, see a play, or go to an independent movie that I can't convince my girlfriends to watch. Hayden is a handsome escort when I have events and I don't want to go alone. He's a Gemini and he can be very masculine one moment and soft and caring the next. He's also very funny, and a sense of humor is important. I can also trust Hayden with my secrets, something, I hate to admit, I can't always count on with my good, good girlfriends. It's my belief that if your girlfriends promise you they won't tell anybody, they usually mean that they won't tell anybody after the first three people they've blabbed to.

As my number-two man, I have Davis Vincent McClinton. He is not only the man who made my dream of heading a major magazine come true, he's also an invaluable source of information. You see, Davis owns the largest African American media company in the world and he's always passing on useful tidbits about investments and generously provides leads on inside stories of what's happening with the black elite, not only in New York but in the entire world, be it South Africa or Paris. He's smart and well respected and powerful with a big “P.” He's only five eight in his Gucci loafers, but Davis McClinton commands attention everywhere he goes, whether he's in the boardroom or the barber shop. He uses his money and influence to help people of color—not just if you have a dream, but if you have a viable business plan as well.

A lot of women would think Davis is the perfect catch for a husband, and I'm sure his wife, Veronica, would agree every time she lays her American Express black credit card down on the counter and says, “Charge it.” Now, even though I wasn't raised to date married men, it doesn't bother me a bit that Davis is married. Besides, he really doesn't seem that sexual to me. On those nights when he can escape from home, he likes spending time in bed with me, but he also spends a great deal of time reading
The
Wall Street Journal
and business magazines.

I've gotten use to the lack of quality time I spend with Davis, just like I've gotten used to his generous nature. I've received so many exquisite gifts that I could loan out more jewelry than Harry Winston on Oscar night.

Last, but certainly not least—what does Vanessa say in her song? “Save the best for last?”—there's guy number three, Jabar Taylor, my one-man wrecking crew who has a body God created just to cause havoc here on earth. I met Jabar at a gym I go to every once in a while. When he would walk onto the floor, the room would get as silent as a library during finals. Women would start sweating, and not because of the workouts. Jabar's a beautiful milky brown, with short hair that looks like peach fuzz on his perfectly round head. He's tall and muscular and is so popular as a personal trainer that it's a year's wait before he considers taking on a new client. But with Davis's help, he made sure I was moved to the top of the list. What's that saying?
Money talks and bullshit walks
. But a girl's got to keep a secret or two for herself, so I didn't think Davis needed to know that Jabar provided training in other areas as well. The boy is both blessed and gifted, with body but not brains. Aside from being a trainer, Jabar doesn't have much ambition. Once when I asked him about his dream job, I was hoping he would at least say he wanted to be a policeman or something. He quickly replied, “To be Jennifer Lopez's personal trainer and valet.” I didn't have the heart to tell him women didn't employ valets. But who am I to take away someone's dreams? I just wish Jabar knew the difference between dreams and fantasy.

Now, I know a lot of my sisters may not agree with my methods. Some might even go so far as to call me a user and even a slut. I don't care what you think or what you call me, just as long as you call me happy!!

I have the dream job of dream jobs. I'm editor in chief of a new urban culture magazine called
Bling Bling
and Davis made it all possible. I met Davis on an American Airlines flight from Chicago to New York when I was on my way to interview for an associate editor position at
Vanity Fair.
I knew who he was because he's always in the media. Open
any
Fortune, Wall Street Journal
or
Forbes
and there he is. He's rich, powerful, and somewhat handsome in a nerdy kind of way. I was working as an associate editor to my mentor Linda Johnson Rice, the publisher of
Ebony,
and I figured maybe an article on how Davis had built his empire and a photo spread on some of his homes would be a great story, even though Linda said Davis McClinton didn't do black press.

As I was boarding the plane, I looked down and I stared at Davis while he was reading a newspaper, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose, and asked him how he was doing. Davis removed his glasses and looked at me from the tip of my leather boots up almost every inch of my five-eight, one-hundred-twenty-eight-pound body, lingering at my honey-brown eyes, and in a very deep and cultured voice asked, “And you are?”

“Zola Norwood, with
Ebony
magazine, soon to be publisher and editor in chief of my own magazine. I just wanted to say I think what you're doing is great. Keep it up,” I said.

I moved toward the back of the plane and my coach seat. I didn't have anything against coach, but since I flew on American Airlines so often, they should have upgraded me no matter how much I had paid for my ticket. When I saw important people like Davis sitting in first class, I wished I could afford first class all the time.

I put my laptop and garment bag in the overhead and took my seat in Row 27. Just as I was getting settled, the flight attendant approached me and said in a firm voice, “May I see your boarding pass?”

“What?” I asked.

“I need to see your boarding pass. I think you're in the wrong seat.”

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

“Miss Norwood, your boarding pass, please.”

I reached into my bag and of course I found everything but my boarding pass. I wanted to tell Miss Flight Lady to just throw me off the plane, when she looked at me and said, “Please get your luggage and come with me.”

I was getting ready to throw a black-girl hissy fit complete with hands on hips and head rotation, when it hit me that a lot of other important people besides Davis McClinton flew the Chicago-to-New York route regularly, and perhaps this wasn't the best moment to show out, so I decided to revert to my Miss Porter's correspondence course behavior and act like a lady.

I followed the flight attendant down the aisle, smiling like I hadn't done anything wrong. Once we were a few feet from the cockpit door, the attendant turned to me, smiled and said, “This looks like your seat.”

“What?” I asked as I looked at the third row and the very sexy smile of Davis McClinton.

“You heard the lady,” Davis said as he patted the large leather seat.

As I was lifting my luggage into the overhead, Davis barked, “Thomas, get the young lady's bag.” A tall, lean white man swooped up from the seat in front of me and placed my luggage in the overhead. I suddenly realized I was sitting next to the opportunity of a lifetime.

By the time the plane arrived in New York, I knew I was right. During the two-hour flight, I told Davis about my big plans for start-
ing my own magazine. I wanted to do something like
Vanity Fair
and
Ebony
combined. I even had a name for my magazine,
U.S.,
short for
urban soul.

When I was a girl around thirteen, I spent my allowance not on music like most of my friends but on magazines. By the time I graduated from high school, my room had become a fire hazard from all the magazines I just couldn't part with. I would read copies of
Jet
and
Right On!
at least three times before protecting them with plastic covers I made from freezer bags. I would write “Property of Zola”
in Magic Marker and the name of the store where I purchased the magazine.

I told Davis the mini-version of my life story and he listened intently and would ask questions when I would take a breath and sip some white wine.

“So you grew up in Nashville? Nice city,” Davis said.

“Yeah, it was a great place to grow up. I went to Tennessee State University and majored in journalism. I worked for a few years for
Memphis
magazine as a fashion editor and then I went to graduate school at Northwestern. After that I worked as an intern at
Ebony
and was later promoted to
associate editor,” I said.

“Did you work for Linda Johnson Rice?”

“Oh, she is my shero, and I've learned a lot from Linda. Sort of like a law school grad working for a Supreme Court justice,” I said.

“Then why do you want to leave?”

“Because I'm smart enough to know that I'll never be editor of
Ebony,
and it's time to move on,” I said.

“Sounds like a good reason,” Davis said.

When we arrived in New York, Davis had his driver take us to my hotel. I invited Davis to the bar for a drink, and to my great surprise he accepted. Five hours and two very expensive bottles of wine later, Davis had convinced me to skip my interview and start a magazine for him.

I thought this was the birthday for Urban Soul but Davis said that was a nice title but he already had a title,
Bling Bling.
It didn't knock me off my feet, but Davis explained that we should do something hip and on the cutting edge. He said young people bought magazines these days and were the first generation of African Americans who expected to do well and have nice things. Davis also pointed out how young white teens were fascinated with Hip Hop and African American culture.

I agreed, and the next afternoon Davis had me sitting in a conference room with a group of business planners, interior decorators, and employment counselors. Two months later I was having my first staff meeting. A week later I signed an employment contract, a high six-figure salary with perks, the most important being the chance to buy the magazine from Davis after five years. That night, to celebrate, I showed Davis how thankful I was, and he was very impressed with my talents.

Now, don't think for one minute I used my body to get my job. I am very attracted to Davis, although I have to admit it might be the power thang. Besides, I got skills.

I was raised in a solid middle-class family. Both my parents were educators. My daddy, Edward Norwood, was dean of students at Fisk University, and my mother, Virginia, was the first black female to receive a doctorate degree in education from Vanderbilt University and taught there.