Chapter Three--PART ONE

The Following Morning

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Shortly after ten-fifteen, the Eagle Express from Fayette Parish, Louisiana reached its destination: the Trans-Canadian Railway Station in Toronto.

For the last two hours of her journey, via the private car owned by one Mr. Michael Jackson, Odette Dufrense had been plastered to one of the many windows decorating the reading room of said car.

Snow!

In all of her nineteen years, Odette had never seen real, true, actual snow with her very own grey eyes. Of course, she had know that snow existed, and had read in those discarded newspapers of Madame's of things such as flurries, blizzards and even avalanches, but to her naive mind, they were abstract entities. Words with no true sense of actuality to her.

That is, until that very morning, when she'd been nudged awake by Mr. Jackson, telling her that breakfast was ready.

Odette had been halfway through a bowl of sticky oatmeal with sliced bananas, listening as Dr. Jackson chattered on about how his daughters' suddenly wanted to become painters and were “bleeding him dry” purchasing brushes, oils and watercolors, and fresh canvases onto which they splattered their imaginations.

When asked by Mr. Jackson if either Theodosia or Thomasina had any aptitude for it, their father had laughed and said “I understand their art about as well as a blind man would understand a Picasso....”

Dr. Jackson had been interrupted by a sharp intake of breath, the wordless rising of Odette from the table and her crossing to the window behind him, captivated.

As the train had continued dashing to it's destination, the morning sun had revealed the passing landscape to her.

White.

As far as the eye could see, everything was blanketed in thick whiteness, with more falling by the second.

Her very first time seeing the wonder of snow!

She had been enticed back to the table, but it had taken much pleading on the part of Uncle and Nephew and more tugging at the hem of her navy dress to make her finish her meal.

But even before the last spoonful was swallowed, Odette had perched at another window, this one in the front corner of the sitting room, watching the open plains and fields with an errant cow or horse braving the elements to graze.

Quite used to the sight of snow, as Mr. Jackson had seen almost forty-five winters like it and his nephew, almost thirty, weren't nearly as enchanted as that young girl, but were both amused by her wide-eyed innocence just the same.

Faintly, Odette had heard them, sitting on that leather divan, and smoking cigarettes by the pack, murmuring off and on. Some about her, getting a more complete medical and dental exam once they reached home. Snippets about inoculations. Then they were speaking idly about motion pictures. She heard the names Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd. Dr. Jackspm appeared to be more inclined to Mr. Lloyd, while Mr. Jackson was a staunch supporter of Mr. Chaplin, calling him a “comedic genius”.

Alas, those celebrated comedians could have been doing somersaults across the car, off the furniture, and she'd have scantly noticed.

Almost entranced was she by the snow. How there was so much of it, where did it come from? Where did it go once spring came and melted it?

How did anything get done? People going out to jobs, children to school?

How did one traverse this cold, barren tundra, without out falling victim and succumbing to its icy treachery?

Now, two hours later, Odette wasn't merely on the inside looking out to this wintry wonderland, she,herself, was in it.

Merlin's Marina had been a short jaunt on foot from the train station, and was a squat building of wood and masonry, painted a light beige that seemed anemic in its whiter surroundings.

In the front was a ticket booth and accompanying heated waiting room, while the back looked out onto Lake Ontario, a vast body of water, so large, Odette had mistakenly thought it was the Atlantic Ocean. (Until Mr. Jackson had softly corrected her with a chuckle.)

As the trio mounted the handful of steps up onto small wrap around porch, where an elderly woman was making haste of sweeping away the snow with a stiff broom, lest someone slip and injure themselves, Mr. Jackson tapped a hand, covered in a black kidskin glove on Odette's shoulder for her attention.

“I arranged for our ferry ride before we left the US.” He told her, a light breeze making the brim of his fedora and his long locks dance about his face. “We'd have taken my boat, but it's not yet ready to sail.”

Confused, Odette mumbled that it was quite alright. It would never make sense to her that Mr. Jackson was so apologetic about what she thought of as luxuries far above her station as a lowly maid.

For Odette only expected the bare minimum of accommodations and while she did enjoy these fine extras that Mr. Jackson provided, she was certain all of that would evaporate once she took her place under his employ at Rosewyck.

She had begun to follow him towards the shut double doors, over which a sign proclaimed Waiting Room—which amazed her, as it was just that, and not segregated into White and Colored factions—when Dr. Jackson had spoken up.

“Wait.”

He dropped down to one knee, right there on the porch and was opening the bulky case containing his camera, making quick work of setting up his tripod with the device.

“Taj...what are you doing?” Mr. Jackson half asked, half laughed at his relative.

“This is Odette's very first day in Canada—I want to commemorate the event by taking her picture.”

“What--” She barely got the word out her mouth, before her hand was taken, with her being led to a corner that was lit particularly well by the morning sun.

Allowing herself to be physically prodded into position by Taj Jackson, with him removing her tam and having her hold it in front of herself.

“Looks good, right?” He questioned as he returned to the camera, flipping up the black canvas.

Thoughtfully stroking his dimpled chin, Mr. Jackson only nodded.

“Odette, put your eyes downward, then raise them when I say so—just your eyes not your head,” Dr. Jackson instructed, hunching behind the camera, after he'd loaded one of those silver rectangles.

“Now!”

Odette did as told, looking up through her lashes at the camera lens.

Mr. Jackson was smiling, and a man, around Dr. Jackson's age was paying her so much mind, he walked completely off the porch, missing the steps entirely and landed ass over tea kettle in the snow.

There was that series of clicks, and Dr. Jackson popped back up, smiling.

“I'll have this developed as soon as I get--”

“Take one of us together.”

It wasn't a question, but a statement, Michael Jackson made brushing around his nephew, towards Odette.

A strange tightness came to Taj Jackson's face but he complied, and went back beneath the canvas.

Mr. Jackson laid his arm about Odette's shoulders, pulling her closer to him, against that white cashmere coat.

“Smile.”

Odette obeyed, focusing on the lens in front of her, beaming.

Never seeing that instead of doing the same, Mr. Jackson was looking down, directly at her.

A warm, radiant expression as he observed her.

BYOOOOOM!

The deep, far off wail drowned out the second series of clicks.

“Come along.” Mr. Jackson extended a hand to Odette which she took, “The ferry will be docking soon and we need to board it.”

They walked up to Dr. Jackson as he emerged from the canvas, Mr. Jackson chortling,

“Taj, if it wasn't for you talking me into coming down toLouisiana for that contraption, I'd have never found Odette...thank you.”

There was a light in his dark eyes that spoke volumes though his lips had stopped moving.

With his free arm he half embraced his nephew who returned the gesture.

“Don't mention it, Applehead. Thank you--”

Odette politely extended her hand and was instead pulled into a hug by the the doctor.

She gasped inwardly, feeling his lips, a bit plumper than his uncle's, graze her cheek,

“It was nice meeting you, Odette” He spoke luridly off into her ear. “I'll see you tomorrow when I drop by for your full medical workup and to drop off your photos.”

She trembled, not from the cold but bobbed her heard in agreement.

BYOOOOOM!

The horn was louder, closer.

“Have you a way home?” Mr. Jackson asked as they started for the door, his hand on the knob, looking back expectantly,

“Yeah...” A darkness came to Dr. Jackson's features, as he removed his glasses, that piece of red cloth appearing with him cleaning his lenses. “...TJ managed to extricate himself from Chinatown long enough to bring my car over here and park it for me. I only hope he didn't let that woman drive my Pierce-Arrow.”

As if on cue, both men rolled their eyes and exhaled with exasperation in unison, but no more words were exchanged.

Hands were shaken gaily and the door held for Odette.

There was no looking back now; she was on her way to her new home.

Rosewyck.

And the new life which she still wasn't fully prepared for.

An Hour Later

The ferry ride, across a small stretch of the larger Lake Ontario, had been dubbed Juniper Bay, as it was the only true way to access Juniper Island.

The ride had been calming and uneventful, Odette standing on the bow of the massive boat, which could have easily transported upwards of three hundred, but that particular ride had moved only about twenty.

And much to Odette's surprise, the ferry was integrated. There were no specified Colored or White seating areas; instead, everyone appeared free to stand or sit wherever they pleased. And the boat carried mostly Whites and Coloreds with a single Oriental family of what Odette speculated to be Chinese, by the bright traditional clothing they wore.

For the most part, the other passengers seemed nice and if there were any animosity about the races mixing in such a casual fashion, no one let on, at least that she could tell.

Though chilly, Odette remained on the bow of the ship for the entire forty-five minute ride, enjoying the open water, watching it move around her in waves, lapping and splashing upon the ferry's hull.

The errant fish breaking the surface, flinging itself through the air only to disappear in the next crest.

Even thought he could have sat comfortably in the room for passengers, Mr. Jackson remained outside, near Odette. Variably leaning against the railing and pacing back and forth as four cigarettes were smoked, the spent butts flicked off into the bay.

No words were spoken, but there didn't need to be.

Odette felt a sense of relief, of calmness, just by being in Michael Jackson's presence.

That, for the first time in fifteen years, she was truly safe, and out of the clutches of Madame Lenior.

She liked the feeling of his arm around her shoulders, as they stood watching Juniper Island, a white and green speck on the horizon growing larger as the ferry neared it.

They were met on the dock by Chester, who escorted them to that blue limo. Unlike the rides before, where Odette usually occupied one end of the long leather-upholstered back seat with Mr. Jackson on the other, she was directly beside him, her mittened hands in her lap.

They turned up a much-traveled dirt lane with tall poplars, oaks, cedars and dogwoods rising along each side.

The interior of the car was quiet, aside from the sound of Chester humming to himself in a rich baritone.

“Oh, I hope the other workers will like me.”

Odette Dufrense had meant to only think it, but by some mix-up between her mind and mouth, she had spoken aloud.

Her knee was petted lightly through the woolen skirt,

“They will, don't you fret about it.” Mr. Jackson paused in opening his silver enamel case. “I wouldn't have taken you on, if I didn't think you'd get along with everyone else. An estate cannot be managed or maintained properly if those employed are in a constant disarray and at each other's throats with tempers flaring...”

She was handed the matchbook, indicating she strike one for him.

A cigarette, held in his mouth was lit and he spoke around it, vanilla-y smoke billowing.

“The rest of the servants may not be at home though; they may have gone into the City after Mass to enjoy the rest of their day off--”

“Does everyone go to Mass?” Odette, peered past Chester's head out the windshield, at what seemed endless road stretching ahead.

“Yes...well, not Chester.” Mr. Jackson nodded at the driver, who turned his head in profile, grimacing. “He's not much for organized religion, but the others and myself are all Catholic. We go to Mass every Sunday morning and take Sacrament. Each week we go—the maids, Elsa and Mavis, and Gus, the cook--”

“I thought I was to do all of the cooking, Mr. Jackson.”

Odette had been told that she was to take care of Mr. Jackson, his bedroom and office and bring him his meals. She assumed she was to be the sole cook, without having to share the kitchen.

It had already been hard enough at the Asylum cooking for the finicky Madame, with a half dozen others underfoot constantly.

“Ahem—um.” Mr. Jackson burbled a moment, clearly trying to collect his thoughts and select the best way in which to explain himself.

“My intention is to have you and Gus cycle in and out of the cooking duties. Gus is getting up in age, you see, Odette, and I don't want to replace him. He's been a good, loyal cook to me for over twenty years, since I first moved to Juniper Peak.”

The window was cracked, ashes flicked out.

“But I can tell when he's getting tired. Especially on Sundays when my nephews and their daughters come over and he has to cook for everyone. I figured you could be a set of helping hands to him and you could both share different dishes and cooking styles. Kind of learn from each other in a way. Two sets of hands work better than one, you see... you needn't worry about a big Sunday dinner today, as we've just gotten back from the States and there's no way a meal of that size could be prepared in a timely fashion...”

Her mittened hand was clasped in his gloved one, and she looked up into his taut, pale, handsome face.

“That's why I wanted you to start off making me breakfast. I'm one person and its a simple way to get you up to speed with the way my kitchen works. And of course, you're more than welcome to make yourself a plate of whatever you prepare for me. You're free to eat as you like, Odette. I would like to see you put on a little bit of flesh on those bones...”

He trailed off, his eyes sweeping her like search light.

“...but not too much, of course.”

Chester, in the front seat, shook his head grunting to himself, and resumed his humming, of an old Negro spiritual, one of which he remembered the melody, but not the words.

Blinking, Mr. Jackson appeared to return from whence he'd gone off in his own mind, adding,

“I expect my nephews to come by tomorrow; Taj and Taryll will give you a more thorough exam than the rushed one you got in Fayette, and TJ will check you teeth to ensure none need to be pulled or anything like that. I want to make sure that if there's anything wrong with you Odette—though I doubt it—I want to make sure we catch it early and remedy it promptly.”

He had been squeezing and plying her hand as he had spoken and boldly, Odette squeezed back, remarking she'd never heard of anyone taking as good of care of their workers as he was.

(The best Madame Lenoir had done was to throw a a sheet over any of the orphans whom had mercifully died and had the undertakers remove the remains as swiftly as possible, without letting the surviving children mourn.)

“You'll find, Odette, that people in optimum health are apt to work the best. And should anything develop, don't hesitate to tell me. Don't worry about paying for your exams; that's one of the perks of having two doctors and a dentist in the family: they refuse to charge me, so all the exams, medication and any minor procedures are done for free.”

That was a wonder to Odette.

She hadn't seen a doctor, other than the rudimentary looking over she'd received from Dr. Jackson, since 1919, when the Spanish Flu had been at it's zenith and the entire Asylum had been ill.

They'd lost four children under the ages of ten.

And now, knowing she could see a doctor at will, any time she needed...

Odette sank against the seat, allowing her head to rest upon Mr. Jackson's shoulder.

Rather than push her away, he cupped her cheek a moment, and was quiet.

After an interval, the trees, once packed closely together, began to give way, as it seemed they were nearing the civilization that was Juniper Peak.

They began passing, albeit few and far between, farms and homesteads, behind wooden and wire fences, marking the properties. The more substantial of these possessed cattle, hogs, chickens and horses skittering about, people bundled down against the cold tending to the livestock, and going about their chores, cleaning windows, shoveling walks, chopping firewood.

Of course, all movements ceased when Mr. Jackson's limo came into view.

People stopped whatever they were doing to gawk, one person actually stopping mid-bend to pick up a crying toddler.

Odette wondered if Mr. Jackson were the richest man on the island as his very appearance seemed a spectator sport, people halting in their tracks as though he were King George V.

She would get her answer in short order.

Leaving the rural area, they drove towards the more conventional, and quaint, heart of town, which even on a late Sunday morning was quite bustling.

Buildings, rendered in wood, but well-maintained, and painted, had all the usual points of interest, a postal office, a few businesses and a general store.

Further back, Odette could make out a whitewashed chapel and the rambling schoolhouse, where in the yard, several children were chasing each other about, throwing snowballs and getting up to innocent mischief.

People in Juniper Peak had to be doing better than the people back in Toulouse Parish, Odette surmised by all of the cars she saw parked outside of the stores and smattering of diners, and other establishments.

None of the cars were so lovely as Mr. Jackson's; almost all were black and Ford Model A's, Model T's and a Model TT from which a man was hauling crates of produce into the general store.

Again, Mr. Jackson's luxury vehicle drew attention, as it coasted by, so much so, that a few of the diners in one of the restaurants abandoned their tables, meals still steaming and were leaning curiously out the door, staring, with one patron leaning so far he landed face-first on the sidewalk.

Aside from the unflinching gaze of some of the towns populous, Odette found what she had seen of Juniper Peak thus far rather charming and told Mr. Jackson so.

“I like it...it's home to me now, and has been for a very long time.” He half-smiled, flicking more ashes out the window.

Playing with the silver buckles decorating the tops of his gloves, Odette wondered,

“Is Juniper Peak the only town on the island?”

Mr. Jackson nodded. “It is, as far as I know. And I've been all over the island. Oh, I had the opportunity to buy a house in Toronto or have one built, but city life doesn't appeal to me. Don't get me wrong. I love to visit my nephews and great nieces, and go shopping or to the cinema or opera. But my home is here. Its a slower pace, quiet. Fresh air...a good solid place with good, God-fearing people.”

Odette looked up into his peaceful face, as he gripped after her hand,

“Do you come from a large family, Mr. Jackson. I know you've mentioned your nephews--”

“Oh yes, there's ten of us siblings. Seven brothers and three sisters. They're all over the place. Some in other parts of Canada, some in The States and others in Europe. I have many nieces and nephews and cousins. Strange to think we were all born on a little farm in Indiana and have flourished to the point we're all over the world, now. Taj, Taryll and TJ live the closest to me here. Hmm...”

He was touching his dimpled chin thoughtfully and fell silent, his head turning to gaze out the window at those on sidewalks and near the road staring back at him without shame or remorse for what was considered a rude act.

(Odette couldn't count the amount of times she'd been pinched to bleeding by Madame for unconsciously staring at the well-to-do folks whom had toured the Asylum for workers)

They continued along the main road, and again residences, small, neat one and two story houses with white picket fences encircling them, began to take the place of businesses.

It almost seemed as if they were leaving the town entirely as more wider-spaced farmlands appeared, then went from view entirely, the road being reclaimed by what couldn't be described as anything other than virgin forest.

The tall, crowding, overgrown trees casting shadows and in some places totally obscuring the sun overhead, though it were only midday.

A touch of anxiety began to nag at Odette, just a bit.

Her palms began to sweat inside the mittens, and her heart rate increased a tad, and nervously her eyes darted between Mr. Jackson, still gazing out of the window, and Chester, minding his driving, singing Bound for Canaan Land under his breath.

Odette wondered if they were lost, as, for the longest time, they continued on this tree-rimmed lane.

Just as she had willed herself enough courage to speak up, the limo slowed to a halt, with Chester popping his door open and slipping out.

Wonderment filled Odette Dufrense as she leaned forward, eyes growing rapidly in her skull.

Out of thin air, they had arrived at a gate.

The most grand, ornate gate Odette had ever seen.

Chester was off to the right of the vehicle, fiddling with what had to be the lock and latch.

The gate itself was made of blackened wrought iron and what appeared to be shimmering gold—Odette later found it was copper, if it had been real gold the gate would have been picked clean by thieves long ago—amidst many swirls and fleur-de-lis, in the very center was a large crest, of gold (copper) bearing an MJ stamped in the middle, flanked on one side by what appeared a unicorn and the other, a lion.

Michael Jackson had his own crest like royalty!

Above that was a shimmering black arc with ROSEWYCK etched in gold letters.

Topping off the sign was what appeared to be a gold and red enamel crown, much like the ones worn by British monarchs.

They had arrived....this was Rosewyck.

As the gates slowly swung, Chester waddled-ran back to the car, jumping into the driver's seat and proceeding down the lane.

After a few minutes, the gate shut on its own automatically.

Instantaneously, Odette felt her mouth falling open in awe.

Though the entire landscape, stretching on for what was surely many, many acres, was covered in several inches of fresh snow, she could tell that Rosewyck was indeed a showplace before the mansion ever came into view.

Dotting here and there were stone and marble sculptures, showing everything from children frolicking in what Odette was sure to be countless gardens and flower beds, to a few winged cherubs,to exotic animals, and most notably, nude figures of women, draped in chiseled lengths of fabric to conceal the more scandalous areas of their bodies.

Odette felt herself flushing at seeing the unclothed human form presented so unabashedly.

Bodies were meant to be covered modestly by clothing, so she had been taught, and the sight was quite shocking for her.

“Oh my!”

Odette had barely gotten over the fourteen naked statues she'd counted, when the manse sprang up like a jack in the box.

The Manor, as it was colloquially known was a stunning pristine white mansion, crafted after the Beaux-Arts Colonial style.

It was a beautifully symmetrical house, that appeared to go on for three stories, with spacious wrap around porches on the first two levels, marked by thick columns and engraving that hinted at Greek.

On the second level, shielding what had to have been a sunroom for use on warmer days, a large green and white striped canvas awning was unfurled giving a touch of color to an otherwise austere white facade.

A semicircular driveway, that Odette only noticed once she and Mr. Jackson had alighted at the front of the manse, wasn't paved with cement, rather, a mosaic of bloody-red bricks had been laid, and as she looked from whence they'd come, the bricks continued on so far they vanished from sight.

Chester mentioned something about taking the car to the carriage house out back, but Odette didn't hear it, draping her arm over the one Mr. Jackson was offering her.

Following as he lead her up the brick steps to the double front doors. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the doors were decorated with panes of stained glass, depicting the home's floral namesake, roses.

It was then Mr. Jackson spoke, apologizing,

“As you can see right now, Odette, the veranda is quite bare; once the weather warms up, we'll put out the wicker furniture and perhaps you can sit and enjoy the scenery.”

Odette felt a brow raising and found it odd that Mr. Jackson seemed to be addressing her more as a guest on a visit, than a servant there to work.

The concern found itself shoved into a far corner of her mind as Mr. Jackson twirled the knob, a round, clear glass globe, rather than one made of brass, and opened one of the doors.

She found herself in a small vestibule, featuring a second set of stained doors, leading to the warm front hall.

Entering, Odette's hearing further faded.
Her surroundings…by golly sweet Jesus, her surroundings!
“Christ…”

Unable to completely make a sound, she merely mouthed the word, her mind struggling to comprehend and make sense of the splendor and grandeur into which she had stepped.

The world of Juniper Peak ceased to exist, for she had entered a new dimension.

The special, secret, private universe of Michael Jackson.

Beneath her feet, the floor was done in a lighter, glossy pine wood, contrasting with the darker wood panels--mahogany?--on the walls and ceiling and coordinating with the pale yellow, between a mustard and butter crème, wallpaper.
On either side of the grand staircase, two sets of pocket doors, in dark wood, both stood closed.
Turning slowly, Odette thought her eyes would burst, as they took in so many sights at once, her mouth showing as a small O beneath her nose.
Just inside the door, were a pair of statues, in the shape of elephants, made of veined dark green marble.
Above them, lighting the hallway and casting faint rainbows all around was a wide, sparkling crystal chandelier, dangling with what had to be hundreds of prisms and spheres, around a curling bronze base.
Over the spotless flooring, lay a rich plush Persian carpet of dark reds, greens, yellows and golds. It was repeated in the carpet going up to the landing on the staircase.
The staircase was impressive, both banisters lit by smaller crystal-laden sconces, echoing the chandelier. Past the landing, the stairs split, and went up in either direction.
At the landing, as Odette inched closer tentatively, not wanting to stray too far away from Mr. Jackson, was a larger than life-sized portrait in an ornate gilded frame of a Colored woman.
The woman was breathtaking, with fine, delicate features, wearing a distinctly Victorian outfit.
A frothy, lacy lilac dress with a high collar, her thick black hair piled high upon her head, giving her the look of something akin to Nubian nobility.
In her hands was a single blood red rose.
Odette wondered whom the woman was; Mr. Jackson had stated he was a bachelor, so the woman couldn't have been his wife—former or present.

More artwork littered the walls in frames; to the left was a landscape scene, depicting several deer drinking from a stream, on the other, a much more controversial painting.
A nude woman, her back turned, pink body reclined on a tufted green chaise lounge, little rounded buttocks in full view. Titian curls falling to her waist.
Odette kept her gasps to herself as Mr. Jackson began removing his gloves, moving towards a small side table in an alcove near the stairs.

“What's this ?” He declared, picking up what appeared to be a note, and perused it,“Oh, it's from Mavis—she, Gus and Elsa went into town to see Dick Barthelmess in The Fighting Blade. That's the third time they've gone to see it this month. Gus loves films with sword-fighting and shooting in it.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Mr. Jackson draped it across a low bench close to the front door, revealing a black tweed suit with a matching vest over a white shirt and a silver and black silk tie, looped into a Windsor knot.

Odette allowed her outer wear to be taken, and added to the pile atop the costly cashmere coat.

“There...” Mr. Jackson was fluffing Odette's tresses about her shoulders and adjusting the navy ribbon tied in a bow on top of her head. “I'll show you to your room, then the kitchen, along with my office and suite.”

His long fingers were interlaced with her own as he took hold of Odette's hand, and began leading her off to the left of the staircase, and through a swinging door, revealing a winding corridor.

It was clear that this passage was intended for the servants use as, thought it was clean, there were no fine adornments like she'd viewed in the front hall and only a few bare wooden chairs were placed here and there, for someone to grab a moment's reprieve during the work day.

Coming to a bare bay window, Mr. Jackson made it known,

“Mavis, Gus, and Elsa live in the carriage house, there.”

Setting a few hundred yards away, was the carriage house, a stately two story building, mimicking the design of the main house.

On the first floor though, a roll-up door was open, showing the back end of Mr. Jackson's limousine, and Chester was wiping down tires, cleaning snow and muck from their journey off them.

Well, he was with one hand, with the other, he was chomping what appeared some type of Danish pastry.

“I don't want you to feel overwhelmed by the size of my home...” Mr. Jackson was watching Chester eat, inhaling deeply. “It is three stories, and there's an indoor pool in the basement, but the heating element needs to be repaired before I can even think of swimming in there. I do not feel like having to be bedded down with hypothermia again, and the entire household crying.”

He glanced at Odette, “I usually start my days with a swim, its good for the body and keeps it fit. If you don't know how to swim, I'll have you taught. On an island everyone should know how to swim. Jessilynn, that's my nephew TJ's little girl, learned to swim before she could even walk.”

“Yes, sir.” Odette, whom hadn't come close to a body of water other than a puddle after a rainstorm in Louisiana was charmed by the idea of perhaps swimming in the pool herself, if allowed, or at least off the coast in Lake Ontario.

They proceeded down the hall and turned a corner, Mr. Jackson informing her, “You are free to move to the carriage house with the others at a later date, should you choose, Odette, but for the time being you'll be staying in Nellie's old room--”

He was pulled back a few paces as Odette stopped, rooted to the spot, and he could tell by the apprehension creeping across her face, the few strains of color to it draining, he hasted to state,

“Nellie didn't die in the room. It became too much for her to walk from the carriage house here so she was moved in. She did not die in the room, Odette. Nellie took ill in the hallway and as Taj was visiting, put her in his car to rush her to a hospital in Toronto. But it was too late; she didn't survive the ferry ride, the poor woman. I had the room stripped and refurbished, as I did know when I'd hire on a new maid...”

Odette was nodded at, Mr. Jackson's pink lips curling sheepishly,

“I just didn't realize I'd be bringing a new maid so soon.”

They came up to a paneled door, where the knob, this time, plain brass, was spun.

“Once your things arrive from the train station, you can put them away as you like.”

The door opened, revealing a frankly small room.

Immediately, there was a single bed in a brass frame, made up with simple white sheets and a patchwork quilt of LeMoyne Stars in various floral patterns.

Next to the bed was a massive chifferobe, beside a dresser with a round framed mirror on the wall above it.

On the far wall, a radiator was on and throwing visible heat waves. A few feet from the radiator, the door to a private bath was cracked, showing the end of a claw-foot tub.

“You're free to decorate as you like,” Mr. Jackson intoned, waving a hand around carelessly, “Elsa is crazy about Francis X. Bushman and John Barrymore; her room is plastered with their photographs cut out of the movie magazines.”

An unusual question was presented,

“Who are your favorite film stars, Odette?”

“I...I don't know, Sir...” Odette was hesitant and that feeling of stupidity washed over her. “I've only ever been to one picture show, when I was little. The nuns at the local convent took all of us orphans to see a film on the Fourth of July. Some love story called Hearts Adrift. Mary Pickford was in it--”

“Mary Pickford is quite popular still, and a fellow Canadian.” Mr. Jackson smiled. “And don't worry, you'll learn all about film stars, everyone goes to the cinema, though I prefer the larger places in Toronto. I'll take you sometime...”

“Why, thank you, Sir!” She was being led by the hand back through the house, fairly floating.

Odette had always wanted to go back to watch movies after that one time, when she was only ten years old. It had been such fun, sharing bags of popcorn and bottles of orange soda with the other children.

Fun like that had been a truly rare event.

Yes, she'd put aside some of her earnings to go every few weeks or so.

Now she was mounting the stairs, Mr. Jackson taking the right side of the split.

Odette had taken care to read the plaque at the base of the beautiful woman's portrait.

It had simply declared Mother, 1885.

Odette was led up to a hallway, marked by several sets of doors, the far end of which French doors, draped with dark gold velvet curtains, opened onto the wrap around balcony of the second story, and looked out over the rolling back lawns where Odette spied more snow-capped statues, benches, and off on the horizon, water lapping the shore.

Mr. Jackson was slowed, but made no fuss, as Odette was again pivoting, taking in the lavish decorations.

More Persian and Russian loom rugs were beneath her feet, and paintings and tapestries were displayed on the walls.

Decorative urns in various bright glazes took up space, adding color and beauty to an otherwise rather dark area.

Every few feet were sconces, mini-chandeliers jutting from wall near the ceiling, lit by electric bulbs and a single strand of tiny crystals swaying gently illuminated the upper floor.

At the very end of the hall, they came to a set of double doors, much like the ones of the private train car, were a darker wood, inlaid with geometric shapes in a lighter wood.

“This, is my bedroom.” Mr. Jackson announced the obvious, pushing both doors open with a flourish.

For a young, impoverished girl from Toulouse Parish, like Odette, the room where Michael Jackson laid his head at night and dreamed pleasant dreams far exceeded the scope of her imagination.

The walls were papered in a rich burgundy brocade with hints of green and ivory that was quite masculine though it showed a distinctly floral motif.

One side of the room, facing the balcony were more of those French windows, shut against the freezing temps, draped in burgundy velvet, trimmed with elaborate golden tassels.

The floor was hardwood, polished to a high gloss and covered with more rugs, trimmed in fringe.

There was comfortable seating, overstuffed arm chairs, a chaise lounge and a divan, strewn about.

Closer to the bed was an ivory marble fireplace, the hearth alight and roaring, over which a painting of a nude woman reclining in a field had been hung.

Odette felt her eyes widening, as it wasn't lost on her that she bore a more than a passing resemblance to the model rendered in oils.

The woman in the painting was pale, with long black hair, and if one squinted, blackness on her lady bits shown plainly.

Odette didn't know how to feel about the art piece and didn't want to think of her strange doppelganger.

On the mantle was a small, golden clock, in the shape of an eagle in flight.

In front of the divan was a low coffee table, decorated with Faberge eggs and brass and crystal statues of animals.

A selection of books were stacked in the middle, and were revealed to be the first four of the Oz series by L. Frank Baum: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Marvelous Land of Oz, Ozma of Oz and Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz.

Odette had heard of the popular children's book series, but as with everything in her life, she was woefully behind and outdated. She hoped Mr. Jackson would lend her the books to read.

Taking up the most space in the room, of course, was Mr. Jackson's bed.

A dazzling, high-setting structure it was, covered in green silks, plump decorative pillows crowding it.

A canopy rose above it draped in more velvet, the underside a series of delicate, tedious pin-tucks and pleats.

On each side of the bed,were tables each bearing a Tiffany lamp. Gorgeous things with bronze bases in the shapes of panthers stalking prey, the glass shades in tones that mirrored the rest of the suite.

A few feet from the bed, a three-mirrored vanity stood, with a low hassock for sitting and peering at oneself, the tabletop cluttered with jars of skin creams and hair dressings along with combs and brushes in silver, embossed with an MJ of a more Art Deco font.

A door on the other side of the vanity had been left wide opened, offering Odette a view of the only walk-in closet on Juniper Island, and from what she could tell, by the litany of hues represented, Mr. Jackson owned more suits, nay, more clothes than anyone dared to count.

Department stores offered less garments than what hung there, for a single man whom barely tickled the scales past a hundred and thirty pounds.

Odette was led around the room, Mr. Jackson explaining that he wanted to be awakened at seven am on the dot unless otherwise noted, and pointed out a small table with two chairs, where he liked to take his breakfast and read the morning newspaper.

Motioning to a strangely empty corner of the room, he explained, “I ordered a wireless from New York before I traveled with Taj; it should arrive early next week. Then you'll turn it on as you wake me so I can get up while enjoying Jazz or Classical or whatever type of music I can pick up out here in the boonies.”

“Yes, Sir.” was all Odette could reply, stunned as she had never seen a radio up close before, and now part of her job was to actually touch one.

Mr. Jackson prattled on a bit, saying how, once she got used to him, she'd select his outfits and accouterments—Odette had no idea he was using a fancy word for his accessories, ie the brooches he seemed to favor—and only nodded, trying to make her brain hold all of this new information inundating it and praying she didn't forget anything.

Mr. Jackson was in motion, walking Odette out of the room, past the windows and through another door, his office.

The tour of the office, paneled in dark woods and masculine shades of blue, was given a cursory wave, nothing truly pointed out or decisively explained.

It was then, Mr. Jackson requested something of Odette that made her hair stand on end,

“Will you please go down to the kitchen and bring me a bottle of Ginger Ale. Help yourself to one too.”

She was left, speechless and staring as Mr. Jackson went to his desk, a piece of furniture so large it quite dwarfed everything else in the room and picked up the receiver of a gilt and crystal phone, tapping the cradle,

“Hello? Julius? It's Mr. Jackson. Could you please connect me to Tremblay Apparel in Toronto? Thank you...”

There was pause, during which he sat in the large leather, high-backed chair behind the desk.

He then noticed Odette was still present, gazing with large eyes of confusion. She didn't know where the kitchen was. He'd neglected to show her.

Placing a hand over the mouth piece, he indicated the door with a swing of his head.

“Go back down stairs, there's a set of pocket doors next to the fireplace in the front hall. It opens to the formal dining room, and at the far end is a swinging door, it opens to the kitchen. You can't miss it. Go on...”

Obediently, Odette went out into the hall, but leaned against the wall alongside the door eavesdropping.

“Hello? Yes, this is Michael Jackson at Rosewyck out on Juniper Island, I'd like to place an order for some maid's uniforms please...no, no, not the Miranda, that's far too plain. I've hired on a new gentleman's maid, and she's getting a different style of dress. Correct...I'd like the Katherine, in Dove Grey, please. No, not Black—Dove Grey. The next to smallest size, available, my new girl is rather slim at the moment...”

Figuring that the Ginger Ale wasn't going to just magically levitate up from the kitchen, Odette picked her way back down the stairs to the first floor.

Arriving at the pocket doors, it took Odette a bit to realize they didn't open in or out but slid sideways vanishing into the wall, hence the pocket.

The formal dining room was as every other room she'd seen, a display of opulence. Painted a pale sage green, the focal point was a polished table made to seat a dozen, but as Mr. Jackson had been away, no flatware or silverware had been placed, the top empty, all of the chairs, upholstered in a striped fabric, pushed under, waiting to be used. Instead, everything needed to set the table was in a huge china cabinet off in one corner.

Also, the white marble hearth was unlit, leaving the room chilly as opposed to the warmth in other areas.

Mr. Michael Jackson seemed quite fond of marble and seemed to have some in every room. Of course, he could afford all the marble he liked, and more.

As told, she found the swinging door and emerged into the kitchen.

What a grand kitchen it was, nearly five times as big as the one at the Asylum and Odette almost shouted.

The floors were tiled in black and white, offset by the peachy colored walls.

A tremendous stove boasting six burners and two ovens was off, but on top of it, half a loaf of bread rested in a basket.

Odette knew she'd enjoy cooking in this kitchen, she was sure of it, as she crossed over to the mammoth icebox, gleaming white, and made of galvanized steel, she tugged one of the heavy doors open and marveled.

One shelf was exclusively full of sodas, Ginger Ale, Orange-Pineapple, Grape, Root Beer, Apricot and Coca-Cola, under which were a dozen white eggs, a assortment of cut up aromatics and cheeses along with what appeared to be half a roast chicken.

Another shelf held ready-made mayonnaise, and mustard, horseradish sauce, and dill gherkins, and chili sauce.

Unable to stop herself, Odette plucked a piece of skin from the breast of the bird and popped it into her mouth, enjoying it's garlicky flavor.

She still couldn't believe she was permitted to eat as she liked.

Chewing on it, she grabbed a couple of Ginger Ales, one for Mr. Jackson and the other for herself, glad there was a bottle opener affixed to the wall and easily popped the tops off.

Glancing out the window above the sink, Odette saw a car, a black Model T rolling around the back of the house, three Colored people laughing, grinning and chattering among themselves happily contained within and assumed, correctly, that Mavis, Elsa and Gus had returned.

And overwhelmed with shyness, she made haste out of the room and mounted the stairs two at a time.

“Julius? Mr. Jackson again...”

He was still on the phone as Odette returned to the office and placed an open bottle in front of him.

“Could you connect me to Cecelia's Salon, in Toronto, please and thank you.”

Odette was surprised when he pulled the other bottle from her hands and set it in on the edge of the desk, in front of one of the two leather guest chairs.

Intending for her to sit with him.

“...this is Michael Jackson of Rosewyck...yes, out in Juniper Peak...” He began and Odette started to enjoy her cold drink, remaining on her feet. Yes, this beat plain well water any day.

Ginger Ale was almost shot from her nose in startling at what he said next,

“Miss Cecelia? I was wondering if you could send one of your manicurists over here, as soon as possible. Yes, I've just hired on a girl, and she's in dire need of a manicure. I doubt she's ever had one before.”

“Mr. Jackson--” Odette rocked on her feet, feeling this was too much extravagance for her.

She had worked just fine with the plain, if yellowed, nails God gave her.

“Sit.”

The chair was pointed at, and reluctantly, Odette sat back down. Clutching the glass bottle so tightly it threatened to bust and cut her to ribbons.

“...pardon? Yes, I'll pay extra for the for a colored nail varnish...send over the most popular shade, please. And a jar of your hand cream, too.”

Odette was again on her feet, and Mr. Jackson narrowed his eyes at her, hissing,

“Don't make me repeat myself, Odette.”

And down she went onto the chair.

“Could you also send up some samples for my new maid to try. Oh...anything she can choose from....Thank you, kindly.”

Hanging up the phone, Mr. Jackson addressed the elephant in the room,

“Odette, don't contradict me, please. Especially when I'm on the telephone. Everything I'm doing has a purpose. You're in a new town, a new country. I'm only trying to help you assimilate to how the people are here. And nearly every girl over fifteen, even the ones doing hard labor on the farmsteads, have their nails done. This isn't Toulouse Parish. We're a stone's throw from Toronto, a rather metropolitan area. Now you're already going to stick out for a while, being a new face no one's ever seen and the way you sound with you accent—never lose that accent, please, I find it so charming—and I don't want you to feel isolated or strange...”

He lifted the lid from a box next to the phone, of red enamel with golden roses, and produced a cigarette.

Using a long lighter, matching the red of the box with his name engraved on the side, he took a drag and blew a smoke ring into the air.

“It's a matter of hygiene and cleanliness. Girls in these parts take care of themselves. Dress up, look pretty when they go out and about. It's merely common courtesy here. I want you to take care of you hands, all of yourself, Odette. I'm not sure what things were like for you at the Orphan Asylum, and frankly, I don't want to know or I may fly into a rage.”

Odette was silent, tilting the bottle to her face.

“I want you to feel and be your best. A bath every day, brush your teeth, put on clean underthings and a clean uniform or dress. And as you're almost twenty years old, I assume you have—er—'Ladies' Troubles' and there's items to help with that. Now I'm not too up to speed on the last thing, but that's what Elsa and Mavis are here for. I could tell you weren't cared for properly at the Asylum. And neither were any of the other children,surely. Once I'm more settled, I'll ring my nephew, Austin. He's a lawyer in Harlem and I'll see what can be done. The law in Canada can't do anything about what goes on in Louisiana, but Austin is in the States and knows the law there, well.”

Odette was speechless. Not only did he care about her well-being, but those of the children left behind!

What a gracious man Michael Jackson was!

Another ring went into the air.

“Are you hungry, Odette?”

“Y-yes, Sir--”

The chicken skin hadn't even touched the sides of her gut.

The receiver was picked up once more.

“I know you're sick of me by now, Julius...” He laughed, tapping ashes into a round amber glass ashtray. “Do you know what the Soup du Jour is at The Dinette—I know you eat there all the time...oh? Parsnip and Celery Root Soup? Is it any good? You ate three bowls? I'll try it...there's ham in it too?....have them send enough for two people...”

As Mr. Jackson spoke, Odette felt a chill, and looking about her, she saw that the fireplace on the opposite side of the room wasn't lit.

Without a thought, Odette stood, despite Mr. Jackson shaking his head at her, she went to the azure, marble-ringed hearth, and resting on her knees began to build a fire. There was even a flintstone starter like she had used at the Asylum.

As the flames jumped to life on split oaken logs, Odette found Mr. Jackson's hand on her bicep, and he yanked her to her feet in one swift motion.

“You must be careful!” He warned, eyes wide at her and reached down, grabbing the edge of her skirt. “You almost set your dress on fire, Odette!”

Odette, still used to wearing the short, ill-fitting garment from the Asylum, had forgotten her navy dress had a longer skirt. And when on her knees, it had spilled uncomfortably close to the burning logs.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson...I...I didn't realize...”She mumbled dumbly, the words choking off as he put his arms around her, hugging her closely.

“If anything happened to you...I'd be inconsolable...” His voice was a hoarse, pained whisper.

Odette, struck by the words, could only look up at Mr. Jackson, his eyes shut, face squinched. His breathing had increased to the point the chiseled nostrils on his nose were visibly flapping.

“I'm alright....really....I am.” She assured him, and returned the hug, wrapping her arms around him.

“Promise me you'll always be careful around flames, around fire!”

He was holding her face in his hands. Dark eyes piercing grey ones.

Pleading.

“Yes, Mr. Jackson...”Odette wanted to look away, but couldn't, her own heart beginning to race. “I'll be careful, Sir. I swear it!”

Warm lips smooched her forehead, and finally....finally, he released her.

“I apologize for being rough with you like that...” He turned hands on his hips and walked over to one of the windows.

“I should have paid better attention, really, you've nothing to be sorry for, Sir...” Odette was humble, wringing her hands.

“It won't happen again.”

“See that it doesn't.”

Softly, musically, bells began to chime.

That quickly, it seemed a switch flipped in Michael Jackson and he spun on the heel of a black, tasseled loafer, hand extended,

“That must be the boys from the train station with your belongings...”

Odette took the hand offered her and walked with Mr. Jackson, destined for the front door.

Watching his now, peaceful face out of the corner of her eye.

Odette felt a strange mix of emotions she couldn't fully decipher.

Joy, a sprinkle of fear towards this man....and something else.

Admiration.

* * *

Early the Next Morning

Rosewyck Manor

The upstairs hallway of the imposing manse, was quite dim and frankly cold that Monday morning at the very end of January.

Silence permeated the corridors, save for the muted ticking of the grandfather clock, in the center of said hall, two doors down from Mr. Jackson's office.

It was in front of this oversized timepiece, made of black lacquered wood, painted over in red and gold, massive pendulum swinging, that Odette Dufrense stood.

Quiet, motionless, her eyes fixed upon the gilt face, showing the time as six-fifty.

She had to endure another ten minutes more, before she could enter the suite of the master de maison and rouse him to begin his day.

Odette's day had begun over three hours earlier.

While she had passed the majority of the night in a peaceable slumber,shortly after three a.m., her raw nerves had awakened her.

Her alarm clock—pilfered from one of the unused guest rooms by Mr. Jackson—had been set for five-thirty.

But so anxious was she to start off on the right foot and make a good first impression as a gentleman's maid that by three-thirty, Odette was submerged up to her shoulders in a screaming hot bath.

It was in this claw-foot tub, surrounded by apricot colored walls, that Odette had allowed her mind to wander as she scrubbed after herself with the rose-scented soap.

Reflecting on her first afternoon at Rosewyck.

Shortly after Mr. Jackson's intervention, where he'd prevented her woolen dress from going up like a Roman candle, he'd shown her around his office more thoroughly, pointing out a divan and elegant chess set of black and white marble, the playing pieces adorned with genuine silver plating. Mr. Jackson had mumbled something about teaching her the game at a later date.

She was shown the Victrola, a custom model of ebony inlaid with cherrywood in intricate swirls, with an enviable collection of records ranging from Classical to Jazz to Old Negro Spirituals.

Odette was quick to learn, that while his behavior was modest, Michael Jackson liked, even craved, bespoke items for his home and person; if anything could be tweaked beyond the norm, or built from the ground up to his exacting specifications, he didn't mind throwing his considerable funds at it.

Yes, there were pieces that could be chosen at will from any variety of retailers across Toronto and even along the eastern seaboard of the states, but nowhere else on Earth was there an exact copy of anything to be found under the roof of Michael Jackson's home.

On a bare corner of the record player, was a photograph, showing Mr. Jackson, perhaps a few years ago as his hair was much shorter, seated on a wicker divan with an older version of the woman whose portrait decorated the landing.

His mother.

Mr. Jackson seemed to hold his mother in the highest of regards, as the more used to Odette got to navigating Rosewyck, she saw many photos in heavy silver and gold plated frames, displayed all over every available surface.

Yes, there were photographs, daguerreotypes and faded tintypes of other members of the Jackson family, men, women, boys and girls, all dressed finely, looking as moneyed as they were, but renditions of Mother Jackson outnumbered each three to one.

For a while, Odette had perched on her seat across from Mr. Jackson's desk, the room filled with the sound of an operatic soprano singing in a language which Odette didn't understand, spilling from the Victrola, while Mr. Jackson used a white enamel fountain pen, with a real, rose-cut diamond in the cap, to jot down a menu of hors d'ouevres he wanted prepared for his nephews the following afternoon.

Once satisfied with his selection, Mr. Jackson rose, offered a large hand to Odette and the pair proceeded down to the kitchen.

That was the first time Odette met the other household staff.

Two women had been seated in the nook on the far end of the kitchen, playing cards and smoking cigarettes—a lesser brand than what Mr. Jackson enjoyed as the scent of them was quite acrid—and a man, on a stool, was carving up the half a roasted hen that Odette had plucked the skin from and making sandwiches with it at the island in the center of the room. The stub end of a cigar was clenched between his teeth, one canine wrapped in gold.

Upon Mr. Jackson's unannounced entrance, all three were on their feet.

Mr. Jackson greeted them, and if he were appalled that a hen was being massacred, he gave no indication.

Instead, standing behind her, hands kneading her shoulders, Mr. Jackson more sang, than spoke, presenting Odette as his new gentleman's maid, whom he'd brought all the way from Louisiana.

Firstly, she was introduced to Mavis Clarke, a tall, stout Colored woman with skin the same shade as a pecan. She had a very pleasant round face, her skin so smooth and unlined she could have been aged anywhere from thirty to fifty, and kind dark eyes under brows that had been shaved off and drawn back on in the faintest of lines on her forehead, giving her a look of perpetual surprise. Her plump lips had been painted in a very dark shade of crimson. (Odette later found that as cosmetics of the era seemed to overlook—and outright disregard—women who weren't of a fairer complexion, and as a shade of lipstick complimentary to her deeper complexion wasn't available, Mavis mixed coal soot into a lighter lipstick shade until it had darkened to her liking.)

Mavis had been very quick to welcome Odette, shaking her hand so hard the girl rattled, and was speaking quickly at her, her voice tinged with a Caribbean accent, and had tugged at the man to bring him closer, introducing Gus, her husband.

Gus was tall, so tall he had to have been well past six-foot-five, and a strong build—Chester was fat, Gus was strong—with shiny skin like that of midnight oil. His hair, cropped close was more white than black and faint wrinkles appeared near his deep eyes, as he had smiled politely at Odette saying it was nice to know her.

Like his wife, he also possessed an island accent.

Right off, Odette could tell she was most likely going to get along well with the couple.

Elsa, not so much.

Elsa Moore, whom Odette ballparked to be in her late forties, was a very skinny, yellow-skinned woman with somewhat bugged eyes under thick brows, as untamed as Mavis' were tidy.

She wore no makeup to be seen, as her face was quite freckled, at odds with her deep auburn mane. Odette was certain there was some White mingled in her...how much she couldn't tell just by looks.

Elsa seemed as dowdy as Mavis seemed modern; Mavis wore an attractive, drop-waist frock in a deep maroon, and matching pumps, a color picked up in the tie her spouse wore with a brown suit. Her hair, showing a few glints of silver, had been cut down into a fashionable, boyish Eaton crop, with a kiss curl on each cheek.

By contrast, Elsa wore an unfashionable plaid dress, that had been in style before the Great War, her hair repressed back into a stern bun.

Elsa had been...tolerant...shaking Odette's hand with a tepid grip. There was an emptiness, a coldness in her eyes.

A look Odette knew all too well—it was the same disparaging look Madame Lenoir had given her her entire life.

Elsa didn't like her; it was clear as the hawk nose in the middle of her face. Clear in the faint smirk on those colorless lips, clear in the raise of one of those bushy brows.

And Odette was fairly certain why, though it went unspoken.

As Mr. Jackson fell into a dialogue about crudites and puff pastry, Mavis had engaged Odette, seemingly wanting to know every facet of the new girl's life, while Elsa stood alongside, scowling.

By the time Mr. Jackson called her over to have Gus show her the run of the kitchen, Odette was sure Mavis knew all about her at least three generations back and she knew the same about Mavis.

Of Elsa, she knew nothing and preferred to keep it that way,if possible.

After the reception, a young boy had arrived from town, with their late luncheon from The Dinette cafe, which Mr. Jackson had the slack-jawed child set up in the dining room for himself and Odette. Odette had erroneously attributed the boy's awe to the lavish interior of the home. The child had been in awe of her, pure and simple, and had scarcely looked from her as he set out two large bowls of soup, along with hot buttered rolls, his small brain trying to comprehend how Odette was only the help.

The child departed—by way of Mr. Jackson having to physically usher him out the door, as he pressed a dollar bill into his hands—and Odette managed to eat exactly three spoonfuls before the doorbell was musically chiming again.

This time, a petite blonde woman with gobs of golden curls atop her head, wearing a uniform of a lilac jacket and trousers, a large C embroidered on the left breast had arrived—the manicurist from Cecelia's Salon.

And so Odette conceded to her very first manicure, right there at the dining room table, alternating feeding herself with her dominant left hand and non-dominant right, as her hands were soaked in warm paraffin wax, massaged with a crème that smelled of lemons, her fingertips soaked, with the cuticles pushed back then cut away.

Lastly, her nails were trimmed into a pleasant almond shape, the centers of which were painted in with a liquid polish that mimicked her natural pinkish nail color, a few shades rosier, while the moons and tips were left bare and given a pearly white gloss.

And as Mr. Jackson had requested, Odette was left with miniature samples of four different shades of face powder, four of lipstick and three of rouge.

At some point during the appointment, Mr. Jackson had inquired about Odette's hair, wondering if she could have something that replicated actress Mary Pickford's long curls.

The manicurist said that the curls were a style she saw more on younger girls, school-aged; the older set were going for bobbed locks.

At the idea of cutting Odette's hair, his mouth had become an abrupt line of aggravation on his face and he grew silent, eyes flaming.

Odette made a mental note not to touch her hair, as it seemed Mr. Jackson was attached to it.

Following her bath that morning, Odette had gotten dressed and was still quite shocked that when the deliveryman from Tremblay Apparel had arrived the previous afternoon, she'd been presented with six, pressed and starched uniforms in Dove Grey, along with six matching aprons, several pairs of opaque white stockings with garters and a pair of low-heeled, sensible black pumps.

She'd tried to insist that this was far too much clothing but Mr. Jackson had waved her off, saying that she needed a fresh dress for each working day—and needed enough to last her from week to week as that was when the laundry was shipped off to a cleaners in Chinatown, Toronto, and returned.

Odette had dressed, liking how light and cool the garment felt, and how professional she looked in the mirror.

She had actually styled her hair twice that day, once, with it worn loose , a bow atop her head, then with her better judgment as she would be working around the open flames on the stove, she left her hair parted down the middle, but smoothed it back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, fastened with a grey grosgrain ribbon tied in a large bow.

From there she'd ventured around to the kitchen where she'd firstly, set a pot of coffee to brewing—and worked her way through three full cups heaped with too much sugar and cream—before setting about her work.

Mr. Jackson, before turning in that night, had told Odette what he'd wanted for breakfast that morning : sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee.

Right as Odette had set the bulk of her ingredients out on the island, she'd run into a problem. The basket that had contained a half loaf of bread the evening before , was gone, used up for the sandwiches Gus had made.

Odette didn't know how to bake a loaf of bread; but she did know how to make buttermilk biscuits. She thanked God in Heaven that there were enough ingredients between the kitchen and adjoining pantry that she was able to make the biscuits with no difficulty,and only hoped Mr. Jackson wouldn't mind the substitution.

The biscuits took the longest to prepare and as they baked off, she set out an etched silver platter onto which she placed white china plates, heaped with scrambled eggs, and sausage patties. Four biscuits were split and lavished with butter. A silver pot of coffee and china cup along with silver pots of sugar, cream, and strawberry-rhubarb preserves were placed on the tray.

Several times, Odette tested the weight of the tray, making certain it wasn't too heavy for her to carry. She'd have jumped to her death from the balcony if she'd spilled or broken anything.

Oh how she hoped Mr. Jackson would be pleased with his meal--

BONG! BONG! BONG!

Odette staggered several steps on jellified ankles, as the clock began to chime, marking the seventh hour.

Quickly, she darted from the clock around past the French doors, showing fresh snow falling, and over to the shut doors of Mr. Jackson's suite.

Where his tray had been keeping warm on a marble-topped sideboard.

A knob was twisted, cracking one of the doors, and balancing the tray in what she hoped was a graceful manner, entered the room.

The room was dark, except for the fire roaring and crackling in the hearth, the curtains drawn against the morning light; Odette had to pick her way over to the little breakfast table by sheer memory.

Setting the tray down, she hesitated a moment, regarding the lump curled beneath the sumptuous covers on the high-set bed.

Mr. Jackson.

Easing over, the closer she got, the more plain his breathing, even and tempered came to her ears.

Blindly, she fumbled for the switch on the lamp closest to her, and with a click it lit dimly—it was a three-way bulb—light falling across Mr. Jackson's pale face, his jet hair tousled and spreading about his head on the pillow.

“Mr...Mr. Jackson...” Odette hardly tapped his shoulder, in a feeble attempt to rouse him.

“It's seven...Sir...Mr. Jackson...?”

She continued to pet at him, alternating between his shoulder and arm, worried his food would grow cold.

Damn it.

Forgetting herself, she gave him one last definitive push, and her voice came more strongly than she'd intended.

“Michael!”

Dark eyes popped open and were squinting up at her through the light.

His gaze was cutting and suddenly she felt naked before him.

“Your breakfast....Sir--”

“You look like an angel.” He murmured drowsily. “Are you an angel?”

For half a second Odette wondered if the man were drunk; he'd had a snifter of brandy as a nightcap.

“I'm...I'm...” Her voice faltered, as with a yawn, Mr. Jackson pulled himself up in bed, reaching to brighten the light.

“You do look like an angel...” He spoke at his natural volume, any trace of tiredness now gone.

“Thank you--”

“I am so glad I put you in Dove Grey instead of black...” Covers were thrown back, revealing Mr. Jackson's black and white hound's tooth pajamas trimmed in black velvet about the collar and cuffs. “It brings out your eyes wondrously. Brings a whole light to your face.”

Long bare feet were pushed into black suede slippers, his initials embroidered in gold thread.

“You do have a lovely face, Odette...”

White cheeks flushed violently and Odette was speechless as Mr. Jackson brushed past her for the table.

He...he thought she was lovely? And had likened her to an angel?

Thrice.

The overhead lights came on, and Mr. Jackson was ambling towards the table, running his hands through his mussed hair.

“Gosh...this all looks delicious, Odette...” He commented, pulling out a seat, inspecting his plate. “You made patties out of my sausage and fried it. Gus never prepares it that way! Looks crispy. Are...are those sauteed onions in my scrambled eggs?”

“Yes, Sir.” Odette was still rooted beside the bed, a hand to bosom, rapidly inflating and deflating as she struggled to control her breaths. “I hope that's okay...”

He was forking some in his mouth.

“These are splendid eggs!” He turned in the seat smiling at her. “Seasoned well, and I can tell you cooked them in butter instead of lard like Gus! Thank you!”

Odette could feel her lips curling with pleasure. He liked her cooking!

“You made biscuits?” He sounded shocked and was waving her over.

“I know you requested toast, but I didn't see any bread. I don't know how to make bread, but I can make biscuits--”

“Tell me....” A butter knife, loaded with butter, was pointed at the other chair opposite him and Odette sat upon it. “...do you know how to make Biscuits and Gravy? I tried the dish my first day in Louisiana, but it sold out before I could ever get again. I really enjoyed it.”

Odette nodded and was handed a biscuit half, heaping with more butter and preserves.

He wanted her to eat with him.

Biting his own biscuit, Mr. Jackson audibly hummed he was so happy.

“This is what I like, good, simple, hearty food.”

“Its...very nice to eat regularly again...” Odette whispered more into her biscuit, chewing.

“You'll always have food, I'll see to it. Don't you worry.” Mr. Jackson vowed, pouring himself coffee and adding cream and sugar to it.

“Thank you, Sir.”

He stared up at her wistfully,

“Odette....what were you fed at the Orphan Asylum?”

A second loaded biscuit and a round of sausage were handed to her, sandwich-style.

“A cup of chicory and a piece of dry toast. That was meant to last all day. Maybe some broth in the evening, if we were lucky...we got by on the bare minimum.”

There was that tense, angered expression again.

“That's not the minimum, that's goddamn starvation...” Mr. Jackson spoke more to himself than to her.

That was the truth though, and both knew it.

Then his face brightened and reaching across the table, he grasped one of her hands in his own, his thumb caressing the top of it.

“I like how your hands look...and feel...since you got that manicure. I'll see to it you get your hands looked after as needed...”

He was staring at her hand contemplatively.

And suddenly, he had her hand pressed to his lips. Kissing the top of it.

Odette was struck speechless, ears ringing as she stared at him, pecking each of the knuckles of her right hand.

Flustered, waves of emotions she didn't understand washing over her like a tsunami, Odette snatched her hand away and jumped to her feet awkwardly...

“Is...is there anything else you need me to do, Mr. Jackson? Would you care for seconds, or some more coffee?” She was staring at her feet, knees rattling, to avoid his face.

She couldn't stand to look at him. Couldn't bear it.

The tips of his shoes appeared in her field of view.

He was standing over her.

“No...I'm going to have my bath and get dressed. You can take my tray away and if Gus needs a hand preparing the hors d'ouevres for this afternoon, help him.” He spoke into the top of her head, causing her hair to sway.

“Yes, Sir--”

She started to move and found his hand on her wrist.

“I'd like to know something Odette...” He was still talking to the top of her head, her eyes fixed on the golden MJ on each of his shoes.

“You're nineteen...did you ever have a sweetheart in Louisiana? At the Asylum?”

Odette's head shot up, her face ghostly,

“No, Sir, Mr. Jackson....I was the oldest one there. The oldest boy was only about ten years old...everyone around me was a child.”

“That's a shame...” He pinched at her cheek, watching it redden at his touch.

Then he turned and was crossing to the bathroom.

“On second thought, please stay around the telephone in my office and take down any messages that come in, once you put the tray away. Feel free to play the Victrola.”

The door shut behind him, and water began running.

Legs finally giving way, Odette, grasped onto the back of a chair, trembling.

“What in Hell was that?” She whispered to herself, hands to mouth, staring at the bathroom door.

She didn't know how to feel, yet she felt a zealous chill running the length of her spine.

The outrageous idea that Mr. Michael Jackson had been subtly flirting with her, was lost through Odette's naivete.