Virtuous Sinners : May 2025

Chapter Three—Part Two

Sometime Later

In the hours preceding the arrival of Michael Jackson's three nephews, there had been activity going on beneath the roof of Rosewyck Manor.

It was clear that even though the visit from the three doctors was considered to be 'informal', Odette swiftly learned that her idea of informal and Mr. Jackson's varied greatly.

Shortly after Mr. Jackson's upbraiding of Elsa, which had reduced her to silent tears, a black box truck with Harper's Produce emblazoned on the side had driven up the lane and around back of the house to the kitchen.

And two young men made several trips from the back of the truck into the house, bringing crates of fresh meat, seafood, vegetables, aromatics and spices, along with several loaves of bread, so fresh from the bakery, they were still warm and steaming.

Scores of raw ingredients, that in the careful, skilled hands of Gus Clarke, became hors d'ouvres.

As Mavis and Elsa had been busily cleaning the front hall, vestibule and living room, Odette had been in the kitchen with Gus, working as a sous chef of sorts, helping him in any way that she could and quietly absorbing knowledge and techniques of the culinary master.

The ingredients which before had been mere meats and vegetables became Liver Pate on Thin Wheat Crackers, Ham Salad with Dill Relish on White Toast Points and Deviled Eggs with Slivers of Radish, displayed beautifully on platters of silver.

As a beverage, a silver bowl was filled with a punch of chilled orange and cherry juice, thinned with club soda.

In helping to carry the food and small serving plates through the house, Odette Dufrense set eyes on the formal living room of Rosewyck Manor for the very first time.

Although Odette had yet to view all of the thirty plus rooms that comprised Rosewyck Manor, she found the formal living room rather charming.

Setting across the from the dining room, one passed through the twin pocket doors into a warm, inviting space papered in a flat olive green, offset by a variety of divans, chaises and armchairs all of tufted beige brocade.

Green curtains had been tied back allowing for natural light to stream through the many French windows looking out onto the wrap around veranda and the snowy grounds.

That afternoon, in anticipation of the three doctors, a fire had been lit in the hearth, flames dancing behind a screen in the shape of a decorative peacock of brass.

Decorative vases of multicolored enamel occupied the mantle along with crystal figures of animals and a few of those nudes.

(In time, Odette would come to find these little unclothed maidens in nearly every room of the house.)

Again, photographs of the Jackson family, in heavy silver and golden frames were displayed almost lazily on small tables and other surfaces around the room, including the low, inlaid coffee table. Again, all well-dressed, whether posed or in candids, it was a world Odette dreamed to one day live in, rather than reside on the fringes of as an observer, merely serving those who could afford entree into such an exclusive, cloistered club.

What it must have been like to be rich; to have others wait on you hand and foot and be able to take a large home and fill it with things of beauty, things created only to satisfy the eye and heart of those who could afford them.

On a massive oak sideboard in the rear of the room, serving as an impromptu buffet, the refreshments had been painstakingly arranged by an anxious Gus.

The last touch to be added were a half-dozen silver cups, all inscribed with a J placed around the punch bowl.

As Gus gave the drink one last stir with a ladle, Odette couldn't help asking of the old man,

“Does....does Mr. Jackson always have a set up like this for when he has company?”

Nodding, Gus chortled, “Yes, he does,Odette. And this is just for his nephews. You should see how it is when his parents come to town! Or if he throws a party, like he did for his little sister a few years back. All three of us—me, Mavis and Elsa—would be in the kitchen for days.”

What lavish affairs a Jackson party must have been if it required days upon days of preparation, rather than a few hours. What it must be like to be a guest to such a soiree. Dress up in fine clothes and enjoy oneself, just because.

She had never been to a party; back in Toulouse Parish, there was nothing to celebrate. Nor the funds, even if there were an occasion warranting a party.

Thinking of the portrait of the elegant woman on the landing, Odette questioned,

“Where are Mr. Jackson's parents? Do they also live in Toronto?”

The grey head shook,

“No...Mr. Jackson's parents are divorced. His mother lives in Upstate New York with one of his sisters and his father...last I heard, he was somewhere in Europe. Where exactly, I don't recall--”

“Joseph is in Spain.... he has a villa in Mallorca.”

A familiar voice announced, and through the pocket doors, Mr. Jackson more glided than walked.

It struck Odette as odd that Mr. Jackson had called his father by his first name; but maybe that was how rich people referred to their parents. Perhaps Mommy or Daddy wasn't sophisticated enough for this tax bracket.

“Joseph travels most of the year...” Mr. Jackson explained to no one in particular, pausing to pet the top of Odette's head as he passed her by, “... he manages to see most of the extended family in his own time.”

Gus stood nearby, still as a statue but the turbulence in his dark eyes showed that even after two decades of cooking and preparing foodstuffs for Mr. Jackson, he still valued his employer's approval.

Odette lingered, watching him, hands tucked behind her back.

Deep down, something in her longed for his approval, too.

Across the room where Mavis and Elsa had been furiously dusting over the ebony and teak (bespoke) Victrola in one corner, both ceased movement and turned, anticipating Mr. Jackson's blessing.

All was silent as Mr. Jackson crossed the room to the sideboard, casting a critical eye at the appetizers.

He said nothing as he continued around the room, inspecting various items, running fingers along edges that were so clean the Pope himself should have been able to eat off of them.

All eyes following the svelte man in the green wool sweater.

Stepping near the record player, Mr. Jackson shut his eyes and gave a single, definitive nod.

Around the room, the older three, Gus, Mavis and Elsa exhaled—had they been so nervous to the point they were holding their breaths?

“Is there anything else we can do for you Mr. Jackson?” Mavis wondered, beaming proudly. It always did her heart good to know her hard work was appreciated.

“No, thank you Mavis, that'll be all... just... would you stay in earshot of my phone in case any calls come in for me please?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Moving quickly the others left the room, Mavis and Gus heading upstairs for Mr. Jackson's office, while Elsa, producing a pack of cigarettes from a pocket on her apron disappeared through the doors of the dining room.

Leaving Odette alone with Mr. Jackson.

A small door on the Victrola was opened and reaching in, Mr. Jackson came up with several records.

Flipping through the titles, he spoke,

“How are you getting along here so far, Odette?”

“F-fine, Sir...” She was fidgeting. “...just trying to settle in and get used to the rhythm of things.”

Attention still on the vinyls, Mr. Jackson asked directly,

“And how are you and Elsa getting on?”

Odette stared at the back of his head a long moment, taking in how the natural light danced off his black tresses.

How was one man's hair so shiny, so lustrous?

“I...haven't really had much chance to talk to Elsa, yet.” She shrugged and had the strangest desire to run her fingers through his long, silken locks.

The impulse was so violent, it startled her.

Selecting a record, he took his time to place it on the turntable and start it, before advising her, much as Gus had,

“Don't you pay too much attention to the things Elsa says, Odette. She's a good maid, a good worker, but she's quick to make decisions, often erroneous. She likes to talk, to gossip too much, usually with a bunch of half-truths and whole lies.”

His words hung in the air, as soft piano music began to fill the space.

“...I've long since known that Elsa hasn't been too fond of some of the choices I, nor my relatives have made in our personal lives, but she should know by now to keep her disparaging remarks to herself, and herself only.”

Hands in the pockets of his trousers, Mr. Jackson moved to one of the windows, staring out over the whitened landscape, adding,

“People in this town already find me strange, peculiar, as it is. I don't need to hear what's supposedly wrong with me, or my nephews or the rest of my family by people under my own roof. In my own house.”

There was something so pained, so betrayed in his voice, and Odette hurt on his behalf.

Odette, inched across the room towards him unconsciously,

“Why do people think you're strange, Sir?”

Mr. Jackson scoffed and shook his head in a miserly way.

“Any time a man, especially a Colored man, comes to town and buys the biggest house in said town, its bound to turn some heads and cause tongues to wag. And rather than speak to me, get to know me, people make up ideas. Spread lies...”

Odette was beside him, gazing up at him.

Watching the muscles of his cut jaw clenching.

He had the look of a wounded deer, eyes wide in confusion and agony when suddenly a hunter's arrow had pierced it's side. How Odette wanted to hold him, hug him, and shield him from the harms of the world.

Help him as he had helped her.

“I don't know what other people are saying, Sir...” Odette's voice was low, unobtrusive, “...but I don't think you're strange. You're the kindest person I've ever met.”

Continuing to gaze out the window, Mr. Jackson cupped her chin in his warm hand.

How could people think ill of Michael Jackson? Why should anyone? It didn't make a single lick of sense to her. Not in the slightest.

All Odette knew of him was his niceness, his kindness.

Aside from Elsa, the few people she knew spoke highly of him.

And Odette herself thought the world of Mr. Jackson.

He'd saved her from a life of drudgery, beatings and starvation in the backwoods of Louisiana.

He may not have worn a cape, but he was very much a superhero in Odette's eyes and no one could change her mind of that fact.

“Mr. Jackson?”

Mavis was at the door, with what looked to be a bolt of pale blue paisley print fabric draped over one of her meaty arms.

“Yes?” He pinched Odette's chin playfully as he released her face, turning his attention to Mavis.

“This here robe was laid across the divan in your office. Did you need it for something or do you want me to hang it up in your room?”

“I'll take it, thank you.” Mr. Jackson grabbed the fabric and with it held by the shoulders, Odette saw it was a gorgeous piece with a quilted collar and cuffs.

As Mavis plodded her way back upstairs, the robe was shaken at the young girl.

“Here, Odette. Slip this on now, so you don't have to worry about undressing for your exam once my nephews arrive.”

The hexagonal watch made another scant appearance, long enough to be glanced at then returned to the pocket of his cardigan.

“It's nearly one o'clock. They should be here any minute.”

Odette took the robe and almost laughed aloud when Mr. Jackson covered his face with his hands.

As if he hadn't seen her in her undergarments before!

But she did appreciate his modesty, even if it were misplaced.

Over by the couch, Odette turned her back to her employer and began to undress.

Behind her, Michael Jackson may have had his face covered by his hands, but he was watching her through his fingers, just the same.

Watching as she untied the apron, taking care to fold it neatly before unbuttoning her dress and slipping it off, leaving her in her white cami-bloomers, garters and stockings.

It hurt his spirit to see the waning discoloration of the old bruises, but thankfully,they were going away.

Hopefully there'd never be another bruise to ever mar of her precious, pale dermis again.

Animals had been whipped less than she had.

The girl gingerly put the robe on and tied the belt about her slim waist.

She did like the fabric. It was so soft... so smooth.

The inside, lined in matching velvet was so warm.

So luxurious against her skin.

Odette felt she'd be more compelled to rise in the early hours if it meant she could slip on extravagance like that garment.

Running her hand over one of the sleeves, she felt like a princess.

“Your robe is very nice...was it very expensive?”

Odette Dufrense was too young and inexperienced to know that asking such questions was rude but it was an oversight which Mr. Jackson overlooked.

She could learn about her faux pas later. Odette had been reared in the country and as such, didn't know the finer points of polite conversation and socializing just yet.

A sheepish grin came to his face and Mr. Jackson feigned shyness, poking his foot at the rug,

“Quite...it was imported from Rome. That silk was custom-dyed and woven for me.”

Rome!

The name of the far-off, mythical Italian city danced through Odette's ears.

What it must be like to fling a dart at the globe and make whatever you want appear at the ready from wherever it lands!

She'd never even touched silk before that moment, and now she was allowed to wear it! (Even Madame had lacked such finery; her only dressing gown had been made of a dull, black bombazine.)

Further admiring the robe, Odette thought out loud,

“I wonder if any of the shops in town carry robes? I'd like to get one, something more within my means, of course...perhaps I can go shopping on my day off?”

“Of course....” Mr. Jackson was touching his own chin mulling it over. “We can go see. I'll take you into town after Mass.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Small hands tightened the belt as Mr. Jackson stood over her, fussing with the shawl collar.

“I'll tell you what.” His eyes were dancing with color coming to his hollow cheeks. “Why don't you hang onto this robe until we buy you one on Sunday--”

“I couldn't! Oh, Mr. Jackson this robe probably cost more than I make in a year!” Odette whimpered horrified at being entrusted with something so pricey.

If anything were to happen to it, she'd have to work the rest of her natural life just to pay off the debt, surely.

“Nonsense. I've dozens of robes. I can afford to lend one out. And I know you'll take the very best care of it.”He laughed and booped the tip of her nose with a fingertip.

“I like helping you, Odette...you're a very sweet, pleasant girl...”

Mr. Jackson had been smiling, but his mouth slowly became a serious straight line as he looked over the oval, blushing face staring up eagerly at him.

“You're so pretty...” He whispered through lips that barely moved.

A cool, mist of a sweat began to run down her spine.

AAAH-OOGA! AAAH-OOGA!

Mr. Jackson exhaled sharply his lips pursing and his head falling back so that he stared at the ceiling overhead.

AAAH-OOGA! AAAH-OOGA!

“I know that horn anywhere—that's Taj.” Mr. Jackson sounded almost sad as he first sagged then straightened, turning on his heel and exiting the room.

Trembling, Odette moved to the window and peered out as a sleek sedan of cream and brown steel came roaring up the driveway.

AAAH-OOGA! AAAH-OOGA!

The car came to a halt in front of the house, the driver's side door—the car was a standard American build with the steering wheel on the left—popped open.

Dr. Taj Jackson, in a black trench and bowler disbanded, heavy doctor's case in one hand.

At the same time, the passenger door opened, a second man emerging in a tan trench, a tweed newsboy cap on his head. He carried a brown doctor's bag.

Odette watched as the doctors embraced Mr. Jackson, their joyful greetings to one another dampened by both the closed windows and the snow.

There were only two men....weren't there supposed to be three? Odette wondered as the front doors opened, allowing a wintry blast of air to blow through the lower level of the manse.

There was much noise and merriment in the front hall, snickering and laughing and Mr. Jackson instructing his nephews to put their outer wear on the bench in the hall.

Suddenly, the room was full of life as Mr. Jackson led his nephews in, both wearing pristine, three-quarter sleeved white coats that buttoned along one side and black trousers.

“...and here's our little patient...”

Mr. Jackson was beaming as a long finger wiggled, beckoning the girl, fairly swimming in ice blue silk from where she had begun to lean against the wall.

“It's good to see you again...” Dr. Taj embraced her warmly, large hand rubbing her back in a friendly manner.

“Good to see you too, Sir...” She hugged him in return.

The extra gentleman was pointed out.

“Odette, this is my brother, Taryll. Taryll, this is Odette Dufrense.”

Dr. Taryll Jackson was a very attractive man. While Dr. Taj bore a rugged sort of handsomeness , by contrast his brother possessed softer, more boyish good looks.

Like his sibling he was tall, with a bit of a stocky build, but carried the surplus weight well, lending to a brawny appearance as opposed to fleshy.

Unlike his sibling, Dr. Taryll's blackish-brown hair was of a looser curl, parted on the left—Odette recalled Elsa's saying the Jackson nephews were half some type of Spanish—that contrasted sharply with his golden bronze complexion.

While Dr. Taj's eyes were a deep, smoky brown, Dr. Taryll's eyes were hazel, but surrounded by so much green in the living room, they shone as emerald.

The lower half of his face was covered by a neat, closely cropped beard that hugged the lines jaw flatteringly.

(Most beard Odette had seen on men were long, unkempt disasters of chin turf, so Dr. Taryll's refreshing take on the look was much appreciated.)

Instinctively, as his brother had, Dr. Taryll wrapped his arms around Odette squeezing her softly.

He smelled wonderfully of lemons and pine, and his beard tickled her cheek.

Odette was mildly dizzy.

It seemed almost unnatural that so many men, healthy, vibrant, lousy with good looks, all came from the same family.

It was unfair to the rest of the world that such stock be limited to a single bloodline.

Wasn't it enough to be wealthy—it was widely known that the rich usually surrounded themselves with like kind, but to also be so attractive seemed like overkill.

“It's nice to finally meet you, Odette...” Dr. Taryll wore a shy smile as he released her,

“Taj has spoken quite highly of you.”

That was a very wonderful compliment for Odette, used to being overlooked and fading into the background most days of her life, for someone like Dr. Taj, whom she had the utmost esteem for to speak nicely of her...it was almost too much for her to comprehend.

“It's nice to meet you too, Sir...” So shy was Odette at once, that her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, as Dr. Taryll dropped to one knee, opening his bag and was picking through it.

“My brother tells me you're from Louisiana...must be a radical change of scenery for you. What is it down there? Nothing but bayous and swamps?”

“There are bayous and swamps, yes..” Odette nodded and noticing that Dr. Taryll was patting a hand on a nearby brocade ottoman, took a seat upon it. “...but I lived on what used to be a farm. With a few chickens...”

“I know...my brother told me about the Orphan Asylum.”

A grim expression crossed Dr. Taryll's as he ran the diaphragm of the device across his palm several times warming it as he climbed back to his feet.

“Breathe normally for me, please...” He stated parting the front of the robe just far enough to where he could place the piece on her flesh just above her cotton of chemise.

Odette did as told, watching his face, for what she didn't know.

She only hoped he didn't discover any problems that would hinder her working for his uncle.

She didn't want to lose her job on the very first day!

The piece was placed on her back and she was told to take a deep breath and hold it.

“That's fine, your lungs sound clear and strong—tell me, did you contract the Spanish Flu during the pandemic?”

The dark head bobbed.

“Yes, Sir...in 1919...the whole orphanage had it. Even Madame...”

He was holding her wrist, and produced a small, round pocket watch of gold, taking her pulse.

“Good, strong pulse...” He wore the stethoscope like a necklace and was in the bag again.

Coming up this time with a mercury thermometer.

“Hold this under your tongue.” He advised placing it in her mouth.”Don't bite on it.”

Odette chuckled inwardly to herself, recalling the tale Dr. Taj had told to her about his brother breaking off the tip of the thermometer in the rump of an infant.

She started to mention it, but fearing she'd embarrass Dr. Taryll, held her tongue as well as the temperature taking device.

“Here, Bro.” Dr. Taj, chewing on his fourth Deviled Egg, passed a plate exclusively comprised of the Ham on Toast to his sibling.

In the time it took Dr. Taryll to consume one, and his brother two more eggs, Odette's temperature was taken with him remarking that it was a little low, but gave no true specifics.

“How do you feel, Odette? Any aches or pains? Coughs, sniffles?”

“No...no, Sir. I'm fine...” She shook her head, as Mr. Jackson came over, plate filled with treats, and held out the pate on a cracker for Odette, who took the daintiest of bites.

Odette had eaten organ meat once before, pilfered with the other orphans one spring in the teens when the only cow that had been on the farm up and died.

After the finer cuts had been taken and preserved for Madame Lenoir, the children were left whatever scraps they could glean from the bones of the bovine.

That meat had been tough and gamy, hastily fried with lard and portioned out between all the hungry souls on the back steps.

What had been presented to Odette was effectively the gourmet iteration of that simple, hearty fare.

Pureed without a lump in sight and spiced generously with black pepper, garlic and smoked paprika Odette found it far more enjoyable and palatable.

She had heard of people actually having a taste for and liking calf's liver, and if it were as delicious as what was on that cracker, it wasn't too far beyond her mind that she could acquire a taste for it too.

Mr. Jackson continued to hover, hand feeding her as Dr. Taryll, seemingly taking over all of the exam duties, as his brother lingered at the sideboard, now lazily sipping a cup of punch.

Inquiring about her background, what she knew of parents and grandparents medical history. Of course, asking “how” White she was.

A blood pressure cuff was placed on her bicep over the sleeve of the robe.

“You're doing that wrong.” Dr. Taj pointed out matter-of-factly, popping yet another egg in his mouth. Any more, and he'd likely sprout feathers and begin pecking about the floor.

Coming over, he took the cuff from his brother,

“The cuff should be flush against the skin for a more accurate reading...”

Without being asked or told, the belt on the robe was undone with it being slipped off leaving Odette in her undergarments, the robe tossed off onto an armchair.

“If you get a chill we can move nearer the fire.” Mr. Jackson suggested and allowed Odette to bite at the porky ham salad. It was delicious with a particular kick from a smattering of cayenne.

“Oh...shit...”

The statement was grunted rather than spoken, as for the first time, Dr. Taryll caught sight of the bruises all over Odette's body and though he'd been forewarned by both his brother and uncle, seeing them up close, in real life was still startling to him.

Odette seemed so small, so defenseless. How could anyone have harmed her in such a way?

Why? What circumstances could have ever led anyone to whip an innocent young girl like her?

It made no sense to the three who traded stern, pitiable glances with one another.

Madame Florianne Lenoir was lucky she was over fifteen hundred miles away...

“Begging your pardon...” Odette could sense the shift in the mood of the room at her mottled flesh on display and sought to change the topic, if but for a moment,

“...I thought there were three of you gentlemen, not two.”

“Where is TJ?” Mr. Jackson asked the question as though he already knew the answer and was seating himself, Indian-style on the floor beside the ottoman.

“He's right where you think he is...” Dr. Taj was grim as he squeezed a rubber bulb, inflating the cuff around Odette's slender bicep tightly.

“Chinatown, again.” Dr. Taryll stated the obvious, seating himself on the arm of the chair behind the girl.

“And what has his interest over there to the point he's late being here?” Mr. Jackson rose and returned, tilting a glass of cold punch to Odette's lips, Dr. Taj glanced at a pocket watch measuring her pressure.

“121/79, almost perfect...”He said then stared over the rims of his glasses at his relative,

“That woman.”

This was the second time Odette had heard reference of 'that woman' from Dr. Taj, and from what little Odette had gathered, this woman was not Dr. TJ's wife.

If there were any embarrassment or worry about breaching such a sordid topic in front of Odette, it wasn't shown or hinted at.

She merely sipped the overly sweet juice and tried not to let her facial expressions show her surprise that these men were openly discussing the matter of their relative's having an affair.

“The same one?” Mr. Jackson mused, lighting a cigarette in his mouth, picking a turtle shaped ashtray of carved malachite off the coffee table.

“It's been the same one for nearly a year, Uncle Michael!” Dr. Taryll was exasperated and all but flung himself back onto the divan. “He's always over there. At her restaurant eating his weight in Chop Suey, getting those so-called 'massages'. Massages my ass! I wouldn't be surprised if he was laid up somewhere smoking opium!”

Dr. Taryll said this as he held his own cigarette case, mother of pearl crossed by bands of blue crystals, popping a cancer stick into his mouth and taking the lit match offered him by Dr. Taj.

“I only smoke Lavender Crown cigarettes and have since I was fourteen, you bow-legged scoundrel!”

A new voice interjected gruffly and all eyes, brown, hazel, smoky and grey darted to the open pocket doors, where a man stood, peeling off wine-colored leather gloves.

And for the first time, after hearing unsavory anecdotes about him, Odette set eyes on Dr. TJ Jackson.

He was taller than the rest by a few inches, with an athletic build, over which he had draped an oxblood red trench, hanging open revealing a white lab coat like his siblings and grey trousers.

Dr. TJ was quite handsome, as his brothers, but again, in a different way.

His handsomeness was that of a matinee idol, high of cheekbones, his complexion a darker sienna, offset by incredibly broad, yet immaculately arched eyebrows over drowsy golden-brown eyes.

Beneath a streamlined nose and circling plump lips with a pronounced cupid's bow, was the blur of goatee that lent a softness to an otherwise hard, chiseled face.

His hair a wild mass of blackish curls, that had they been trained or tamed in any way would have brushed his shoulders, but instead were left to their own devices appearing windblown.

All of which gave a cool, nonchalant, devil-may-care appearance to this man.

Truly, he seemed unbothered.

His brothers and his uncle were good looking, but sophisticated, measured and painstakingly coiffed examples of masculinity.

TJ Jackson was the other side of the same coin: his look was one of ease, laid-backness, none of the dandy-like fussiness of the other three.

“And just what is your excuse for showing up...ahem...fashionably late this time?”

Dr. Taj had posed this question but was occupied on the opposite end of the divan from his brother, in his medical bag, removing several syringes pre-filled with liquids.

The gloves and trench were cast on the brocade chair instead of being set out in the hall.

“If you must know--”

“I must!”

“--right as I was leaving my office, Mr. Brewer came running, half his face swollen like he'd lost a a match with Jack Dempsey—I had to pull his tooth right then and there! No sense in leaving the man to suffer.”

Odette continued to drink her punch without a word, but saw, quite plainly, the unmistakable crimson smudge of lipstick on his left cheek.

Had this Mr. Brewer been so delighted to have a bum tooth yanked, that he had kissed Dr. TJ?

And why would a man be wearing lipstick of any kind?

It was a quick, crafty lie, spoken with such sincerity, it was almost believable.

Almost.

“Where's your bag?” Dr. Taj questioned, as his sibling sauntered across the room to the table and ladled out a serving of punch for himself.

“In my coupe. I saw Elsa hanging around outside like a gargoyle and told her to fetch it for me.”

The cup was brought up to his plump lips, but a drink was never taken.

TJ Jackson had entered the room with an invisible chip on his shoulder and had been glaring openly at his brothers and uncle as if daring any of the three men to be so bold as to come knock it off.

It was clear by the lusty, audacious glaze to his eyes, that he knew his indiscretions were an open secret and was annoyed it seemed the direct topic of choice any time his name came up in conversation.

Never mind all of the other, good, redeemable things he'd accomplished in his almost quarter of a century on Earth, bouncing between Canada, the States , and for a brief stint, Peru.

All that mattered was that he was stepping out on his foreign wife...with yet another foreigner.

TJ Jackson, like his relatives, was a complex man and far more surged within him than just man who maintained a mistress off in Chinatown.

It had never occurred to anyone to ask TJ Jackson why he did the things he did, and by the same thought process, he never questioned his siblings on their life's decisions, lest they began beating each other about the face and body with curled fists—like they had during Thanksgiving the previous year and it had taken nearly a dozen screaming, shouting and cursing family members to break up the brawl.

Dr. TJ had turned with the intent of asking his uncle a question. But whatever frivolous thought had been on his mind left when he noticed Odette standing in her stockings and all-in-one.

While the first thing the other three had noticed in their professionalism, had been the bruises in varied states of healing all over the body scantily covered by white cotton and wool, Dr. TJ Jackson had noticed the shape of the body itself.

She was of average height, slim, but she had a very nice shape.

What appeared to be a perfect hourglass figure, as evidenced by a fuller bust and womanly hips.

He saw the bruises, yes, but forgot them in the same instant when he noticed she was looking at him curiously.

How very attractive she was.

Her fine features, the way her black lashes set off her steely eyes.

And her long jet hair was starting to come loose from its ponytail and wisps were framing her face.

Why, she belonged in a painting somewhere.

Setting the cup down, untouched, Dr. TJ actually stepped over his uncle to get Odette.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself...” He smiled in a way that made Odette feel he could see through her clothing, down to her naked flesh.

“I'm Tito Joe Jackson, DDS, but everyone calls me TJ. You can too.”

The omission of his title of Doctor didn't go unnoticed, and it was recognized he was becoming too familiar with Odette far too quickly for any of the other gentlemen's liking.

On the floor Mr. Michael Jackson was doing his best imitation of a beet, so darkly red he became in seconds.

Dr. TJ stepped closer to her—his uncle leapt to his feet, simultaneously as his brothers launched themselves from the couch, all staring cautiously—and Odette was caught in a cloud of powdery, earthy cologne.

“Seeing as you are the only member of the fairer sex present...” His eyes swept her like a searchlight “...art thous perchance, Odette?”

“Y-yes, Sir...” She stammered and looked past him to Mr. Jackson for assistance.

Assistance for what, she wasn't sure, but deep within her warning bells were alarming.

Something about TJ Jackson bothered her, something distasteful.

Mr. Jackson wasn't looking at her, but staring so harshly at the back of the curly head, that if looks could indeed kill, Dr. TJ would have been consumed by maggots in a decomposing heap upon the floor.

“I was told you were hired on from...Louisiana...” He paused, as Elsa finally came into the room, toting a bag of black eel skin.

What had taken her so long to pull the bag from the passenger seat of the coupe, walk up a handful of steps and pass through the front hall was a mystery.

There was the look of contempt on her sharp yellow face as she observed the scene.

And what a scene it was.

Dr. TJ unabashedly enjoying the view of the new maid in nothing but her skivvies and the flagrant rage emanating from the other three men. Especially Mr. Jackson, whom was boring holes all through him with widened eyes.

Dr. TJ took the bag and merely waved Elsa off like an aggravating fly, and finished his thought.

“...you're a maid, correct?”

“Yes--”

Briefly, Dr. TJ peeked over his shoulder at his uncle, whom had began tremble he was trying so very hard to maintain his composure in the face of his wanton nephew. His nostrils were flaring.

A smirk came to TJ's face as he set the bag down on the ottoman, opened it and produced a small mouth mirror.

Starting to clean it with the hem of his jacket, he commented,

“How strange, that you ended up here, Odette. So very far from Louisiana. With my uncle, whom had only gone to New Orleans with my brother to procure a camera...”

Again he looked back, to where Dr. Taj had begun to bristle and expand with anger, Dr. Taryll in his ear, whispering rapidly, in an effort to calm him.

“How very odd, that my uncle strayed so far from the French Quarter, into a town I never knew existed up until a few days ago, And he managed to find you--”

He paused to admire the already clean mirror but went back to buffing it.

“When Nellie hasn't been dead and buried a month yet. When there had been no talk of a replacement, and yet, here you are.”

His hand, warm and soft, grasped her chin.

“Open, please.”

The little peachy mouth opened and Dr. TJ took his sweet time, examining each and every tooth in her mouth.

The tension in the air was so thick it was practically visible, hanging overhead, choking all of them.

“You're missing your third molar on the bottom left.” He pointed out, removing the mirror and gently shutting her mouth.

“Yes, it went bad when I was younger and eventually fell out one day, Sir.”

This fact embarrassed her a bit; she was unable to take care of her teeth as she had wanted while at the Asylum, but now in a new land, she vowed to take care of her teeth. She didn't want to end up with dentures by the age of twenty.

His gaze upon her was quite conspicuous and deferring, Odette lowered her head, staring at his patent lace up shoes.

“How old are you, Odette?”

“Nineteen...”

“That's another thing I can't quite figure.” Dr. TJ was rubbing at his fuzzy chin. “You're decades younger than any of the rest of the staff here. Everyone is much older. But here you are, not even twenty, and working so closely with my Uncle as his gentleman's maid--”

“That's enough, TJ.”

His nephew was taking the scenic route, but it was quite clear to each of the men in the room what exactly he was driving at; saying without uttering it.

Mr. Jackson stepped behind Odette, holding the silk robe open for her to slip into it.

“My, my, my...” Dr. TJ was undaunted as Odette was permitted to slip the garment on and began to cinch it shut. “Aren't you spoiling your little maid, Uncle Michael, letting her wear your eight hundred dollar dressing gown?”

Odette froze.

Eight hundred dollars? The robe cost that much?

Nearly twice what her yearly wages were?

Mr. Jackson was mashing on Odette's shoulders so hard she began to wince and while Dr. Taryll moved to intervene, Dr. Taj yanked him back by his collar.

“It's my business what I do with my clothing, and my staff. It's no concern of yours, TJ. You didn't commission the robe, and you didn't hire Odette—I did.”

“I wish I had hired Odette...” Dr. TJ spoke out of turn and went to pinch at her cheek which caused two reactions at the same time.

Odette wary of him as she had been that leering White man at the train station leaning back out of his grasp, leaving him fondling air.

Over her head, Mr. Jackson sneered,

“Then, who would look after Mei-Ling for you?”

TJ Jackson's eyes lost their golden cast, going muddy brown as his brows shot up and his mouth dipped downwards at the at the corners.

His uncle had clearly stung him.

A hand gripped Odette's wrist, and Dr. Taryll was pulling her from between uncle and nephew.

Tensions...nerves were high, and worried, Odette wanted to ask if someone should run and get Gus or Chester, another man outside of what appeared to be gearing up to be a fracas.

If she ran now, could she get one of them?

Could they stop this? Break up a familial brawl before it started?

With Odette out the way, Dr. TJ took a step closer to Mr. Jackson, causing both of his brothers to call out his name—Dr. Taj in an authoritative tone, Dr. Taryll in a weary tone—as though a showdown like this were commonplace.

Odette hoped it wasn't.

Giving his uncle a withering glare, Dr. TJ sucked on his teeth, hissing,

“At least I'm up front with my shit and not making illusions and playing pretend, Uncle Michael. I can see it, my brothers can see it...”

“Is that what you call it?” Mr. Jackson replied testily moving from one foot to the next.

They were squaring up like a pair of pugilists in the ring.

Odette couldn't fathom them laying hands on one another—they were family! Family wasn't supposed to fight! Not physically! It...it just wasn't right.

“Running out on Lorena and Jessilynn? Do you know how people talk about my niece-in-law and great-niece because of you?”

“My wife knows what I do, and my daughter is well provided for. Talk is talk, it's just words. It bothers me more that the most talking is being done by three people in this room.”

TJ Jackson sniffed loudly and turned, picking up his outerwear and bag. His shoulders were visibly shaking.

“I'll see myself out.”

With that, he started for the door, and stopped,

“Jessilynn will still be able to come for Sunday dinner?” He questioned, his tone wheedling.

“Your daughter is always welcome here.” His uncle replied in a taut way that showed that TJ Jackson was wearing out a welcome long worn to shreds.

Dr. TJ nodded and was gone, slamming doors behind him.

Outside, an engine roared to life and grew fainter as the youngest of the Jackson Brothers departed.

Still shaking, Michael Jackson went to the hall and shouted,

“Gus! Bring me that bottle of Napoleon Brandy! Now! PLEASE!”

As feet scampered overhead, Odette sank down into the divan while Drs. Taj and Taryll ashen, moved closer to the fireplace, whispering inexorably back and forth.

Pulling the robe closer around herself, she felt dizzy and breathless.

Until then, Odette's impression had been of a perfect, immaculate veneer, the idea that Michael Jackson and his family were absolutely perfect.

Attractive, educated, affluent.

It had never entered her mind that there were flaws.

Cracks in said veneer.

And in this brief introduction, if one could call it that, Odette Dufrense had come face to face with the black sheep of an otherwise upstanding, lily-white family.

She would see Dr. TJ Jackson again...

A man like him couldn't stay out of trouble for too long, or his uncle's hair.

Three Days Later

Grrrnn... Grrrnn... Grrrnn...

No matter how she tried, how she flipped, flopped and contorted herself beneath the quilts of the bed, Odette Dufrense could not ignore it.

Grrrnn... Grrrnn... Grrrnn...

She was hungry, as evidenced by her belly serenading her with a symphony of disenfranchised growls.

Grrrnn... Grrrnn... Grrrnn...

Rolling onto her back and clutching after the left side of her abdomen in useless vain, Odette's eyes popped open and she stared through the dimness of her bedroom at the exposed beams crisscrossing overhead.

It didn't make a single bit of sense to her. She'd eaten plenty and heartily the evening before.

She'd helped Gus prepare a Baked Ham with a Honey Glaze, Potatoes Au Gratin and Creamed Spinach with fresh Cloverleaf Rolls.

And because Mr. Jackson had been in a dessert-having mood, a Pineapple Carrot cake oozing with rich Buttercreme frosting.

The food had been so good, so delicious, Odette had happily and greedily eaten two full plates.

She thought that, by now, as she was eating three nourishing meals a day, that her body had become accustomed to being well-fed.

But alas, four days of good food was nowhere near enough to undo the harm that subsisting on less than five hundred calories a day—as Dr. Taj Jackson had calculated—when a growing girl needed closer to two thousand just to maintain her weight.

(During that ill-fated exam earlier in the week, Odette had weighed in at a measly one hundred and two pounds, and had promptly been ordered to gain ten pounds as that was deemed far too slim for her height and age. )

Grrrnn... Grrrnn... Grrrnn...

Turning over, Odette squinted at the faintly glowing numbers of the clock on the bedside table.

Vaguely, she recalled Mr. Jackson had mentioned that the clock glowed because of a new paint called Undark, that was being used in watch faces, clocks and other devices to allow for ease of reading when lights were low.

(Some years later, all of the watches and clocks featuring this Undark would be pitched off the coast and into the lake when it came out that the women whom had painted the devices and unwittingly ingested the radioactive material that allowed for that unnatural green glow, suffered the devastating effects of radiation poisoning, bone cancer and having their jaws fall clean off their faces!)

The time shown as a few minutes past two, but unwilling to wait another three and a half hours until the alarm went off, Odette flung the covers back, slipped on the pair of thick, wool socks that sufficed in lieu of slippers, and eased from her room.

At night, when all of the Rosewyck estate slumbered, merrily drooling onto their pillows, all was dark, still and silent.

Night in that huge house, all the lights extinguished, frightened the mildly superstitious Odette.

As she hailed from the mysterious land of voodoo and hoodoo, Odette did believe in the supernatural. Not so much in hexes and goofer dust or how saying certain ancient words in a certain order could cause your enemies to run on their ears.

No, she wasn't for witchcraft and spells, but Odette did solemnly believe in ghosts, in spirits, and that the veil between the living and not was razor thin.

How she hated walking those black halls, one hand against the wall, so that she could feel her way out and around to the kitchen.

Though she knew Nellie Reid hadn't died on the property, but on the ferry en route to a hospital on the mainland, Odette was certain she could sense her presence.

Nellie had lived and worked for Mr. Jackson longer than Odette Dufrense had walked the Earth.

These halls were her halls; she'd lived and worked, and laughed and cried on this land.

It had once been her home, as it was now Odette's.

Odette always believed that when a person spent a significant amount of time in any place, a home, a job—even after that person moved on to another realm, a part of them remained.

Odette was sure she'd never see the Orphan Asylum again in her life, even if she lived to be a hundred years old, but after fifteen years there, her mark had been left.

In the land, in Madame's house, in that ramshackle rickety barn out back.

The things that made a person who and what they were, didn't leave so easily.

Her mind had been on Nellie and the idea that an elderly woman, likely draped in white or grey as most specters of lore, creeping up on her, making every loose black strand of hair on her head stand at attention.

Crossing herself as her steps quickened, Odette whispered a novena, and she bolted through the swinging door and found herself in the front hall.

After a bit of fumbling and cursing, she got through the pocket doors of the dining room and eventually entered the kitchen.

Electric lights went on, to her relief, and Odette made a beeline for the ice-box.

About a third of the ham had been leftover from dinner and rested on a platter on the bottom shelf.

She didn't need much, just enough to calm her stomach down until morning, where more of that ham would be fried with eggs.

Slices of the tender pork found its way between two pieces of white bread from a loaf in the nook, along with a few rounds of white onion and several dabs of spicy English mustard.

Pleased with a sandwich fit for a king, or so Odette thought, she tidied up and began to skip away, nibbling at her little masterpiece of gastronomic goodness.

As she passed back into the grand hall, she came to a quick stop.

The doors to the living room had been left open, because Dr. Taj had dropped in after dinner to show off a new checkerboard game he'd procured from Southern Rhodesia.

(The black and white playing pieces, along with the board squares, were made of ebony wood and genuine elephant tusk ivory.)

Uncle and nephew had spent over three hours playing—with Mr. Jackson beating Dr. Taj silly, as he proved the victor an astounding nine times in a row! And Dr. Taj had gone back home, hunched with his tail between his legs at such a brutal, if friendly, defeat.

There was a strange shaft of light, that, from out in the hall, Odette couldn't figure the source of, and curiosity peaked, she moved slowly towards it.

She passed into the living room and much to her surprise, on the far wall, opposite the windows, a set of pocket doors she had never noticed before, were ajar.

Mr. Jackson was in that living room at some point every single day.

Reading, listening to the Victrola, or writing letters to his family members scattered across the globe.

He was always in there, and consequently, Odette was generally somewhere in the vicinity, ready at his beck and call.

Mr. Jackson had never gone in, nor mentioned another room beyond that one.

Of course, Odette knew there were many rooms and spaces which she had yet to see, as Rosewyck was massive; though she never expected one to be hidden so close.

Carefully, without a sound, she parted the doors just enough to poke her head in and if she hadn't still been chewing on pork and onions, she'd have gasped aloud.

A library.

Odette had to blink several times to ensure that her eyes weren't deceiving her.

The vision before her didn't change; there really was a full, sprawling library beyond that set of doors.

A lovely, warm, and rosy-colored space, that stretched on for two stories, with a curling staircase of gleaming wood connecting a walkway what appeared to wrap around the entire upper perimeter of the space.

It smelled wonderfully musty, and earthy, of what had to be millions of pages comprised in that single room.

Odette had been impressed with the “rolling library” of Mr. Jackson's private train car; that far paled in comparison to his home version.

Books, so, so many books, with leather-bound covers, and colorful dust jackets lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

Easily thousands of tomes on display.

Had Mr. Jackson read them all? When had he found the time?

How did he managed to acquire so many?

The room was clearly made for the ultimate in comfort, designed for one to wile away the hours lost in fantasy lands of fiction.

There were divans and chaises in deep, striped burgundy of the opulent Baroque style, overflowing with stuffed pillows. There were several tables around which armchairs had been placed, one featuring a Mah-Jong set, with pieces scattered, as though a session had been interrupted. Books on different topics were strewn about, opened, some marked with pieces of silk to be picked back up at convenience.

It was a beautiful, rich space and Odette was intrigued.

It was a long moment before Odette actually spotted Mr. Jackson in the room.

Off to one side, a fire was crackling in a red marble hearth, with a chaise nearby.

Reclined on the chaise, in tasteful goldenrod pajamas and a matching dressing gown, was Michael Jackson.

He was silent, reading Agatha Christie's The Murder on the Links.

Odette observed him, heart fluttering in her bosom. How handsome he looked, how debonair.

The way the shades of red, orange and yellow danced across his pale skin as the flames continued to burn.

A page flipped, and her employer continued to read, eyes flittering across the page, absorbed in a mystery penned by one of the greatest mystery writers of all time.

Mr. Jackson, in dramatic repose, a lit cigarette in one hand, engrossed in the exploits of famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, bore the look of a classical painting.

The colors, his expression of serene interest, the faint scent of the vanilla smoke hanging in the air.

He was an artwork come to life.

In another realm he could have been a Roman or Greek God, surrounded by maidens fawning at his feet, and feeding him peeled grapes.

Unconsciously, Odette leaned further into the room, and ever so slightly, one of the doors squeaked on its hinges.

The noise was so soft, Odette didn't notice it at all.

But Mr. Jackson did.

His head came up automatically, but any startling he felt faded at the sight of the inquisitive young face across the room gazing at him.

A small smile came to his lips and he questioned,

“It's way past your bedtime, isn't it?”

“I...I...” She bumbled a bit, suddenly bashful, “...I was hungry, Sir...”

Why did he always seem to have this affect on her?

The half-eaten sandwich was indicated by her rattling it at him, and she hoped she wouldn't be in trouble for eating without first asking permission.

A long finger beckoned and obeying, Odette entered, taking tentative steps until she stood alongside the chaise.

Closer to Mr. Jackson, she saw that all of his lustrous black hair had been swept back, and his features, already sharp, shone all the more prominent with nothing to obscure his face.

Silence, other than the crackling in the fireplace filled the room and uncomfortable, Odette whispered,

“I hope you aren't angry--”

“For what?” Mr. Jackson piped up, swinging his legs so that he sat upright on the lounge and patted the space next to him.

“That's what the food is for—to eat. And you heard Taj the other day, he wants you to put some weight on. You need to. You are too thin, Odette.”

“I know...” She dropped down onto the end of the lounge and took another bite, chewing with anguish. Mr. Jackson spoke the truth, as his nephew had, and begrudgingly, she agreed with them both.

The book was shut and placed on a small table and the cigarette mashed out in a cloisonne ashtray.

“It's a miracle you have no ill affects from the Asylum, with the way you were practically starved for over a decade. That the only issue with you is you're mildly underweight is a blessing.”

He was pinching after her cheek.

“You eat as much as you like, when you need. You'll never go hungry again, I'll see to that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.” Odette nodded, grateful. She would forever be grateful to his man,

“Is...is there anything you like for me to get you? A drink of water? A soda?”

Though it was her job to serve him, Odette felt it a joy and privilege to pay him back in some way. It was never a burden to her, as being a domestic servant was to thousands of others. Serving Michael Jackson was her life's duty and purpose now.

He shook his head.

“No, I don't need anything, Odette...just...”

Mr. Jackson was twirling a lock of her hair around his finger, and she made no moves to stop him.

“I have a special thought...there's a comedy I've been wanting to see... Au Secours with Max Linder. It's such a bore to go see a film alone, would you like to accompany me to the cinema?”

If only Odette could have seen her own face in that moment.

The way it lit up, eyes sparkling, redness rushing to her cheeks.

It was an incredible notion.

Odette had figured, at some point in the near future, she'd venture out to the movie house with Gus, Mavis and that terrible Elsa, but the thought of going to a film with Mr. Jackson had never crossed her mind.

And here he was requesting she join him!

“Why...I'd love to go, Sir!” She tittered and was met with Mr. Jackson beaming back at her.

“Splendid! We'll go this afternoon to the matinee!”

Though she hadn't the foggiest idea as to whom Max Linder was, that was a minor detail. Odette had plenty of time to scour her fan magazines for every tidbit about this comedian and hopefully she'd be able to dazzle Mr. Jackson with her newfound knowledge.

Eating what was left of her snack, Odette was already mentally picking out her dress and how to style her hair for this first, true outing to the movie house in Juniper Peak.

She did so want to look nice.

She was in a new place, full of new people and desperately wanted to make a good first impression. A person could only make one first impression.

“You should go on off to bed, you'll have to be getting up soon.”

Mr. Jackson advised, lighting up another cigarette.

It pleased him greatly to see her so happy.

Nodding, Odette stood and smoothed the front of her nightgown.

She'd been so excited at the prospect of seeing a film for the first time in years that she'd almost forgotten she still had a job she was expect to carry out in only a few hours' time.

“Yes...Good night, Mr. Jackson.”

“Good night, My Dear Odette...”

Mr. Jackson held his arms out and more than happy to oblige, so giddy was she that Odette almost fell against him.

Wrapping her arms around him, inhaling his cologne.

Thrilling in the feel of him rubbing along her back and almost mashing her against his body.

As he had done on the train, he pecked at her forehead.

“Have a good rest.”

“I will, Sir.”

She started for the door, but stopped, and turned on her heel.

Where Mr. Jackson was picking up his book.

“Aren't you going to go to bed too? It's nearly three a.m,”

A brow raised in feigned surprise, with him shaking his head in the negative, explaining.

“I shall in a bit, I want to finish this chapter first. I've only about five pages left. I want to see if this person actually committed the murder or if they're another red herring.”

“Red herring, Sir?”

“Yes...it's a plot device used in mysteries that's deliberately deceptive and throws the readers off the trail of the actual culprit. Makes a story so much more interesting and shocking when you find out who actually “done” it.”

Oh...so it wasn't a seafood dish...

Dark eyes ran along the figure in the white gown.

“I think you'd like Agatha Christie's books, Odette. She's a fabulous English authoress. I only started reading her books last year, because Eileen—that's Taryll's wife—was raving about her stories. His daughter, too. I have all of her books. Feel free to borrow one, not now though, you need your beauty sleep.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Once outside of the library, Odette Dufrense didn't walk back to her room.

She floated.

Odette couldn't believe her luck.

She was going to the movies! In the middle of the week!

And better still, she was going with Mr. Michael Jackson!

Later that Same Day

Odette Dufrense was on her sixth cup of coffee, not because she actually needed the caffeine boost that helped move tens of millions through the tedious motions of daily life...no her reasoning was much simpler.

She liked it.

After years of bitter chicory, unsweetened and uncut in any way to make it more palatable, the coffee of Rosewyck Manor was more treat than necessity.

There was always a pot on the stove in the kitchen, where intermittently, everyone on staff, Gus, Mavis, Chester, Elsa, and Odette would trickle in for a cup throughout the day.

White sugar and fresh cream were always on hand to add to one's liking.

In his office, Mr. Jackson had his own coffeepot to use at his discretion.

If supplies ever became low, all it took was a short phone call and a truck from the local grocer would appear to replenish it.

Coffee was something so many people took for granted as part of their routine, but for Odette, it was a true luxury.

And as she stood, savoring that cup, she, herself, was surrounded by luxury.

Mr. Jackson had slept in rather late that morning, well past eleven, and had skipped breakfast entirely, as he'd been so consumed with his Christie novel that he refused to put it down until well after the sun had risen over the snowy landscape.

And as a result, Odette, whom usually tidied his bedchamber immediately after he'd dressed and gone out to tinker about his home, had had to wait until after lunch time to actually start her work.

Now, in the early afternoon, she stood, coffee in one hand, large feather duster in the other, surveying the room to see what it was that needed to be done.

The massive bed was rumpled, along with pages of newspapers, one from Toronto, one from New York in the States, and one in French—a few days behind as it had been sent from France by one of Mr. Jackson's sisters, who was in Paris.

His vanity required the most attention right away Odette decided, taking the last swallow of that warm brown elixir, and setting the cup on the breakfast table, started over to it.

It was always left in a state of disarray.

For others, it may have been a bore of a chore to straighten these items each day, but for Odette...it was a wonder.

She liked handling the fine glass and porcelain bottles and jars, containing lotions, hair pomades, and creams which were smoothed on after his daily bath.

Jars and bottles with names in French, German, Italian and Oriental texts, sent from locales on the other side of the world.

Most of the creams, thick and rich in consistency, were very mild or unscented, so as not to compete with Mr. Jackson's cologne.

Surprisingly, though Mr. Jackson seemed to favor a particular scent, the musky, sandalwood led Minuit—Midnight in French—twenty other bottles of varying size and shape were represented, and nosy, Odette had smelled them all. Some were powdery, others overwhelmingly spicy, yet others were so sweet and floral, they seemed more for a female than a male.

Perhaps Minuit was his typical daily scent, while the others were reserved for occasions.

All Odette knew, as she picked up the bottle of black frosted glass in a globe shape, removing the stopper to enjoy a deep whiff, was that she loved the cologne.

It was the aroma she most directly linked with Mr. Jackson, as it permeated the entire mansion.

It wafted through the air in the halls, clung to the fabric of the bedding, seemed ingrained in the very wood, brick and mortar of Rosewyck itself.

Often when Mr. Jackson embraced Odette, remnants of the fragrance stayed on her uniform and even her skin.

Other men may have purchased and worn Minuit, but only Michael Jackson owned it.

Replacing the stopper and bottle on the vanity top, Odette's hands moved from memory, whilst her mind was elsewhere.

In only the last few days, Odette had found her mind turning more and more to her boss.

To Michael Jackson.

Though she didn't fully realize it at the time, as she had never before felt such a way about any one person, Odette was attracted to Mr. Jackson.

She only knew that during the day, she wasn't happy unless she could see his face.

Showing smiles of appreciation for her having fetched something for him, or serving his meals, refreshing his drinks.

She liked to be around him, sit in his presence.

There was some undeniable magnetism Michael Jackson possessed, that if he were nearby and she weren't terribly busy, she was drawn to him. It was almost a compulsion, and she found herself wandering to wherever he was.

And....and he didn't shoo her away. She was invited wherever he sat, spoken to in kind, gentle tones.

The past few nights, under her covers and in the dark alone in her bedroom, Odette wished.

God had been so very gracious in getting her out of that hellscape in Louisiana, but vainly, wistfully, sadly, Odette wished.

Wished she were rich, more intelligent, more in league with what she perceived a woman worthy of being courted by a man such as he deserved.

Someone witty, beautiful, as he was witty and handsome.

What Odette couldn't understand was how a gentleman like Mr. Jackson was single with no wife or children. He certainly was a catch to her mind.

Wealthy, sophisticated, debonair with a huge home.

It seemed he had so much wisdom and love to give...to share.

And he had nobody.

Aside from his nephews, no one dropped by to see him.

Didn't he have friends?

His home cried out for a mistress and children and friends.

His nephews, apples that had not fallen far from the proverbial tree, were testaments of this. All married, all with children—even if TJ did have that woman in Chinatown.

And Odette had heard them mention friends of their own. People they went ice fishing and played cards and planned hunts in the Canadian wilderness with.

Crossing to the bed and starting to make it, Odette speculated to herself that she would make a decent wife.

Isn't that what most girls sought once they reached a certain age?

Finding the right boy, marrying and becoming a wife and mother and running a household.

Odette assumed in the next few years that would be her destiny. To meet some boy, perhaps in church once she knew her way around Juniper Peak.

And they'd marry and live on the island and raise a family.

The corners of her peachy mouth turned down in despair and desperation.

Odette didn't want “some boy”.

She wanted Michael Jackson.

It was quite maddening, to know how woefully outclassed she was.

Gentlemen didn't court, or marry, their maids.

But Odette knew she'd have to keep these thoughts and feelings to herself, never to reveal them, no matter what...

Or she'd likely lose her place of employment and be on her own in a country she knew little, if anything about.

It just wasn't done, that much she knew.

Also, Odette had no experience with men of any kind, so sheltered and cloistered she'd been in Louisiana.

She lacked the knowledge and nuances of how to speak to a man in that special way, to alert him of her interest and see if it were reciprocated.

With the bed made sufficiently, Odette picked up her duster, turning her attention to the bedside table.

Carefully going over the lamp, a small framed tintype of Katherine Jackson, a few crystal knickknacks and a blue version of the red enameled cigarette box on Mr. Jackson's office desk.

Somehow, in replacing the tintype, Odette managed to overturn the box.

“Damn it!” She declared to herself under her breath, as she figured she'd be spending half the afternoon retrieving spilled cigarettes.

Instead, only three items laid on the hooked rug at her feet. The top of the box, the box itself, and the contents—what appeared to be a single photograph.

Crouching Odette picked it up and squinted at it.

Seated upon a hobby-horse was a little Colored boy, a cute thing with huge eyes that nearly consumed his little dark-complected face and neatly cropped, coarse curls, staring out, almost fearfully at whomever viewed the portrait. He was clearly a relative of the Jackson family, dressed smashingly in a velvet Little Lord Fauntleroy suit that had been all the rage near the end of the last century, his lace collar so large, it draped his small shoulders like a cape.

Wondering which of Mr. Jackson's nephews it was she flipped the photo over to see if it were inscribed, and indeed it was.

But what was written in fading script, caused Odette's mouth to fall open in shock.

Michael Jackson, Aged Seven Years, 1886

Odette sank to the floor.

This....this little boy...was Mr. Jackson....as a child?

It wasn't possible...was it? That this little dark-skinned boy was one and same as her fair-skinned employer?

Odette again stared at the little boy.

Those eyes, those huge, luminous eyes.

Those were Mr. Jackson's eyes!

There was absolutely no mistaking it.

The face shape was also similar, though in the throes of youth, his face was rounder, features softer, and his nose a bit wider.

This was, indeed, Michael Jackson as a child.

Odette had no earthly idea as to how Mr. Jackson's skin had paled so completely in the last thirty plus years, and she was mystified at the very idea.

Solemnly, she placed the photo back in its box and put it back on the table.

And Odette was wandering.

Wandering out of Mr. Jackson's bedchamber, and off down the hall.

From behind the shut doors of his office, she could hear saxophone-heavy jazz playing.

Odette made her way down to the landing, to the large painting of Katherine Jackson.

Stared up at it, quizzically, trying to figure if she could see Michael's face in his mother's.

Odette had yet to see a photograph of Mr. Jackson's father, Joseph. Surely there had to be a evidence of him around, probably in plain sight as photos of the family were everywhere in the mansion.

And Odette knew Joseph was still alive. He lived in Spain—just the day before, Mr. Jackson sent Chester down to the post office to mail a letter off to his father in Mallorca.

So it wasn't as though he were deceased with all reminders of him hidden from view.

They were on speaking terms—ahem, written letters terms.

Hands on her hips, Odette continued to regard the Jackson Family Matriarch, wondering how her son had lost his coloring.

Mr. Jackson had stated he was one of ten, did his other siblings share this strange anomaly? Where there more like him? Were all of them like--

“Odette?”

At the sound of her name, she nearly pitched her feather duster at the portrait, and gasping she spun to find Mavis had appeared at the foot of the stairs, staring up at her, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Y-yes, Mavis?” She questioned, a hand to her bosom to calm her rapidly pounding heart. Odette hated to be startled.

What came out of her crimson mouth winded the youngster like a blow to the gut in a prizefight.

“Some packages just arrived for you, Honey. I set them in your room for you.”

Grey eyes narrowed in utter bewilderment, with Odette clutching after the banister, declaring hoarsely,

“That's impossible, Mavis. I—I haven't ordered anything. I can't! I don't get my first week's wages until Friday!”

There must have been some mistake. There had to be.

Goodness, Odette didn't even know the address of Rosewyck Manor, nor how to place an order for anything. She had never ordered anything out of a catalouge in her life.

The parcels had to be for someone else.

The rotund woman shrugged as Odette fairly stumbled her way down the steps to her in something close to a panic,

“I don't know about all that...” Mavis paused, producing a small, hard candy from her pocket, unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth. “...but Julius Abernathy came not twenty minutes ago loaded with boxes saying they were for you. For 'Miss Odette Dufrense' and I know full well your name hasn't changed a letter in the last four days. I put them in your room—”

“It's a mistake!” Odette repeated helplessly, jumping down the steps two at a time, and brushing past her coworker.

Storming through the side door and barreling down the hall to her room.

A dire mistake had been made, and the sooner she could rectify it, the better.

Those parcels had to belong to someone else, someone whom was probably awaiting their arrival and wondering why they hadn't yet come.

Shoving the door to her bedroom open, Odette came to a quick halt.

Spread across her bed, were several boxes, of sturdy pink cardboard with the name LaVonda's stamped on it bold black lettering, circled by stenciled florals.

Off to the side, calmly taking a drag off a cigarette, Michael Jackson leaned against a wall, one hand lackadaisically shoved into the pocket of his dotted satin pajamas.

(Intending to lounge until leaving for the movie house, he'd merely bathed and slipped on a fresh set of jammies)

Gobsmacked, Odette looked to Mr. Jackson, her rounded brows slamming together as she stared at him, trying to make sense of the scene.

Seeing the question marks in those crystal eyes, he stifled a chuckle, wisps of smoke wafting from his sculpted nostrils.

He was bemused by his own actions, lacking any true remorse.

“Please, forgive me, Odette...I got carried away.”

“Carried away?” She echoed, trying to force her mind to comprehend something it could not.

“Yes...” The cigarette was placed into a red glass ashtray in the shape of a leaf on the dresser—Mr. Jackson had brought it with him, as Odette was the only person on the estate whom did not smoke.

“I got to thinking how going to the Max Linder film would be the first time you'd seen one in ages, and I thought it would be nice if you had a new dress for the occasion...” He approached, hand to his clefted chin.

Dark eyes sparkling at her though the mussed locks falling into his face.

A new dress? For her? When she already had three?

“...then I thought you might like some new stockings, then shoes, a hat...gosh, before I knew it, poor Julius was at the back door delivering all these items...and....well...”

She couldn't believe it. She simply could not believe it.

New things? New clothing for her? Just to go to the movie house in town?

“Sir...” The single word croaked out.

Mr. Jackson was opening up a box. Clearly for shoes, and he produced the most wonderful pair of T- strap pumps, constructed of deep blue-grey silk , with clear rhinestones of the buckle.

Next a pair of ivory stockings was shown to her.

A rather large, frivolous hat, that looked a cross between a beret and a tricone, in more of that rich blue hue.

Trembling hands came to her ever whitening face, as a coat of dyed-to-match velvet was removed from another box, featuring a fluffy collar of silver fox fur.

When questioned if the fur was genuine, Mr. Jackson wore that sheepish, boyish expression again and stated only “of course.”

Odette wanted to speak, desperately to stop this man.

It dawned on her in that moment that Michael Jackson had to have sent out for what he knew—and could afford: the best of the best that money could buy.

These things....these items were far too expensive, too costly, surely beyond the scope of his little maid's wildest dreams. No maid should have been wearing, let alone be allowed to own such pieces.

In a way it made sense, but also didn't.

This was the man whom had spent eight hundred dollars on a robe, and had a closet of more exactly like it.

And strangely, since first meeting Mr. Jackson, the thin line between servant and friend had been blurred considerably and continuously.

Mr. Jackson was speaking at her, his lips flapping with melodic noise spilling from it, saying how he thought the blue of the fabric would turn her grey eyes blue also.

One last box was opened, the lid lifted off with tissue paper balled and cast aside.

The dress.

Her dress.

It was the most fabulous garment Odette Dufrense had the pleasure of seeing.

“Oh!” Was all she could manage to gasp.

The dress was crafted of blue-grey silk, featuring a boatneck and slightly flared sleeves, with a uneven, handkerchief edged skirt.

Diagonally across most of the bodice was a large-scale print floral rendered in dark blues, greys and creams. The cream was picked up again in a wide border on each of the sleeves.

“Do...do you like everything, Odette? I wasn't sure if you'd prefer blue or pink, but your complexion suits so many colors...”

The attractive face, ghostly white was turned upwards to him, those light eyes with the darker outer rings of the iris seeming to encompass everything surrounding it.

Did she like it? He was asking did she like it? The finest set of clothing in the world, and this man had the audacity to question her preference for it?

“...perhaps pink...girls do so like pink--”

“I love it!”

Michael Jackson staggered as the slight figure in the grey uniform threw herself against him exuberantly,

“It's so beautiful! Mr. Jackson—thank you! I'll be honored to wear it!”Odette cried joyously, squeezing his slim, yet strong body to her own zealously.

Mr. Jackson started to laugh,

“I was hoping--”

The sentence wasn't completed.

In that short, brief interval Odette Dufrense was so deliriously happy.

And had impulsively kissed Michael Jackson.

On his lips.

Not his cheeks, chin, nose or forehead; his lips.

It had taken less than a second, but it had indeed happened.

Odette, seeing her dire error immediately , leapt backwards so hard, so fast that she bumped into her nightstand, and overturned the radioactive clock.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson!” She squeaked turning a brilliant shade of crimson all over, bosom beginning to heave. “I forgot myself, forgot my place. I...I didn't mean to be so forward!”

Girls weren't supposed to kiss men. All her life she'd been taught—more gently by her mother and more crassly by Madame Lenoir—that good, pure, moral girls didn't get fresh with a man.

Any man.

At once, Odette's head drooped, and she felt a deep ache of shame, frightened that any shred of respect Michael Jackson might have felt towards her had evaporated, never to be recovered.

She stared down at her shoes, one showing a scuff, and waited.

Waited for Mr. Jackson to scream, shout, bawl her out and toss her from his home for her impertinence.

Having an immoral employee, made the entire household look bad and marred its reputation.

Met with only silence and the soft clattering of the radiator, she finally raised her head.

And found Mr. Jackson, hands behind his back, head tilted down a bit, gazing at her.

How queerly he regarded her; she had seen that expression a few times before.

When he'd first seen her at the Orphan Asylum, on the train for Toronto, when she brought him his breakfast and other items throughout the day, when she had worn that ice-blue dressing gown.

She had never been looked at in such a fashion, and thusly, couldn't understand what such a stare meant.

“You've nothing to be sorry for, Odette.” He spoke in a calm, measured manner and reaching back, retrieved his ashtray and still smoking cigarette.

Hand caressing her cheek in passing as he moved to the door, he added,

“It's...been quite a while since a pretty girl has kissed me. Feel free to do it as often as you like.”

Stricken Odette's mouth fell open and was shut back for her, Mr. Jackson winking at her, then requesting,

“Please...go out to the carriage house and tell Chester I'll be taking the coupe out today, and he has the rest of the day off--”

Her nose was tapped.

“You too. I want you to take you time and get ready for our outing. If you're ready before I am, then wait for me in the living room. Play the Victrola.”

With that, Michael Jackson was gone, disappearing down the hall, in his usual unfussed manner.

And Odette collapsed to the hardwood floor, gasping for air as if she hadn't breathed in years.

Ten minutes later, Odette stood on the back porch of the main house, just outside of the kitchen, pulling on her mittens. Through one of the windows, she could see Gus chatting casually with his wife, as he was cutting a couple of hens and tossing them into a large bowl of seasoned buttermilk to be fried for the servants later that evening.

In the nook, Elsa was quietly playing Solitaire, a cancer stick jutting from her non-existent lips.

Tucking her hands in her pockets, she made her way down the half-dozen brick steps and onto the freshly shoveled lane that led from the back door out to the carriage house.

Odette had no idea whom shoveled the walk, as snow was still falling nightly, but each day the mosaic masonry looked as though snow hadn't dared to touch it.

The girl moved slowly, toward the dot in the distance, her mind occupied.

Thinking of Michael Jackson.

Her mouth was still tingling from kissing him.

Odette truly had no words for what had come over her, what had prompted her to kiss that man, and yet....and yet...something deep within her soul was thoroughly satisfied she had done it.

Everything about Mr. Jackson enchanted her and endeared him more and more to her with each passing day.

Every day she looked forward to seeing him, hearing his voice.

How she blossomed when he looked at her, smiled at her in that sweet, drowsy way before the caffeine of his morning coffee took hold.

How he would brush against or past her, even if he had an entire walkway to himself. Leaving her in a cloud of that Minuit cologne.

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk Odette wrapped her arms around herself, recalling all of the compliments Mr. Jackson had bestowed up on her.

No one had ever spoken positively of her appearance.

For years and years, Madame had harped that Odette, underfed and underweight, looked like a ghost she was so pale, her eyes too big for her face, her head too big for her body. Odette had never considered anything redeeming about her appearance—even in a time period where the more White a Colored person looked, the “better” they were—until Mr. Jackson.

He'd called her pretty several times, the most recent just a few moments ago.

And he'd had the teasing gall to tell her she could kiss him more if she so liked!

Did...did he truly find her, Odette, pretty?

The very thought caused a tickle in her belly and her head to become lighter than a feather.

What did it all mean?

Was there really something more to their interactions than the platonic--

A-Whomp! A-Whomp! A-Whomp!

Odette nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden noise, cutting through the quiet of the day, and squinting through a flurry of snow, she found the source.

Bundled in a coat, tam and gloves, Chester was in front of the carriage house, cutting up logs for firewood on an old stump.

He had the ax raised to chop more, but lowered it to his side when he noticed the slight figure in the brown coat nearing him.

His round face lifted slightly along with his scraggly brows, indicating she state her business,

“Mr. Jackson wants you to get his...coupe...out and ready for him to drive this evening, please. And you have the rest of the day off.”

The ax was left in the tree stump, and Chester grinned.

“That's great. I wanted to go into town. There's a new girl working in the Dinette I want to get acquainted with...uh.” He burbled at the end realizing he'd said too much and turned to cross the yard to the shut door of the garage.

“How...how many vehicles does Mr. Jackson own?”Odette heard herself question, and the man looked back over his shoulder at her.

“Come see for yourself, Odette.” Stooping he shoved the rolling door upwards and disappeared into dimness, where a second later electric lights lit the space.

Jogging to keep up, Odette came to a slick halt and nearly fell over her own feet.

While homey living quarters for the other three workers took up the second story of the building, the vast, first floor was a fully functioning garage, with one side to the right lined with cans of petrol, and tools for the upkeep of vehicles.

Chester busied himself getting one of the jugs of petrol and a rag.

Odette had only expected three vehicles—the black Model T the servants used, the grey limousine and whatever coupe Mr. Jackson owned.

Instead, there were five vehicles parked.

The Ford and the limo, which Odette found to be a Rolls-Royce.

There was a four door, hardtop touring sedan in candied apple red. From an automaker she'd never heard of called Isotta Fraschini. Sounded Italian to her uncultured ears.

And the coupe.

A two door, two seater, with a retractable top. The car itself was a color not commonly found in vehicles in the twenties; a deep, rich, almost mustard yellow, offset by the soft top and leather interior of a pale cream.

The grille revealed the car as a Duesenberg, which Odette was unfamiliar with. And unlike the other cars—with the exception of the Ford of course—which boasted chrome angels as hood ornaments, the coupe boasted a glass one.

A nude figure of a woman sat on her knees, crafted of frosted glass. There was even a smile etched onto her tiny face.

Watching as Chester was topping off the fuel tank, Odette was intrigued.

Most people were lucky if they had one car at their disposal and here Michael Jackson had four.

How rich was he? How did one person manage to amass such a fortune?

“Chester...” She was fussing with the end of her ponytail, “...how long have you worked for Mr. Jackson?”

“I'd say about seventeen years. I started work here when I was fifteen and I'll be thirty-two if the Lord lets me see this coming November.” He was toting the half full jug back to its place on the wall.

“How come?”

Odette began spitting words.

“How...how is Mr. Jackson so rich? Do you know? Like, how did he manage to get so much money, especially as a Colored man?”

Sure, well-off Colored folks existed, but not to this magnitude. Not really.

A stubby hand rubbed after a grizzled chin.

“Well, Odette, Mr. Jackson has a lot of money out of the country. He's American, from Indiana. White folks down there in the States don't generally take too kindly to Colored folks doing well for themselves. That's how that rich Colored place in Oklahoma got burnt to the ground last year in a race riot. And who they didn't lynch, was run off and away for good. Indiana ain't as far South as Louisiana, but backwards ass prejudiced folks live any and everywhere. And there's just some folks who hate to see folks do better than them, especially Colored folks. You know it's limited for what Colored folks can do down there—mostly maids, butlers, Pullman porters...”

Returning to the car, Chester dropped to one knee and started buffing the fenders.

“Mr. Jackson comes from a large family. Ten brothers and sisters. And all of them were in vaudeville once upon a time...”

Dark eyes met inquisitive grey ones.

“...Mr. Jackson and his five brothers sang as a sextet while his sisters sang as a trio. Can't recall the name they used, but Mr. Jackson can sing. I don't generally go to Mass, but Mavis says he has the range to sing everything from opera to jazz. A fine tenor who can go about five octaves. Keep your ears open Odette. He'll sing along to his records when he thinks he's alone. That's how I've heard him—and he can out-sing the folks on the records. Yes...”

The hood was getting attention,

“I think that's where the Jacksons made most of their money, touring around the States, Canada and over in Europe before the war broke out. A lot of the family's money is supposedly held over there in Europe and invested. That's why some of his family members live there—his father, the doctors' father, Tito, and one of his sisters, I think her name is Latoya. You might hear Elsa talking bullshit about the doctors having foreign wives, but she doesn't understand those three men were raised in Europe. It's different over there. That's why one has a British wife and the other has a Belgian one. Still not sure how the youngest one got his wife in Peru even though she is Colored, though she speaks more Spanish than English. But from what I hear, and what I've seen the family has their hands in land, lots of land over in Europe—England, France, Spain, Austria, Hungary...all those places. From time to time, his family comes around to visit. All of them are just like Mr. Jackson: dressed up, refined, you know, classy. And just about all of them are kind and down-to-earth like him. Humble. He's got one brother, though, you'd think sunshine came out his ass the way he's so stuck up and...what's that fancy word? Pretentious! But the rest are pleasant.”

He paused and leaned on the hood, eyeing the mesmerized girl.

“Mr. Jackson has millions. Millions on top of millions. He could buy and sell this entire island ten times over if he so chose. That's why people stare whenever he goes out. Folks are scared of him. Cause they all got an idea of what Mr. Jackson;s got and can do with it. Yeah, we got a mayor and a handful of police to keep peace on the island, but no one dares fool with Mr. Jackson or any of his relatives if they pass through. To an extent, they're even scared of us, cause we work for him. Cause if that man is ever displeased, he can turn this entire island inside out and make Hell rain down if he wanted. I've only ever seen Mr. Jackson angry a few times. But he made life a living Hell for the folks that pissed him off. Ruined one guy so badly, he drowned himself off the north coast of the island.”

At the last sentence, Odette let out a shrill whimper.

“What...did he do--”

“That I don't know. You'd have to ask Gus about that. Cause he saw it happen. At the time I was in Nova Scotia, visiting my Ma and Pa. All's I know is it had something to do with Mr. Jackson's baby sister during one of her visits. You don't meddle with a man's baby sister!”

Chester came around the car adding grimly,

“You know, you kind of remind me of his sister. You don't look anything at all alike, but with the way you act. How soft spoken you are. You're gentle. Mavis is loud, Elsa is just downright mean. That's probably why Mr. Jackson hired you. You reminded him of her.”

Hands wringing nervously, Odette asked,

“Is...is his sister....dead?”

Chester laughed .

“Lord no! She's married and living off in France, her husband is half-French.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Odette thanked Chester for his time and left him to his work.

But as she trudged back to the Main House, she had more far more questions than answers about Mr. Michael Jackson.

And was still very much enthralled by the living myth he seemed to be.

Virtuous Sinners

Monday, May 26, 2025

A Couple of Questions Answered!

Sunday, May 25, 2025

Chapter Three--PART TWO

Chapter Eight--PART TWO

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