Chapter Four --PART TWO

 

Chapter Four—Part Two

The Following Morning

By half-past six, Odette Dufrense found herself alone in the dining room of Rosewyck Manor, shifting from one foot, in a mildly scuffed leather pump, to the other.

Quietly composing the items on Mr. Jackson's breakfast tray into what she felt was a more attractive arrangement.

Gus had prepared the meal that morning—a thick, fried ham steak, glistening with a maple-mustard glaze, a mound of cheesy scrambled eggs with fresh, raw onion slivers atop it, and fluffy biscuits with dried cherries baked in.

The silver platter was considerably lighter, owing to the absence of the silver pot of coffee and coordinating cups; Odette had watched Mavis take them up some fifteen minutes earlier as Mr. Jackson had rang for them, ahead of his meal.

She was just making sure the small, silver ramekins containing whipped butter and sweet cherry preserves looked appealing and once satisfied, she hoisted her load carefully and started for the door to the hall.

Nearing it, she heard the front doorbell chiming and was surprised someone would call at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Who would have had the audacity?

Mr. Jackson was still in his sleep clothes!

She entered the hall, just in time to see Mavis' broad figure disappearing off into the vestibule, and opening the front doors, softly scolding whomever stood beyond them.

“...God Almighty, you should have knocked, not used the bell! It's far too early!...yes, the underground pool has been out for nearly a month, since whatever it was that heats the pool broke...Mr. Jackson is very keen on swimming each day...the part he needed took so long to arrive, cause it had to be shipped from way down in Florida in The States, it arrived late last night...”

Masculine voices, tinged with remorse replied in tones too low to be heard clearly, from so far away, but it was clear they hadn't meant to disturb the household.

(Thank Goodness Michael Jackson was already up for the day, and likely on his second or third cup of coffee.)

Curiously, Odette lingered near the base of the staircase, one foot on the bottom step, as Mavis came waddling back through, followed by a pair of Colored men, obviously of the working sort as both wore patched coats and caps, one lacking gloves, over denim overalls and boots. One carried a battered tin tool box, that in another life had been painted red.

Eyes were bugged and mouths forming small “o”s of amazement as the men were silently marveling at the splendor surrounding them.

“...I'll show you down to the pool, its in the basement...” Mavis continued as the trio tramped by, heading for a door beneath the stairs that led to the lower levels of the mansion.

As they passed one of the men glanced at Odette, did a double take and elbowed his partner.

He'd tried to whisper, but in the quiet of the house, Odette heard him plainly,

“...I always heard that Jackson guy was rolling in dough, but not like this! Did you see he's got a White gal working for him!”

“I'm Colored!” Odette called, almost teasingly after him and started to climb the stairs.

A wide, brown face appeared to peek up the stairs after her.

“Are...are you married?” He questioned hopefully, eyes huge, before a hand clutched his collar, yanking him from sight.

Shaking her head at such absurdity, Odette chuckled to herself.

No...she wasn't married...but perhaps such a notion was in her future.

Mrs. Michael Jackson?

She didn't want to speak too soon...but, Golly, did she ever wish and dream!

Emerging on the second level, darker and cooler than the first, an extra chill, one of zeal, went through her.

To an extent, her brain refused to comprehend the evening before.

Yes, she knew it had happened for she had lived it, yet her mind found no understanding.

She'd lain awake all the night, staring at the dim ceiling, replaying every moment in gasping glee.

How, Michael Jackson, the wealthiest man and most eligible bachelor on all of Juniper Island was attracted to her!

Wanted to be with her.

Call her his sweetheart.

When he might have had any other richer, more intelligent and surely more beautiful woman in all of Canada, perhaps the world.

The very thought of it took her breath away.

And she didn't care if she couldn't openly admit it—though she couldn't wait to rub it all in Elsie's smug face—she had a feeling she couldn't explain.

One of a gentle warmth, a lovely, wondrous feeling that for the first time in her life, since her parents and baby sister had gone to Heaven, did she have someone in her life whom truly seem to care about her.

She knew she had to keep their burgeoning relationship a secret, and keep up the appearance of being only a gentleman's maid and nothing more.

Still, she was excited.

How could she not be?

For the first time in her life...Odette Dufrense was in love.

In love with her Mr. Jackson.

Suddenly, her work wasn't just the means by which she garnered a paycheck.

She was tending to her man, keeping house for him.

Like her Mama had kept house for her Papa.

She hoped, somewhere in Heaven, her parents were looking down upon her and smiling.

Everything in the last few days had to have been a blessing from God.

The Will of the Great Creator on her behalf.

Tides were turning.

Odette turned on the landing and made her way over to the doors of the master suite and paused.

One of the doors had been left open, that was strange.

As the upper hall was frankly cold—Odette could see her own breaths plainly—the doors were usually kept shut, to prevent the heat from the fire from leeching out.

But she was glad that it meant she didn't have to put down the tray to turn the knobs, then struggle to lift it a second time.

She bumped her shoulder against it, started in.

Her mouth had been opened to call out a “good morning” to Mr. Jackson, but she lost her voice in an instant.

Grey eyes swelling in their sockets, her jaw swung.

What little color she had to her face draining.

She had expected him to still be in bed, reading the newspaper, or at his small breakfast table, drinking coffee.

Mr. Jackson was at neither, as instead, he was over by the divan. between it and the low table showing his collection of animal statuettes and enameled eggs, and a few more volumes from the Land of Oz series.

His back to her.

Stark naked.

Odette lost the art of speech and could only stare.

She had never seen an adult man unclothed before!

The closest, was the little boys who would dare to run nude in the sticky heat of the Louisiana summers at the Asylum, before Madame Lenoir had caught up the them and laid her birch stick across them a few good times for indecency.

But those were children, with nothing of note to look at nor remember.

They weren't Mr. Jackson.

How lovely Michael Jackson was.

How his long, raven locks, tousled and disheveled spilled over his peachy white shoulders, shoulders naturally broad, his smooth back tapering down to his trim waist.

Where his buttocks, fine, and toned, with a bare trace of pink to them flexed (he had maintained his dancer's physique, though his vaudevillian days were far behind him) Mr. Jackson moving, as he laid out two garments, which he draped on the divan.

A pair of striped, wool boxer's shorts and a robe, appearing to be made of pewter velvet, trimmed in quilted satin of a royal purple, with a matching quilted belt.

Odette was frozen, halfway in the door, transfixed, as Mr. Jackson lifted the undergarments, shook them out and in a fluid motion had slipped them on, pausing to arrange “things” up front.

The robe was pulled on and secured, with him fluffing his hair to free it from where it had caught in his collar.

He then turned, and plucked something from a table...a gold ribbed cigarette case, the middle of which featured what appeared to be a sizable, emerald-cut ruby.

Odette was usually enchanted with his precious, genuine cases, astonished that he carried what effectively amounted to gentlemanly jewelry, so casually, but not now.

She was stuck in something of a loop, continuing to see those delicate, rounded cheeks, split so sweetly down the middle...

Her mind on a delay.

Dark eyes snapped up, spotting the young girl, still grasping the steaming tray.

And those eyes lit with pure joy at the sight of her.

“Odette!”

He almost sang her name as he came around the table, again seeming to float towards her, placing the case on the tray, and taking it from her.

Leaning to peck at her mouth gently.

She saw stars, the moon, the Milky Way....

“How beautiful you are this morning, I think I get up nowadays for the pleasure of seeing your little face...” He whispered and started towards the smaller table, a flip of his head indicating she follow.

Which she did, a hand to her chest in an effort to stifle her thumping heart.

If he knew she'd seen him in only his birthday suit...

At the table, Odette found a clothing catalogue open, showing an assortment of what looked to be girls' and womens' swimsuits. The glossy pages filled with full-color illustrations.

“I saw the plumbers when they drove up and parked out by the Carriage House.” Michael announced, seating himself and tearing open a biscuit, slathering it with butter and jam. And held it out for Odette to take.

“...that means the pool shall be repaired today if all goes right...” He was buttering his own bread now.

“Yes...”

Odette chewed thoughtfully, peering over the page, charmed by a particularly, nice bathing suit of pink wool, with a white anchor stitched onto the bosom as displayed in a drawing near the center of the page.

And for eighty-five cents, it wasn't too costly.

At least, she didn't think it was, as other models were as much as six dollars!

It also didn't appear quite as revealing as some of the modes presented, which dipped far in both the front and back, and stopped quite far above the knee, ending at the mid-thigh. Some covered even less than her current undergarments!

Did women really wear so little...in front of strangers at pools and the beach and other bodies of water?

Weren't they terribly embarrassed?

Bodies were meant to be covered, not exposed.

“I...I still don't know how to swim...Sir...” She leaned to bite the chunk of ham presented her on a fork.

“I shall teach you...and I'm Michael when we're alone like this...” He winked slyly as he sliced another chunk and popped it into his mouth,

“Hmmm...I can tell Gus prepared this. He's the only one who makes this mustard glaze. I like it better when you make my ham for me, Odette. You know I like the honey-based glaze better.”

Across the table, she smiled shyly. She had only prepared the ham like that once and he was still raving about it.

“Michael...” It was so foreign to her to be able to call him by his first name. “May...may I have this suit, please?”

A manicured nail indicated the modest pink number.

A forkful of eggs were held in the air.

“Oh, I wasn't asking you to pick one, Darling...” The scrambled baby chicken was summarily consumed. “...I was showing you what I'd bought for you.”

Confused, she squinted first at him, then down to the booklet.

“Which did you buy?”

“All of those you see, and the ones on the next three pages.”

What?

Pages were shuffled and if Odette had counted correctly, there were at least two dozen different costumes advertised.

And he'd bought them all?

“Sir...” Odette was shaking her head in refusal as another speared piece of pork was offered. “You said just last night we have to be discreet, or people will talk! Won't it draw attention if a bunch of parcels from...”

The catalouge was closed for a scant moment to read the name of the retailer stamped on the cover,

“...LaVonda's are being delivered here addressed to me?”

“But they're not addressed to you.”

Michael rose from his seat and came around the table, placing hands on her quivering shoulders.

“Yes, I had the items for our outing last night addressed to you, because I wanted you to feel special—you are so very special to me, Odette—but I know if two dozen boxes all bearing Miss Odette Dufrense scribbled on them were suddenly paraded through town and up to my door, everyone from the youngest infant suckling at their mother's teat to the oldest with a foot in the grave, would be rattling their jaws.”

He stooped, speaking through her hair into her ear.

“Now, any number of parcels addressed to me, Mister Michael Jackson, may cause the usual tongue wagging about my money, how much I've got and from whence it comes, perhaps that I spend it frivolously, but no more than that... as it should be.”

A large hand found the back of her thin neck and was kneading after it. The butterflies in Odette's belly became hornets.

“I'm well aware of how people in this town think of me.”

“But doesn't it bother you?” Odette turned in her seat to look at him and found his gaze across the room at the painting of her nude doppelganger over the hearth.

“I know I've only been here a few days, Michael, but other than your three nephews, no one else has come calling. Have you any friends at all?”

The hand on her neck squeezed down hard, leaving her wincing in pain.

“Odette...” He paused and walked away from her, towards the fireplace, hands in his pockets, bare feet picking across the floor. “...if you'd lived the life I have, you'd understand why I keep my circle of those whom I trust exceedingly small. I have been betrayed far too many times. I prefer to pass my time, else in solitude or with my relatives.”

His head turned in profile.

“And with you, of course....Eat.”

He stared off into the fire and Odette consumed three mouthfuls of eggs in the interim before he spoke once more, grimly,

“I won't deter you from having friends. You are in a new place and it's only natural to want to know those around you. You're very young. Young ladies want to be around those similar to themselves. Of course you'd want a girlfriend or two. But I do advise you—remember who you are, what you have and what is at stake. And be extremely selective in whom you trust. If you trust anyone at all.”

“Yes, Sir...” She was cutting up the ham and helping herself to more bites as Michael wandered back towards her, like something of a lonely ghost.

He busied himself, pouring out a cup of coffee for her, and overloading it with sweet cream and white sugar. (Exactly how she liked it.)

“Did you have any friends at the orphanage? Any of the little girls or boys there?” He wondered, spoon pinging as he stirred it.

Odette was contemplative, and stared down into the diminished brown liquid a long moment.

“Not...not really. We weren't friends, in the traditional sense. Not like what you see written about in books or magazines. We banded together, looked out for one another because we had to. It was us against Madame Lenoir. We had to...to survive. Starving, cold, scared...”

Odette hesitated and steadied herself with a sip.

“...beaten.”

Had it really only been six days since she'd left the Colored Orphan Asylum? It seemed like centuries, millennia ago.

When she and the children, who lived in the shadows, just trying to make it through each day without incurring the wrath of that evil, hateful, green-eyed creature that passed as a woman.

Michael had started on another biscuit and stopped mid-chew.

The horror and pain in his eyes as he looked over the slight figure in grey tilting the cup to her plump, rosebud lips again.

No one so young, so sweet, so harmless should have ever had to suffer as she had.

A long finger wagged. “Wait here.”

The bread was tossed down with Michael exiting rather quickly.

Sprinting in his bare feet.

Across the hall, a door banged open, with the sounds of muffled scuffling and things being moved about wildly.

The same door slammed shut and Michael Jackson reentered the room, one hand in his pocket, showing the outline of something rectangular.

“I usually pay everyone around lunch time...”He explained, easing up alongside her. “...but I think we should go into The City and grab a bite. And...you need some 'walking around' money for that.”

The rounded brows raised in inquiry.

What was 'walking around' money? How did it differ from any other sort of money? What was the purpose of it?

Odette kept her mouth shut to conceal her ignorance.

From his pocket, Mr. Jackson produced a sleek case of shimmering black onyx.

“We...agreed on ten dollars for your weekly wage, correct?” Those dark orbs seemed to consume her, and Odette felt her head bob.

Ten dollars!

Ten whole dollars to herself! She didn't have to share or anything! It was hers to do with as she liked!

Ten cents would have been a treat, but dollars!

She so wanted to go explore the Main Street of Juniper Peak. She had seen what appeared to be a dress shop when they'd last driven through. Maybe they had reasonable garments for her to...to purchase.

She was going to be able to buy clothes...from a store!

The case was opened with a tiny click and Odette had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.

In that case, was more money than Odette Dufrense had ever seen in her life.

She was used to money rendered in coins; the largest bill she'd ever seen was a United States Dollar.

There were clearly dollar bills, Canadian of course, looking a bit similar to the bills of her former homeland.

One side contained 'singles' while the other held what appeared to be twenties.

Quite thickly packed.

That wallet contained hundreds, if not thousands of dollars.

Right under her nose in his very hand!

How did one person come to have so very much, and yet remain so modest? So down to earth?

Not pretentious in any way.

“One...two...three...four...”

She was quiet as he counted up to ten, fanning the bills in front of her.

“Thank you--”

“...then there's the 'Beautiful Girl' tax...because you are the most beautiful thing in this house...”

Ten more bills were placed on the table to Odette's astonishment.

Twenty dollars?

She was being given twenty dollars-- Wild eyes shot up at his chiseled face, cool and calm, as if he handed out so large a sum regularly.

“...then there's the 'Import Tax' shipping you from The States to Canada...”

Another ten bills.

“Michael--”

“...hmmm....'Good Time' Tax, to make sure you can have all the candy and soda and ice cream you'd like while we're out today...”

Ten more.

“...and finally the 'Grey Eye' tax...” He leaned in, peering into her reddening face. “...cause not many girls have true grey eyes like you, My Dear...”

Fifty dollars.

Fifty, crisp, one dollar bills set on the table.

“You didn't have to do that...” Odette was trying to hide the fact she was blinking away tears.

“I told you, I was going to take care of you, Odette...”

Michael repeated and took his place across from her.

“Stay in your uniform, continue your work. Before lunch Julius should bring over a new dress—no! No!”

A large hand began flagging as Odette started to protest. He'd done enough! He'd done enough!

It was almost too much!

“Because you fainted last night, I never got my Prime Rib. I want my Prime Rib and I want to look at you as I eat it. See your pretty little face, like I see it now. Plus...”

He resumed eating the bitten biscuit,

“I have to see a man about a suit. I've commissioned one I plan to wear to Mass on Sunday. I have one final fitting... I'd like you to see it before everyone else.”

The biscuit was chased with a swallow of coffee.

“I've plenty to be thankful for—especially you.”

Leaping from her seat, Odette rounded the table in record time, collapsing into Michael's arms, peppering his face, creasing with a grin, all over.

Yes, she was thankful.

More thankful than she'd ever been in her short life.

* * *

As the noontime hour made its slow and steady approach, one by one, each of the other four on staff at Rosewyck Manor climbed the grand front staircase, rounded the corner to the left, and slipped past the polished door of Mr. Jackson's office.

And each, except for Elsie, emerged with appreciative grins, all a few dollars 'richer'.

All eager to put some of their wages to use for their own amusement.

“We can go see Captain January, cause Mavis likes that little girl who's in it, Baby Peggy; then we can see Greed. The other day when I was in town picking up some cigarettes, Lucas Pollard was going on about it. Wouldn't shut up! Says it must be the best picture he's ever seen! Said he and his wife and their daughter saw it twice--”

“That film is nearly two and half hours long!”

Gus Clarke had been pacing back and forth in front of the island, where his wife and Odette had been drying and putting away the last of the dishes from breakfast and giving the kitchen a general wiping down.

He stopped and his grizzled, grey head shook at the curt objection. His entire form seemed to crumple momentarily, as if at war with himself as to whether or not to respond.

Turning on the heel of a well-worn shoe, he faced Elsie.

Elsie had been seated at the nook, blissfully silent, reading the newspaper, across from Chester, playing Solitaire as he smoked, until the mention of Greed.

“What's wrong with the film being over two hours long, Elsie?” He asked in a tone that showed he was weary before even hearing her answer.

Odette had had her hand out to dry the next plate, as Mavis had been washing it in the dishpan.

When no china plate appeared on her upturned palm, she glanced at Mavis and found she had halted, a damp hand pressing her plump hip through the apron she wore over her black uniform.

Dark eyes darting from her spouse to their coworker and back with great interest.

Crimson lips pursed and pushed out.

Leaning an elbow on the table, that freckled, hollow-cheeked face tilted upwards at Gus.

“You don't think that's mighty long for a single picture? Most pictures are only an hour or less. Over two hours is egregious--”

“You'll be sitting and watching it, Elsie, not up on the screen acting it out with Gibson Cowland and Zasu Pitts!” Gus cut her off and across the table, Chester snickered around the flaming tobacco in his mouth.

“Well, what if I don't want to see Greed?” Elsie challenged in her curmudgeonly way, crossing arms over her non-existent bosom and raised a bushed brow haughtily.

Gus had started to open the icebox to grab a bottle of soda.

“Then you're more than welcome to remain right here! The movie house only has one damn screen, and they're showing Captain January and Greed tonight. Now if that doesn't suit you, take it up with Clarence Jones—he's the one who runs it!”

“Oh!” Elsie scoffed and ruffled the paper, returning to her reading.

Mavis, seeing she was being watched by Odette winked at her and finally handed over the plate.

“Now that the matter of the movies tonight is out the way...” Gus produced a stub of a pencil and a small notepad from a pocket on his chef's coat.

“Mr. Jackson told me he's going to be in The City on business most of the afternoon and evening, and I don't much feel like cooking tonight, so I'm going to grab some food from The Dinette. We can eat here, then make our way over to the movie house. Whatcha want, Baby? I'm getting those Triple Decker sandwiches.”

Mavis contemplated a moment and drying her hands on her apron before untying and removing it, replied,

“I really like that Grilled Salami Sandwich, with the Indian Relish on it...I want that.”

“You got it...” Gus was scribbling. “I like that too...what do you want Elsie or are you going on a hunger strike cause of Greed?”

She scowled at him and if looks could have killed, Gus would have been under a white sheet and on his way to the undertakers.

“The 'usual' ” She simpered, turning another page.

Odette saw him write “ham and cheese with extra mayonnaise” in a broad, somewhat clumsy hand.

“Chester?”

“Uh!--” He stiffened in his seat, squaring his shoulders. “I'll decide when I get there. Let me run over with you. I'd like to see Willa—she's working today.”

The pencil rolled in Gus' hand. His head remained down, as he spoke,

“Chester, just ask the young lady out. You've been hanging around at The Dinette every night this week behind—Willa? I think she knows you fancy her by now, Son. We all do!”

Gus quipped and the entire room, even Elsie, were trying to hide their giggles.

It was no secret that every night after dinner, Chester was finding some excuse to take the old Ford into town to see the elusive Willa and drive her home from waitressing at the local dive.

Chester, despite his dark complexion took on a violent shade of purple, embarrassed, as his intentions, which he'd thought were carefully concealed, had been laid bare and was common knowledge among his colleagues.

“I...I should...change out of my uniform before we go to town...” He more hissed than spoke the words and was hurrying out of the back door and down the snowy back walk for the carriage house.

“What would you like Odette? Wanna try that Grilled Salami too?” Gus turned to her expectantly, and Odette, on tiptoe putting the last dish away, shook her head,

“No thank you, Gus, nothing for me. I'm helping Mr. Jackson in The City.”

The words had barely cleared her rosy lips, before, from the nook, Elsie Moore took a deep breath, a clear indicator she was about to work her jaw some more.

If jaws could indeed overheat, her head would have long since gone up in flames.

A scarlet tipped finger was pointed at the middle-aged woman, Mavis warning sharply,

“Don't you start! No one wants to hear it!”

Smiling to herself, Odette straightened her expression into a more plain one, as she leaned against the island, watching as both Mavis and Elsie were staring at each other, each with a brow raised as if daring one another to do something.

To the side, Gus was shaking his head, striking a match to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

And of course that miserable miser couldn't help herself, and keep her mouth shut when she was clearly, silently being told to do so.

“But Mavis...” She flagged after her with a bony hand, “...don't you find it strange that Mr. Jackson is inviting Odette out for a second day in a row?”

“No, I don't!” Mavis' neck snapped and her head wagged with fervor. “What Mr. Jackson does with his time and who he spends it with is his business and none of ours!”

“You tell it, Baby.” Gus echoed, blowing smoke out his nose.

“Besides, he's probably just showing Odette around and helping her to get familiar with her surroundings. She hasn't been here a week yet.”

Odette was singing on the inside, while maintaining her placid facade. Gus and Mavis were true allies against a common enemy.

That Evil Elsie!

Did Elsie have no one on her side in that house?

Joints popping, Elsie rose from the table, slowly making her way to the island where the other three stood.

For a split second her gaze fell on Odette, then skipped to Mavis, starting to visibly expand with annoyance.

“I notice Mr. Jackson keeps tearing up to Toronto. There's plenty things to do and people to see in Juniper Peak.”

Mavis was nodding, a few strands of her hair working loose, and hopped from one foot to the other testily.

Odette was never one to be party to what had been colloquially called “mess”—situations in which she was no part—but she was having a fine time watching this showdown.

Indeed Elsie had started this mess.

Didn't she start them all?

Odette thought so.

“Juniper Peak has a lot for folks like us...not for a man like Michael Jackson...” Mavis was folding her arms over her low-slung bosom, and starting to round the island, Gus grabbing her wrist so naturally and without fanfare, held her in place.

Odette having seen that wondered, was Mavis going to strike Elsie?

Had she before?

Vainly she wished Dr. Taj Jackson were around with that camera of his should the two come to blows. He could have captured what might have been a Jack Dempsey level punch.

Mavis did look like she could throw a decent punch and Elsie surely had a glass jaw.

“Mr. Jackson can afford to 'step out' and he does!”

Odette jumped as a fist pounded the island top, Mavis nearly shrieking,

“And don't act like you've never gone to Toronto—damn it you're going with me tomorrow to get your hair pressed!”

Already popped eyes bulged further and Elsie shook with fury.

“Mavis! You know full well I used to go to a woman right here on the Island for my hair...then the took with the Spanish Flu and up and died on me!”

Elsie said that with enough vinegar in her voice to indicate she truly believed the woman contracted the fatal disease on purpose just to inconvenience her.

“That was five years ago, Elsie—and you was running around this damn house, looking like steel-wool by the head, till I stepped in and took you to see Dee--”

“My hair does not look like steel-wool, Mavis Clarke!” Elsie cried, balling her fists like a small child and stamping a foot.

“The hell it didn't!” Mavis pulled her arm free of her husband's grasp and leaned further towards Elsie, turning a brilliant shade of red, Odette had never seen on a person.

She had been kidding herself about needing Dr. Taj, but by the way Elsie was going Odette feared she might just give herself an aneurysm, she was carrying on so.

At the same time, Mavis was equally as collected, cool and direct.

There was a lethal glint in her eye, mixed with what looked to be joy, as Mavis kept on, clearly savoring getting her adversary on a roll.

“Yes, it does look like wool—or you wouldn't keep it slicked back in that bun all the time!” She taunted and seeing his minimal effort had failed, Gus resigned himself to the table and started reading a random article out the paper.

“I see the price of corn has dropped...”

The long head with its much repressed bun was thrown back and forth, Elsie shaking it.

Indicating herself with a jerk of the thumb, she stated through grit teeth,

“If you think I'm going to cut my hair into one of those fool bobs all the women want to wear now, forget it! I'm a woman and I want to look like a woman!”

Odette had to strain not to laugh outright at this.

Elsie Moore was one of the homeliest, unfeminine women she'd ever set eyes on.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute...” Gus whistled shrilly and was waving at the both of them. “Elsie, I know you're not insinuating that because Mavis wears her hair short—and I like it, by the way—that she's any less of a a woman than you! You will notice she is married and has given me four children!”

A strange expression crept across Elsie Moore's face.

If Odette squinted hard enough, she could have sworn Elsie looked as though she were about to burst into tears, though none fell.

Women like Elsie Moore didn't cry.

They weren't able to.

She'd gone stiff, and quite pale all of a sudden.

Low, hard, quiet words seeped through unmoving lips.

“You know both my husband and son are dead, Augustus!”

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Odette stood, speechless.

Elsie had had a husband? She'd had a child?

And lost them both?

By what means?

The War? The Flu?

It hadn't been a joke, no longer part of the playful banter being exchanged.

By the way both Mavis and Gus hung their heads, it was true.

All painfully and woefully true.

The silence seemed to fill every crack and crevice of the kitchen.

Suffocating them.

Odette didn't know what to do—remain quiet? Offer condolences?

She wished she could have seeped through the floor into the basement, but would have scared the hell out of the plumbers working on the pool.

From the corner of her eye, Odette saw movement.

Mr. Jackson was making a beeline for the young maid.

He was nearly dressed for their outing, in crisply starched black trousers, and a white shirt with a black tie in a Windsor knot. Long fingers were fastening the buttons of a bloody vermilion and bright gold brocaded vest, adding a punch of color to an otherwise ordinary outfit. A pair of orangish suede monogrammed slippers clashed with the rest of the ensemble.

Completely ignorant to the conversation stopping revelation.

“Odette, I need you...” He expressed, hand wrapping her bicep and tugging. “I've made a mess upstairs, and I need you to clean it up, please.”

He was so vibrant, so cheery.

The polar opposite of the rest in the room.

Whom Odette was being steered away from rapidly.

As the door swung behind her, she heard Gus, apologetically.

“I'm sorry, Elsie, really...”

At a later time, away from Elsie, Odette planned to ask Mavis and/or Gus to whom Elsie had been married (the poor, obviously blind bastard) borne a son and how she'd lost both.

As much as she'd have loved to indulge the nosier aspects of her personality, her Mr. Jackson came first.

And whatever mess he'd made.

Following Mr. Jackson through the dining room and out towards the staircase, Odette asked rather meekly,

“What kind of mess did you make, Sir? I need to know, so I can get the proper supplies to clean it--”

On the bottom step, Michael Jackson spun, hugged one of the sconces decorating the banister, and plucked after one of the crystal orbs dangling from it.

There was that mischievous expression again, and he was smiling as he took her hand, confiding,

“There is no mess; I just needed an excuse to get you away from the others without raising any suspicion.”

Eyes sparkling he giggled musically and Odette did too.

What a sly boots he was!

Starting up to the second level, he told her,

“I stood in the vestibule over forty minutes waiting to intercept Julius when he came 'round with your new things. Almost threw myself under the wheels of his car as he drove up. I had to catch him before he around to the back door. I swear I saw the poor boy's soul leave his body for an instant!” Michael was all teeth laughing and quite proud of himself and elbowing more smiles out of his young companion.

“But...”Odette tapped after his shoulder and was smirking. “...won't they all notice when they see me in another new dress?”

He was the one whom had stated they needed to be discreet, and yet he was flouting his own rule.

Broad shoulders shrugged with nonchalance.

“It'll be too late by then!”

The doors to the Master Suite had been left open with Michael gamely ushering the young girl inside.

On the foot of the massive bed, an assortment of womanly items had been carefully displayed.

“Oh, Michael...” Odette glanced at him, hanging back, hands on his hips, beaming.

She was rapidly becoming spoiled and in spite of herself—and strict upbringing—she was beginning to enjoy it!

A stack of empty boxes, all bearing the LaVonda's insignia had been tossed off near the fireplace.

Spread on the bed was what she was certain was a very costly dress, this one of wool in a deep bronze shade. It had a high collar, hearkening back to the modesty of the previous decade with a wide, rounded yoke, all of which was covered in seedling bead-work of in black, gold and turquoise, a long panel extending from the left shoulder, hanging down and ending in a beaded fringe by the hip.

Beside that was another unusual chapeau, made on the order of a cloche, in black satin, culminating in a frankly oversized bow to the side.

There was a new coat, ebony and trimmed in shimmering fur about the cuffs and down the front when cinched closed.

Odette's mind called to earlier, when she'd seen Mei-Ling outside the Chinese restaurant in a red coat similar to this one and she wondered if Dr. TJ Jackson had also procured his...mistress'...clothing from LaVonda's.

Behind her, she heard Michael mention something about that particular fur being chinchilla, an expensive type of rodent and how he changed his mind about her wearing black.

“With your porcelain complexion, the black would set it off enormously, though I still do want to keep you in a grey uniform. We can incorporate some more black articles into you wardrobe in the future.” He poked at her back playfully as he passed her to his vanity, picking up his bottle of Minuit and was splashing a bit around his throat.

A wardrobe. She was to have a wardrobe eventually.

She didn't know exactly what all such a thing encompassed but wanted to learn. She wanted to be like normal girls her age. She'd had no childhood or adolescence. She wanted her young adulthood to be something she could reflect upon fondly in her golden years, hopefully by Michael's side.

Odette kept lagging along the bed, discovering a small beaded purse, into which her fifty dollars had been tucked. There was a pair of satin, Louis-heeled pumps and black silk stockings.

Coming to the edge of the bed closest to where Michael stood, now running a silver, fine-toothed comb through his lush tresses, Odette stopped.

Brows meeting then shooting up.

Laid there, was a combination, but of a far greater grade than the one she currently wore.

Constructed of a pale lavender silk, it was trimmed in grey floral motif lace.

A set of matching garters, lavender satin trimmed in more lace had been placed atop it.

Noticing her staring at the undergarments, Michael, still with his comb in hand, sauntered over behind her..

So close was he, that he could smell the Les Nuit Egyptiennes wafting from her hair.

“Don't you like them?” He asked and her hair was disturbed.

“They're...they're lovely...” Odette was wringing her hands, bashfully. “...just, I'm already wearing underpinnings—I always do.”

Her hair was pushed back to reveal one, bright pink, seashell ear.

Michael whispering into it in a way that came close to making Odette lose the function of her legs.

His voice dropping into a reverberating octave, she'd never heard that shocked her heart out of rhythm.

“You're wearing cotton. My Sweetheart doesn't wear common, cotton underwear. My Sweetheart will wear silk and satin ...only the best should caress your skin.”

Michael leaned around her and with his free hand, plucked up the combination, garters and stockings.

And handed them to her her.

“I'm sure...” A wave of long, black hair was twirled around his fingers. “...you'll be breathtaking in this. Odette...”

She was made to face him.

His dark eyes were wide.

Pleading.

“Show me how it looks, before you put the frock on, please?”

Odette Dufrense was so mixed up and tumbling within her own feelings by this point, she naively nodded her head, the true weight of her acquiescence not dawning on her until the door to Michael Jackson's bathroom clicked shut after her.

And there she stood, a long, terse interval, chest heaving, head spinning, her eye shut against it all.

She had to put this little bit of lavender nothing on.

And prance about in front of a man whilst wearing it.

She had already basically said she would.

Odette had to do this for Mr. Jackson; he'd done so much for her. He'd saved her from sure ruin back in Louisiana.

Given her a job, a home, an income.

More.

Furthermore, she was his Sweetheart, he'd said so.

He certainly acted it.

And he was her Sweetheart, too.

That had to mean something, didn't it?

Just...she was so apprehensive!

Nobody had ever asked her to model anything for them. Nobody had ever wanted to look at her or pay her any mind.

She was used to being in the background, not the forefront.

But if Michael Jackson wanted to see her, have her display herself before him, she was going to do it for him.

She only wanted to please him and garner his approval.

He was all that mattered in this world to her.

Slowly the grey eyes opened, and set with determination.

Then were wholly distracted by the splendor surrounding them.

While Odette had tidied Mr. Jackson's bedroom and office daily since her arrival, she had never set foot into his personal bath.

It was the only room of the sprawling manse which he undertook the cleaning of himself, as he felt it were a private place where he did very private things.

And as Odette had grown to expect from Michael Jackson at this point, as with the rest of his home, his en suite was just as opulent.

The color scheme was different; outside was green with touches of cream and red.

Inside the colors were lighter, airier.

Almost feminine.

The paneled walls were washed in a pale ecru and trimmed in a dusty, light blue. The blue was repeated in the recesses on the walls, each showing a different scene.

Some forest landscapes, some hunting scenes, with little men training rifles and pistols on woodland prey; others showing more nude women frolicking at rivers' edges and splashing in said river.

Michael Jackson did so like to surround himself with images of unclothed ladies.

Not a single room she had seen lacked one.

Later, Odette would be exposed to examples of the famous Wedgwood China, and was convinced that the murals covering the walls around her had been based off of the scenes painted upon those heirloom pieces.

The elegant sink and oversized bathtub were also blue, the fixtures a brilliant gold, in the shapes of peacocks, Michael Jackson's favorite bird.

Their embossed plumage, the handles that turned on the hot and cold taps.

(The toilet, concealed in a stall all to itself extending from the foot of the tub, was also blue. Odette thought bathroom fixtures only came in white; but perhaps colored options had been created for Michael Jackson. He did possess so many special order renditions of otherwise typical and ordinary items.)

To say the room had been tended by a man, it was remarkably clean and orderly.

Of course, Mr. Jackson was a neat and orderly man. With exacting standards for every facet of life.

Above the sink was a large semi-circle of a mirror in a wide, exquisitely molded gilt frame, showing many swirls and twists and marked by an 'M' at the very top.

Reflecting Odette's whitened face, the wild, wool-gathered eyes.

She wore her fright as she did the grey dress on her back.

Odette suddenly inhaled sharply and shook her head, feeling silly.

Mr. Jackson had seen her in her unmentionables before; once in Fayette Parish and then again right down in the front parlor.

Not to mention the day he'd seen her in nothing but a towel.

Of course Michael wanted to see what she looked like in her new all-in-one; he'd paid for it. Likely more than she could fathom judging by the fabric and how well it appeared to be constructed—it might have even been hand sewn!

In short order, Odette had removed her uniform and apron, skivvies, elastic garters and stockings, placing them in a neatly folded pile on the side of the porcelain, claw-foot tub.

She was naked only a handful of seconds before slipping on the purple all-in-one.

And was amazed.

It did feel so much lighter than the cotton one she had been wearing. The fabric was but a whisper on the skin. It was a bit more form-fitting, but by no means constrictive. Michael had gotten her sizing perfectly.

On went the stockings and garters.

So soft and delicate on her legs.

Odette raised her head and looked to the mirror to study herself.

Horrified.

That's what she was—horrified.

Hands cupped to her mouth in disbelief, Odette blinked, but the image in the mirror refused to change.

The garment was beautiful, that was still true, but Odette hadn't realized how incredibly sheer the material was.

Why, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination!

Through the fabric, she could see her breasts plainly, not the rounded suggestion of a bosom as with her usual underthings, but could see them, and worse. the slightly darker, silver-dollar sized circles her areolas made.

She could see her innie bellybutton, a slight indentation in her flat abdomen.

And worse still, she could see her pubis and the veil of black curls covering it!

She could see her own pubic hair!

She might as well have been nude!

She was going to be nude in front of her Mr. Jackson!

“Odette?”

The poor girl leapt a solid foot into the air at the utterance of her name through the door.

“Are you alright? I don't mean to rush you, Darling, but we do have a couple of appointments to keep. It takes time to reach Toronto--”

The crystal knob on the door was turning!

“No!”

She made a desperate break for the door, and flung herself bodily against it,in an attempt to keep Michael at bay.

He couldn't see her like this!

She was indecent!

Odette had wrongly assumed, considering Michael Jackson was an overwhelmingly svelte gentleman, that he lacked the strength to force his way into his own bathroom.

She was only a hundred and two pounds, and Michael had at least a good twenty to thirty more on her, in pure muscle, from his decades of dance. (And more years of swimming each morning until a month ago.)

Odette had languished for a decade and a half on less than the bare minimum and she had no...oomph to be found.

Easily, with a single push, not even a shove, the door had been opened, Odette sent stumbling back.

Exasperated and in search of a place in which to hide her shame, she became a lavender draped blur, trying to flee for the stall with the toilet.

She never did figure out how Michael Jackson managed to get around her and block the water closet.

Nonetheless, there he was, wearing the rest of his ensemble for the day: a blazer with a red and gold band in the same fabric as his vest wrapping his right bicep.

Attached to one of the lapels was a sizable brooch of solid, satin-polished gold in the shape of an arachnid.

And held within the creature's pincers, was a ruby studded fly, partially wrapped in white gold thread fashioned after the silk of a web.

Red and black wingtip oxfords squeaked gently against the floor, in varying shades of azure mosaic tiles.

“Oh...oh...oh...” She was whimpering, head lowering and eyes falling to her stocking feet, focusing on the reinforced panels covering her toes.

Odette couldn't bear to look Michael in the face.

A lifetime of being told—in politer tones by her late mother and coarser ones by that vile Lenoir— that the female body was something to be hidden, covered and concealed; something only girls or women with a lack of morals and spiritual guidance showed too much of too freely, Odette Dufrense had never learned the truth.

That she was indeed pleasing to look at, as she possessed a fetching figure.

A figure she'd have seen Michael Jackson acutely studying if she'd raised her head at all.

Bracing against the shut door of the water closet, a hand absently touching after the dimple in the center of his chin, dark eyes roving the ashen form shrinking before him.

He'd had something of an idea, augmented by pure imagination and fantasy of what laid beneath Odette's uniforms and her cotton shimmy, but standing there, faced with reality, was far better than any image he could have rendered out of his fevered brain.

Pinky lips were dampened with a sliver of tongue and when they parted, they shocked the cowering female:

“You are the complete and true definition of the word Pulchritude.”

The pretty face, framed by masses of black waves squinched up, as she had no clue what the word pulchritude meant, and she was trying to decide if she wanted to weep or not.

Had he eloquently insulted her? Or praised her?

It wasn't until he began to elaborate, that she gained a better understanding.

“Your body is like a work of art by the Old Master sculptors...” He elaborated, voice remaining in its lower registers and though a radiator, blue as well, were throwing off copious amounts of heat, Odette rattled.

Those pink lips continued moving, words spilling.

Eyes aglow.

“...your shape...I knew you had an hourglass figure! I could tell by the way clothing hangs on you. A real, womanly shape—not this Flapper Tomfoolery where every gal wants to looks like a twelve-year-old boy before the onset of puberty! With no breasts or hips or anything that hints at the feminine!A walking rectangle is how the women look now. A woman is supposed to have breasts and hips and a waist...and you do...”

Her head was spinning.

He liked her; he liked what he saw of her.

And was happy!

He drew closer, to the point he was standing over her.

His cologne strangling her nostrils in an erotic cloud.

“By God, Odette, I wish I could paint you and hang your portrait on every surface in this house.”

She was in his arms.

His mouth, tasting of spearmint, mashing hers with a quiet, succulent power.

Causing gooseflesh to spring up all over her dermis.

Kissing Michael Jackson had to be her favorite activity and she allowed herself to be pressed harder against him, to the point the buttons on his jacket and vest began to cut into her.

He could have inadvertently sliced her to ribbons and she wouldn't have minded.

Finally, extracting his mouth from hers, he spoke, his voice heavy and lusty,

“You're an Angel...A Dream Come True. I've no idea how I've lived this life without you in it...”

He smiled roguishly at the doe-eyed, flushed-cheeked ingenue gazing up at him so queerly.

Enraptured.

Smooching her lips again, he sighed forlornly,

“Come along, you need to get dressed. We still have a reservation for an early dinner, and then I have to see Armand about my suit. Gosh...I hate to cover that teddy, that body, but only I'm supposed to see it.”

Hand falling to her mid-back, just above the swelling her sweet, peachy buttocks, showing at an almost heart shape, Michael was prodding her back into the bedroom.

Odette had begun to reach for the dress and stopped, Michael hugging her from behind with both arms.

Mouth seeking out her shoulder and attacking it with abandon, along with the side of her neck.

Causing her vision to go spotty and her knees to weaken.

She loved his touch, his kiss, his scent....

After what seemed an eternity and seeing what was the start of a 'passion mark' where her neck joined her shoulder, Michael Jackson pulled away, patting her shoulders.

“I...I shall remain a gentleman. It is quite difficult, as you do bring out the savage in me, Odette. But I greatly respect you and will give you the respect you deserve. One day we will cross that forbidden line, and become lovers...but not today.”

The top of her head was pecked, with Michael moving to the divan and taking a seat.

Picking up a black crystal statuette of a stallion and making it “gallop” through the air.

Odette stared at him.

It intrigued and confounded her how he could go from saying such naughty things, behaving so...like a cad from the stories she read in her magazines, then retreating off, playing with toys like a young boy.

How was this the same man?

It may have bothered, annoyed or worried others.

Not Odette Dufrense.

These quirks, showing themselves at the oddest of times only endeared Michael further to her.

The Morgana

Toronto, Canada

“... we'll have the French Onion Soup, to start, the Prime Rib—medium— the Haricot Verts with Shallots and the Potatoes Dauphinoise. Two glasses of my favorite Merlot, please, and thank you.”

Michael Jackson rattled of the order with the ease and finesse of a man whom had spent the greater portion of his adulthood dining in the finest of eateries.

There was no stumble in his words, his pronunciation of the French terms so perfect, he practically was a Parisien. (or closer, Quebecois)

And was doubly cosmopolitan.

“Excellent choice, Mr. Jackson,” The waiter, an erect-backed, stiff-necked man of about forty, in a tidy suit and tails, his hair slicked back and glistening with a healthy dose of Briliantine, remarked with inflated importance, picking up the menus, which had never been opened. Michael knew what he wanted the moment he'd set foot through the door.

“Will you be taking dessert, Sir?” The waiter lingered.

“Oh...” Michael trailed off, hand going into his suit jacket, recovering the ruby-studded cigarette case. “...I can't say directly. Depends on if we have room left after our meal.”

Tender brown eyes sought out the woman in the bronze dress watching him in silence.

Her pink ribbon of a mouth showing a sweet smile.

“Yes, Sir.” With that, the waiter made a dignified exit, weaving around tables until he vanished from sight.

The Morgana Steakhouse had already far exceeded any and all preconceived notions Odette Dufrense had come up with based partially on the flowery magazine stories and gossip she read by the dozens and her wildest dreams.

She had imagined a place that catered to the wealthiest of wealthy, film stars and perhaps heads of state.

And she was kind of right. There were no dignitaries or stars of celluloid in sight but there didn't need to be.

Michael Jackson was there—and that was all Odette needed to know The Morgana was quality.

Michael Jackson's preferred table was nestled in the easternmost corner of the dining room, which sat somewhere near three hundred patrons at full capacity as it was that afternoon.

As Mr. Jackson, until recently, usually dined at The Morgana alone, he was would utilize this perch to people watch and judge others by his lonesome.

Make up stories about who the people were, from whence they'd come and where they were going. Some were spies, bank robbers and jewel thieves. One afternoon he pretended a portly man of Italian descent was infamous American Gangster, Al Capone.

Mr. Jackson typically went for the food and stayed for the free entertainment.

It was a pale, inviting space, filled with what had to be the upper echelon of Toronto society, men in expensive suits, diamond and sapphire pinky rings on big, soft hands that had likely never known a true day's hard work; fragile, painted women in furs and designer gowns from all of the best fashion houses both in town and abroad. Some so new to town, they didn't even yet speak English—it didn't matter. They were there to look pretty and decorate the arms onto which they clung.

All glittering more than all the stars in the Milky Way.

Everyone looked, and were, indeed, expensive.

One thing, Odette noted, was that no one stared at Mr. Jackson, as they did anytime he ventured beyond the secure gates of his estate. He'd gone relatively undisturbed.

Sure, a few heads had turned as they'd alighted from the yellow coupe, and had given their outerwear to the coat check girl.

A couple of necks swiveled as the maitre d' had shown them to their table. (Boasting a special sign marked with the name Jackson.)

Several more appeared disgruntled when Michael had approached the fifteen-piece orchestra in the center of the room on an elevated bandstand, playing the latest jazz ditties and requested something slower, and classical by Claude Debussy.

And once fifteen palms had had something green placed into them, Debussy was all that was played thereafter.

This was certainly all a far cry from Toulouse Parish.

Odette had gone from scraps on the back steps of the Asylum to sitting beneath crystal chandeliers the size of automobiles, being watched larger than life paintings of the British Royal Family.

An official portrait of King George V stared down from its regal mount.

The best part of it was, Odette Dufrense, the daughter of a poor Creole farmer and his wife, fit in.

Into a world she shouldn't have belonged; but in her dress and eccentric chapeau, on Michael Jackson's arm; she fit right in and looked to have been born to such a world, rather just a visitor playing make-believe for a few hours.

It never occurred to her that Michael Jackson, one of ten born to a poor Colored family from the Midwest, had worked for decades to afford entree into such a cloistered, guarded, pricey club.

“Do you like this music?” Michael was cupping his face with a hand as he lit the cigarette dangling from his lips with a match, waving it out.

A piano-led, melancholic tune was floating through the air, competing with the general chatter and clink of bone china and heavy silverware.

“That's Fur Elise. I can have them play something else if you'd like...I know dozens of Debussy compositions...” He stopped when the smaller white hand laid atop his own larger one.

“You didn't have to change it in the first place.” Odette assured him. “The jazz was fine--”

“No.” Michael shook his head, hair flying. “I prefer lighter, more pleasant music when I dine. Jazz is for dancing or some other recreation, like when I beat the Hell out my nephews at Chess.”

Odette waved a hand indicating the rest of the room,

“What if the other diners had wanted to listen to jazz?”

A strange expression crossed Michael Jackson's handsome face,one where it was clear he hadn't given anyone else in the packed dining hall a single thought.

A sentiment he proved true, adding,

“I'm not worried about them; my only concern is you, Odette, and your enjoyment.”

She giggled.

“I am enjoying myself, honestly and truly.”

It was still so new, so strange to have someone looking out for her, caring about her interests and opinions.

Christ, he'd paid off an entire orchestra to play music for her amusement!

Running her fingertip along the edge of the linen tablecloth, she gazed up through her lashes across the low arrangement of silk roses, tulips and baby's breath at Michael, tapping ashes off into golden-rimmed ashtray.

“If you keep this up, I fear I shall become spoiled.”

She'd read that in one of those drawn-out periodical melodramas published one chapter at a time and it seemed to fit perfectly with the situation.

A ring of smoke floated over her head.

“A girl like you...deserves to be spoiled, Odette...” Michael began but fell silent as the waiter, followed by a sommelier, another man of bloated self-confidence, pushing a small rolling cart, that carried two crystal goblets and a magnum of wine.

“Here we are, Mr. Jackson...” He announced the cork being popped. “...your Rosetto 1895...”

Odette watched as the deeply red, trumped up grape juice commenced pouring and couldn't stop the words before they'd left her mouth,

“We can't have wine; there's Prohibition on!”

Slowly, three heads turned in unison, three sets of eyes widening at her in question and instantly Odette felt a dunce.

Her hand was gripped and plied .

“Prohibition is only in the United States...” Michael spoke gently as one would to a very small child, “...it doesn't exist in Canada. It did during The War, but not now. A person can drink as much or as little as they can handle provided they're over eighteen. And we both are.”

A glass, filled fashionably at three-quarters full was placed in front of her.

“I'm... I'm sorry, Michael.” She simpered, as the second glass was handed to him. “I forget things aren't like back in Louisiana. I've never had wine before in my life. I hope I'm not embarrassing you...”

The men were nodded at and gracefully, they evaporated.

“You needn't apologize...” Michael stood and with his foot, dragged the chair around the small round table so he could be seated closer to her, leaning in, so that only she could hear him.

“You'll adjust and get used to the ways here. Trust me. You have me guiding you.”

His arm was around her shoulders.

Michael Jackson may have valued discretion back on Juniper Island, but in public, in Toronto, he seemed not to care who saw him cuddling the wistful looking young girl in his company.

“I...I have plans for you, Odette. Things I want to do for you. You are my girlfriend, now. My Sweetheart. And in my mind, you're to be treated just like any of the women in my family. Taken care of, looked after, given whatever you could desire or need. You will have clothes, jewelry. We will go on trips abroad. I want you to have your schooling with a private tutor. Learn languages. I can speak English, French and German all fluently. I'd like to you pick it up also. It'll be helpful when we go to Europe. If you'd like an automobile of your own, you can have it and be taught to drive—my sister, Latoya, has a pink coupe her husband gave her for her birthday last year. You see, Odette...”

She was squeezed tighter, her cheek nuzzled after,

“You're a brilliant, sharp girl. I knew that the moment I first spoke to you. You may be from the country, never finishing primary school due to extenuating circumstances, but I can tell you're extremely bright. How you speak, how you carry yourself, You are shy, in a new place, but you do have the makings to be a great, regal lady. My lady. I want to help you...not only be your most beautiful self on the outside, but enrich your mind, help it grow. Beauty can fade with time; intellect is forever...”

Seeing tears starting to glisten on her cheeks, a red handkerchief was drawn from a pocket and commenced dabbing.

“You mustn't cry every time something happens. You'll dehydrate yourself.” Michael chastised as she sniffled and wiped after her nose.

“I can't help it...” Odette snotted. “...have one of your Doctor Nephews re-hydrate me.”

Chzzzzzk!

Michael had been drinking his wine and choked on it as the quip tickled him so.

“See, you've a quick wit...” He was beaming with pride as she reached for her glass and went to tilt it to her mouth.

And found his hand gripping hers in warning.

“Slowly...that's a sipping wine, not gulping wine. If you drink it too quickly you'll become drunk. Intoxication is not becoming of any lady.”

Obediently, Odette took a small sip, and while the wine was quite sweet and fruity, there was a subtle burn to the back of her throat as she swallowed.

But she didn't need wine or sherry, or brandy or any kind of liquor, or even opium.

She was already drunk... off of Michael Jackson.

He was truly all she needed.

* * *

“...and that's how my brother Tito managed to sink two different schooners, two different summers in the French Riviera...!” Michael Jackson, on his third glass of wine, had loosened up, within gentlemanly means, and over the last hour and a half, as dinner had arrived in courses, had been regaling Odette with anecdotes about various members of his family, to the point Odette felt she had known them her entire life through.

Everything from how his father, Joseph, had fallen from a balcony when his sister's pet cat had leapt on him one night—and broken an ankle—to how his nephew, a cousin of the Doctors Jackson, nicknamed Siggy, had broken out a window with a wayward baseball and had managed to evade his father, Michael's brother Jackie, for almost two days to avoid punishment, to just now, how Tito lost two boats after some shenanigans involving Italian wine, Cuban cigars and a Belgian dancing girl from the next town over.

Odette was greatly enjoying spending time with Michael Jackson.

Talking with him, allowing him to feed her juicy, rosy-centered beef, scalloped potatoes and crisp, fresh green beans. Some of the best, most delicious food she'd ever eaten. (There had been some confusion over the first course, the French Onion soup, which had arrived with a cap of toasted croutons under a layer of thickly melted Gruyere, and had to be instructed by Michael how to balance a spoon with one hand, a knife in the other, to cut a hole through the cheese in order to scoop all of the components into her mouth at once, for the best flavor payoff. French Onion Soup had become her favorite soup in that first, rich, savory spoonful...and she vowed to learn to replicate it at home.)

She felt she was seeing a Michael Jackson few knew.

Certainly not his servants, as he was more formal, more restrained with them. And she'd never seen him drink any type of alcohol at his home, though she'd heard murmurs of his having an extensive wine cellar in his fabled basement.

One couldn't trade intimate stories with those he had to manage—my, what a field day Elsie would have had, had her ears picked up such tantalizing tales of humor and reckless abandon.

Such a blurring of lines between boss and employee would have led to a breakdown of professionalism and inspired anarchy.

Of course, Odette forgot to include herself in this narrative, for, as long as she had on that ensemble from LaVonda's, she wasn't a servant.

She was Michael Jackson's Sweetheart.

And that was the best title in all the world.

“...we can go for dessert after my meeting with Armand.” Odette's cheek was pinched with one hand, Michael looking at a diamond-pave pocket-watch with the other, showing the time as a quarter past four. “I'd like to see how my suit looks on me without a fudge sundae in my gut, bloating me out.”

Odette was simply floating.

The evening...had the evening been real?

Had she really dined in this magnificent restaurant? Had two glasses of wine from a bottle that cost more than a year's salary? Been a welcomed guest here?

And...she could come back! All she had to do was ask Michael.

Michael was the key which unlocked the door to allow her unbridled access at will.

A single finger was waved in the air.

There was no sound, no fanfare.

The same serious waiter came quickly, carrying their coats—the fur trimmed evening coat for her, a simple, sleek black trench for him, and hat— a black fedora for him—and helped them into the luxe garments.

“Thank you...God Bless You...” Michael, hands together in leather gloves bowed in appreciation, and draped an arm around Odette, squeezing her possessively to his side.

Smelling quite heavily of Minuit, as though doused in it.

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.” The waiter waved after them. “Please, come again!”

“Ah...another delicious meal at my favorite place, with my favorite person.” Michael mused as they crossed the threshold from the dining room, back into the lobby where a line at least fifty deep stood at the reception booth and went tumbling out of the open doors, allowing the icy air to waft in.

Odette's plump lips curled churlishly, when as soon as she and Mr. Jackson left the dining room, the Debussy piece that had been played, stopped abruptly, the raucous jazz swiftly resuming.

As the pair exited the establishment, joining the never-ceasing throng of people going here, there and everywhere, Michael spoke up, arm tightening around Odette ever more,

“Armand's is only about three blocks from here. We can easily walk over. I'll have someone bring my car around, rather than be stuck for a half hour in the coupe to go that same distance.”

With a nod of permission from Odette, they began a leisurely pace, different from those around them whom all seemed in a hurry, moving quickly, some nearly running.

Odette had often heard that people naturally moved faster in big metropolises like these, and with her own steely grey eyes, she could testify that this was a true statement.

Odette Dufrense felt as though she were dreaming—she had to be.

Was she really walking in downtown Toronto, being kissed by snow flurries, the late afternoon sun bloody, as it sank towards the horizon?

Hugged to Michael, feeling his lips on her earlobe? Looking so much like the loving couple they were!

She loved this freedom: freedom to be with him, as they truly were, freedom from scrutiny and wagging tongues.

They rounded a corner, heading westward,and what had been wall to wall eateries, became shops and boutiques on either side of the street, with cars moving down the middle at a sluggish pace.

Anything a person could want appeared to be for sale, as displayed by huge, brightly lit windows: apparel, shoes, major appliances, furniture. Even chubby baby dolls and blue steel toy pop-guns for little girls and boys.

Through glass-fronted doors Odette could see shoppers, mostly women, perusing and discussing wares with knowledgeable clerks.

And a thought occurred to her, prompting a small hand, in a silk glove, to pat at the larger hand cradling her shoulder,

“Hmm?”

“Is Armand's a store like LaVonda's?”

“Not exactly...” His fingers drummed out a random tune. “...LaVonda's is a ready-to-wear clothing store. I just ring them with what I want to buy and its sent over. Armand's sells clothes, but almost everything is bespoke.”

Seeing the loss of understanding at that last term, Michael explained,

“Custom-made. All the clothing he and his team constructs are custom designed and hand made.”

Odette nodded with a very bare understanding. She remembered Michael lamenting that clothing options were limited for men and he did have the means to create as he wanted.

No one was more finely dressed than Michael Jackson.

“Does he only make suits?”

“No, he creates for women, too.” An arched brow raised in earnest at her. “When the time comes, we shall consult him to create garments for you, too” Her nose was booped with a fingertip. Her heart fluttered at the idea of dresses made for her and only her. That no one else would have a duplicate.

Leaning she pecked his smooth, cool cheek.

“Thank you--”

“Jackson women don't follow the trends; they set them.” Michael stated matter-of-factly and the hair rose on Odette's neck.

He...he considered her a Jackson woman?

Like his sisters? And sisters-in-law? And his nephews wives?

His mother? Her mind recalled the elegant woman in the portrait on the landing of Rosewyck.

She gazed up at him wonder. Studying his profile, as he continued to look ahead.

How quickly his view of her had shifted. How easily he said these things and made these assumptions, as if they'd always been true.

For him to think of her this way, was the greatest compliment and she blinked back tears.

Odette didn't want to be caught crying again.

She was going to be somebody in this world!

Suddenly Michael stopped in front of an old, masonry building that appeared to go up for five stories, seemed to take up a good third of the city block and resembled a brownstone on the order of those found in New York City.

High-set stairs ran up to a pair of glass doors and on either side, gabled windows showed sedate suits solids and checks.

At one of the doors, the face of a boy in his early teens had been pressed, and at the sight of Mr. Jackson separating from the crowd, starting to climb, he'd run off, screaming into the bowels of the building.

By the time Michael and Odette had reached the door, the boy, dressed smartly in a shawl collar sweater and plaid knickerbockers had returned to the door, holding it open.

“Good evening, Mr. Jackson, Ma'am!” He chimed brightly, Michael patting his head and replying, “Hello Lucian, is your father about?”

“Oh, yes Sir!” The boy nodded, slick hair refusing to move. “He's putting the finishing touches on your suit as we speak and he will be over to see you straightaway. Please...”

They were led a few steps in, to an elegant showroom in shades of a dull orange and dark wood, stuffed mannequins scattered about wearing variants of suits, ties and pocket squares amidst leather armchairs. Along one wall were dozens of bolts of different fabrics and distantly the hum and clack of sewing machines were audible.

In the far corner was a bank of mirrors, with a pedestal in front of each, for the trying on and studying of new suits.

Balanced precariously on one of these pedestals was a rather fat man, his waist wider than his height, bobbing like a tethered Zeppelin and struggling to see around himself, squinting at what seemed a lackluster brown suit. (But considering his girth, likely had to be custom made regardless.)

The gentleman was a living, breathing boulder in that suit. A manly mountain.

“Monsieur Jackson, bonjour!” A strange, nasally voice called, butchering the simplest of French phrases.

A short man, barely knocking five feet, silvery blonde hair combed strictly back accenting an unbecomingly high forehead, came strutting out from a hidden door, the boy whom had greeted them in tow. He wore a tidy navy suit, a bright yellow ascot at his throat.

Hand out flaccidly to shake, and displaying a gold signet ring stamped with an 'A'.

“Armand, good to see you.” If Michael were at all put off by this man's undeniable effeminacy, he didn't let on and shook the limp noddle extending from his down turned wrist.

“Monsieur Jackson always a pleasure...” Wimpy brown eyes shifted to Odette.

“My goodness...” Odette's hand was grasped in that noodle with her arm wagged back and forth. “...and who might this jeune fille be?”

If Michael Jackson had smiled any harder, he'd have swallowed his own head.

He was proud of her? Proud to be seen in her company?

“May I present Miss Odette Dufrense. Odette, this is Armand.”

There was no Mister, no last name. He was simply Armand and that was all.

“Mademoiselle Dufrense, enchantee.” Armand bowed dramatically and behind him, Lucian rolled his eyes, mouth crumpling to one side of his face.

It was clear his father's antics were a put on and after years of it each day, the boy didn't bother to hide his contempt.

“A pleasure to meet you too...” Odette was at once shy, Armand leering a bit too long at her.

“Are you French, Mademoiselle Dufrense?” Every little tooth in his head was showing itself at her and had Lucian rolled his eyes any harder they'd have skipped right out their sockets.

“Creole--”

“Ah!”

“Is my suit ready? I wanted to wear it this Sunday for Mass and for dinner with my family...” Odette was deftly steered to a nearby chair, out of Armand's gaze and grasp, and sat, as Michael began stripping off his trench in anticipation.

The coat, hat and gloves were set in the chair beside Odette.

“Oui!” Armand grinned and was placing a hand on his back, pushing him towards the wall of mirrors. “The last few stitches went in not ten minutes ago! I shall bring it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Michael, turning, blew a kiss to Odette and was gone from view, ushered into a room that had been concealed by a mirrored door.

“Andre! Antoine! Etienne! Tout de suite!”

Armand called rapidly in French, his pronunciation improving, the sound of feet running and skidding on the polished wood floor came from far off.

Odette sat silently and contently, looking around the shop with interest. Aside from the obese man, now being helped into a jacket of Glenn plaid by another solemn worker, she believed Michael was the only customer in the store.

Across from her, Lucian, his arm draped with a necktie in an eclectic paisley of royal purple and chartreuse, approached a suit of tan wool, an unseasonably light color more suited for spring or summer, and began to change out the black and beige dotted tie originally around the headless neck of the dressform.

Updating it for the clientele, absent though they may have been that evening.

“Where's my vest? There's supposed to also be a vest with these clothes! I ordered a vest! We designed a vest, Armand!” Michael's voice, tinged with agitation reached her ears and she turned to stare past the fat man—the back of his suit jacket ripping—and could hear Armand and a second man arguing in rapid-fire French at one another.

Michael's voice, octaves higher, cut above them shrilly,

“I signed off on a vest weeks ago! When I consulted you about the fabric and button selection—Armand!”

Odette stared at the mirrors, the fat man finally falling from the pedestal with a groan, his helper exclaiming as he rushed to his aid.

Button selection? Michael Jackson was so detailed in the construction of this suit, he'd even had to choose which buttons he'd fasten it with?

It seemed so silly, and yet made the utmost sense. Michael's attention to detail was scathing and nothing escaped his crucial eye it seemed.

“It will be found Monsieur, don't you worry! Damn it, Etienne, go get that vest! Find it! How do you lose an entire vest? You saw me finishing it this morning! Monsieur Jackson, I'm so sorry!”

“This is highly unprofessional--”

“Sir, I do apologize!”

“I spoke so well of you to Miss Dufrense--”

“Mr. Jackson, please accept a discount!”

“Well...if you insist...”

Frantic feet were departing, and more male voices came together in a cacophony of French and English expletives.

“How the Hell did you misplace it?”

“Armand misplaced it, not me, damn it!”

“Something that color—how the fuck?”

“Hey! There's a lady out front, cut that cursing out!”

“This is the first time I've ever seen Mr. Jackson with a lady that wasn't his mother!”

The new tie fastened to his liking, Lucian came up with a lint roller and started to go over the suit. As Lucian tended to his duties, moving to a second suit of a deeper toffee color, a little girl appeared, and surprised Odette, as she hadn't seen or heard the front door to the shop open.

The child appeared to be about ten years old, outfitted in a coat of deep gold wool, trimmed in what looked to be red fox fur—a notion Odette found laughable. Children's coats didn't have genuine fur on them, did they?—and a tam, a fur pompom decorating the top of it.

The child was quite pretty and to Odette's well trained eye, she could tell the girl was of mixed race—though she possessed dark blonde hair, styled into Mary Pickford-type ringlets that trailed to the mid-back, and bright, sapphire-blue eyes—there were telltale signs: her slightly wider nose and pouted lips showed she had Colored blood in her veins, along with a naturally tanned complexion. No full-blooded White person would ever be that dark at the tail-end of January in Canada. Not even the more exotic strains such as Italian or Greek.

What shocked Odette about this child, aside from her coat, was her face.

Not her features, but what had been done to them.

The child wore a full face of cosmetics: powder, showing slightly lighter than her neck giving her a ghostly cast, black eyeliner and mascara, red rouge on her little cheeks and a darker scarlet on her mouth.

And it hadn't been applied messily like a child playing dress-up on their mother's vanity; it had been applied precisely and with expertise. Had she done it herself?

Or, worse, had an adult applied it for her?

Who would paint a child in such a way?

For what purpose?

Odette watched, as the child removed her mittens, showing she had crimson nails—this child had a manicure? Who'd given a manicure to a mere child?

Who was this baby-woman? What business did she have with Armand?

If someone wheeled out a tiny evening gown, Odette would have screamed.

The girl regarded Lucian, ignorant to her and steadily removing lint, a tiny foot in a kid boot tapping impatiently.

Her red lips parted, with her announcing in, a curt, clipped English accent,

“Lucian!”

The teen visibly cringed at the sound of his name, and without turning, scoffed roughly,

“I already told you on the telephone; its not ready yet.”

The little girl, bristled and hands went to tiny hips, admonishing with a sauciness far beyond her years,

“Well, you quit playing with that godforsaken dummy and go get it ready!”

Odette was completely taken aback and was left to stare. She'd never heard a child command as this one, and knew if Madame had been anywhere in earshot, this child would have been clubbed mercilessly for her impertinence.

It was clear, by her dress and grooming, the child came from money, and perhaps no one had dared intervene upon her behavior.

No one deserved a beating naturally, but a lick or two might have benefited this audacious brat.

“I can't just go get it, Child—my father and everyone else is absolutely swamped and occupied with our best client.” Lucian glanced over his shoulder, shook his head and lifted a sleeve, de-fuzzing it.

The girl gasped as though she'd been backhanded.

“Why—you listen here, you lowly clerk! My family has spent thousands--”

Lucian spun,

“You're in here raising Hell over five school dresses, when we got a fella in here right this second who buys fifty suits a years, and that's not counting special events like Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year's either! He's a Big Wheel and you're just a kid. Now do like I said and beat it!”

A thumb was thrown towards the door.

“Hit the door!”

Golden curls swung as the girl, starting to grow as rosy as her mouth, stamped a tiny foot, her jaw loosening with acidity,

“How dare you speak to me in such a fashion? You fool! Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is? A Big Wheel—you act like my Papa isn't somebody, and I assure you, he most certainly is, you dolt! I shall have you fired! Where the devil is Armand? Get him! I demand to see him now!”

Odette's head came up in alarm, as Michael Jackson, in his new suit, went brushing past her briskly.

“Mich--” She started and a finger wagged, silencing her.

The little girl kept fuming, Michael stepping up behind her, as she continued to berate poor Lucian,

“My Mama engaged Armand to make my dresses and they were to be completed this evening! What am I to wear to school come Monday? My chemise and nothing else! You can't be so stupid as to expect payment without delivering on a promise for work to be rendered! I should sue! My cousin Auggie is an attorney, you stupid bast--”

“Cornelia Katherine Jackson!”

The words hung in the air.

Odette, so stunned, she rose to her feet, mouth agape.

This...this tiny raving beast in the fur collar, was Dr. Taryll Jackson's daughter!

At the mention of her name, Cornelia staggered, mouth slamming shut and her eyes swelled taking up the greater portion of her little heart-shaped face.

Slowly, she pivoted and stared up at him,

“Uncle Michael!” She cried, defrocked, Lucian echoing her soundlessly, appearing shocked as well; it was clear he didn't realize they were related.

The fear in that boy's face was palpable. He'd been giving the niece of the shop's very best patron a hard time ruthlessly.

Surely, Michael was going to withdraw his patronage at such an egregious upset and disrespect of his blood relations.

Bracing his hands on his thighs, Michael learned down so his face was close to hers,

“Corny...” His voice was heavy with exasperation. “I've told you time and time again, that just because your father is a doctor and you have more than most does not give you the right to talk to people any kind of way. There's more to people than what's in their pockets! And a person isn't less than dependent on what he has or doesn't have in the bank...”

Cornelia had begun to whine and a large hand gripped her arm tightly,

“I don't care what your mother says. She is wrong. Putting on airs and acting like you're better than other people does nothing but reflect poorly on her and the rest of our family. And I won't have you out here in public making a spectacle of yourself—what in Hell is all over your face—and embarrassing us! I'm not going to let you prance around this City acting a spoiled brat. Who are you with, Amelia or Taryll?”

Cornelia mumbled something and Michael raised her slightly on tiptoe,

“Who? Speak clearly to me when I address you, because I'm extremely disappointed with your behavior right now! You spoke clearly enough yelling at Lucian!”

“My Papa--”

“Where is he?”

“Down the street getting a magazine--”

“Go get him, now! Hurry! Hurry, I say!”

Large hands wrapped her curly head and Cornelia was nearly thrown in the direction of the door.

Odette was breathless, as Michael went to Lucian and clapped a hand on his shoulder in remorse.

“I'm sorry you were treated so poorly. It will be corrected. Please accept my sincerest apologies. We don't raise the children in our family to behave this way.”

“It's quite alright, Sir. Really!” Lucian was nodding, still surely worried that any discourse would drive Jackson Family Dollars away.

Across the room, Armand and the other workers stared on grimly; the fat man trying to button a white dinner jacket shut over his gut.

The door to the shop opened again, and through it stomped Dr. Taryll Jackson, bundled in a coat and striped scarf, a copy of Popular Mechanics under his arm, all but dragging a now weeping Cornelia after him.

“Uncle Michael?” Hazel eyes were huge and pleading as Michael stormed to him, both whispering rapidly. Fingers being pointed downward at Cornelia crying into a pink lace hanky, her name stitched in black on it.

Rage leaping from Michael's face to Taryll's with Taryll shaking his head to the point the flat cap on his head fell off at his feet.

Cornelia was half-carried half-dragged to Lucian.

“You apologize to this boy right now for acting abhorrently. I'm furious!” Taryll all but screamed, and Cornelia began to bumble her way through a forced apology. Snot and tears flying.

“I'm...I'm sorry for speaking so rudely to you...” Cornelia was stammering and shrinking under the glares of both her father and great-uncle.

“...cutting up like this....I can't believe it...my daughter....” Taryll had been lamenting, hand to his beard when he took sight of the woman hovering nearby, in the black fur-rimmed coat and hat with the huge bow.

The woman watching with keen interest, as Cornelia was shaking Lucian's hand, begging his forgiveness and stating her actions were Un-Christian and inhumane.

After a long moment, Taryll recognized the stranger as the newest addition to the Rosewyck staff.

A brow went up, the hazel eye beneath it twinkling with a strange knowing and he turned back to his uncle,

“...and I told her not to wear that makeup! She's not even supposed to have it, but Amelia went around me and had Auntie Latoya ship it over from France. Kid's got more paint on her than the Sistine Chapel!”

“Why does she have access to makeup in the first place? She's ten-years-old! Surely its not allowed at the Catholic school.” Michael was shrugging out of the jacket and Armand sprinted to take it from him.

Taryll shrugged,

“It's not. I've been called to the school three times over her wearing it to class. It's not allowed, but it's two against one! Amelia thinks it 'modern'. I don't like it--”

“You tell her that.” Michael poked Taryll in the chest. “I won't have my niece running around...indecent like this, talking crude and crass and any kind of way. Looking any kind of way. You were raised better than that, and damn it, Taryll, you raise yours better too! You understand me?”

“Yes--”

“And if Amelia has a differing opinion, she knows where to find me.”

Michael Jackson turned with Armand high stepping to keep pace, returned to the dressing room.

“You know Amelia won't dare come!” Taryll called after him helplessly.

“She will dare come, she'll be at the house for Sunday dinner.”

“Uncle Michael...she won't!” Taryll stooped to retrieve his hat and was mashing into to a mess of fabric.

Michael disappeared, the rest of the entourage flying into the dressing room after him.

Odette was left standing there, as Taryll, hands to his head, turned to his child, still carrying on, and picked her up bodily.

Carrying her from the store.

Odette Dufrense sank to her seat, winded.

A bit frightened, now.

She had been entertaining herself with fantasies of the day she'd be Mrs. Michael Jackson, if God has saw fit to bless her in so great a way, but...

If she married Michael, she would become aunt to Cornelia. And it was clear that child had no qualms of disregarding people she deemed not of her station. Considering Odette came from nothing, was currently a domestic servant,just how would that child regard her? The other children? She knew Cornelia was being raised up alongside TJ's Jessilynn and Taj's twins, Theodosia and Thomasina.

Did all four of them treat people that way?

The rest of the Jackson cousins, the family?

Odette was already traumatized by events that hadn't yet happened.

* * *

It was close to the midnight hour, when the fancy, foreign-made, goldenrod coupe pulled to a halt in front of the Main House of Rosewyck Manor.

Following the run-in with that little tornado named Cornelia, Michael Jackson, clearly troubled, but seemingly not wanting to speak about it, had taken Odette over to The Palace where several hours had been merrily wasted watching comedies featuring Charlie Chaplin, Charley Chase, Harold Lloyd and Larry Semon.

Odette figured he was trying to hide his embarrassment and despair in senseless laughter.

They'd had the theatre to themselves, as before, and in addition to the Tabasco-tinged popcorn and cherry sodas, a fudge sundae for two, slipping over with chopped walnuts, maraschino cherries and globs of whipped cream had been rushed from The Morgana for them.

The first sundae Odette had ever tasted, the mix of sweet and salty flavors were thrilling for her. Michael had claimed she could have sundaes as she liked. Things like ice creams and milkshakes and malts were for enjoying and he wanted her to enjoy as much as she wanted. All she had to do was let him know and he would get it for her, straightaway.

Was this how life was for the rich?

Just a string of things to do for one's own amusement and enjoyment?

Bobbing from one carefree pursuit to the next?

She could get used to this.

She wanted to get used to this.

This strange, odd, fanciful style of life.

Michael Jackson slipped around the car and helped Odette out, walking her up the steps to the front door, his arms hugged around her hips, the porch partially lit from the lights of the front hall.

“I...I need to speak to you...” Michael announced as soon as they'd entered the vestibule. “...it's terribly important...”

“Alright...” Odette allowed herself to be escorted to the living room, where a fire had been left roaring in the hearth.

She knew what he wanted to talk about.

As she perched herself on the end of the divan nearest the fireplace, she waited.

Watched as Michael crossed the room to his Victrola. Turning the crank a few times and placing the needle on the record that had been left on the turntable.

A Beethoven composition spilling forth.

“Did...did you enjoy yourself tonight, Odette?”

His back remained turned.

“Oh, yes...I always have a splendid time with you, Michael. Thank you for showing me such a lovely evening.” Odette was peeling her gloves off.

There air around her was tense, electric.

She could feel it coming.

“I do apologize for the scene that occurred at Armand's--”

“Really, it's no--” Odette started and was cut off sharply,

“Yes! Yes, it was a problem!”

Hands pressing the polished inlaid wood, Mr. Jackson sagged against the record player.

“That was your first time seeing Cornelia. That was your very first impression of Taryll's only daughter. My great-niece. And what do you see? That she is spoiled, rude, entitled and impertinent. You see, I didn't even introduce you. I...I don't want you to think that all the children of the family behave so atrociously.”

“I don't--”

“Some of them can be high-minded, certainly. The children aren't ignorant. They can see how they live. How its different from others. Especially when they visit me here. They have to come through a modest country town. Ride in chauffeured cars to Rosewyck. They see the difference. Come to my big house. All have big houses of their own. They go visiting their relatives around the globe; more big houses. Behind tall fences in the more exclusive area of whatever city they happen to be in. All of their schoolmates are of like kind. Wealthy scions of wealthy, connected families. And it's gone to Cornelia's head. Because of her mother.”

With a sigh, he faced her, leaning back on the player, the needle skipping.

“It...kind of scares me. Because Amelia's background is something like yours, Odette. She was once a simple, innocent, girl from a rural town. Taryll met Amelia in the English countryside about a year before The War started. Taryll used to live in England. Amelia and her parents ran a small in near where Taryll lived and was stationed—he was a field medic. One day the fighting got particularly close. There was shelling, bombing, and out of the mess and muck, Amelia came running. Screaming. Crying. The inn had been hit. Her parents...they were gone. She ran to Taryll; he was all she had. Taryll loved her...married her. Saw to it that she was moved here to Canada. Most of the family lived here until The War ended. They fled Europe. Amelia was already expecting Cornelia. By the time Taryll was on holiday furlough, he was a father. Cornelia was born right upstairs here, in one of the guest rooms. And Amelia...well she'd never had much to start with and then lost what little she had. In a way, Taryll wanted her to never want for anything again. He spoiled her. Both of them. His wife and daughter. Indulged their ever whim. Never really told either 'no' and you see what its like now. What Cornelia is like. And her mother constantly bloats her head, talking of how big and important not only Taryll is, but the family. And that's how come Cornelia has such a damn ego on her. She's Taryll Jackson's daughter. Michael Jackson's niece. She only cares about names and wealth. You saw her! She's ten and a tiny woman. Not a child. Not a little girl! I've already heard her talking about who she'll probably marry when she gets older. At ten! When I was ten, I wanted to catch frogs, climb trees and annoy my sisters. Didn't know jack shit about marriage. I didn't even like girls at that age—they had Cooties to me! I don't agree with how Amelia is rearing Cornelia. And I know one day she's going to do or say something that no amount of money or her name will get her out of.”

Odette was quiet, Michael walking to her, dropping to his knees and hugging hers.

Putting his head into her lap.

“Odette...I worry. You don't know how I worry! How I sit up nights. I love you, deeply, with everything in me. Since the day I saw you standing there, offering me tea at the Asylum, One day, one day soon,in the upcoming weeks, we will announce our being together. I want to court you properly. The right way. Have you meet my family. But I worry. I...hope to marry you one day.”

Odette couldn't breathe, and could only stare at the top of his head, speechless.

He wanted to marry her?

He'd only known her six days and he was already thinking of it?

God, had he known it the moment he'd seen her? As he had known of his love for her?

Without knowing a thing about her to start with?

She was going to be Mrs. Michael Jackson?

Again, she wanted to cry, and salty tears began to sting her eyes.

But she willed them away. She had to stop crying over everything.

Michael had said that.

She had to be strong.

She knew she could. She was a Dufrense girl. And God willing, she would become a Jackson woman.

“Michael...my Sweet Darling...”

Tenderly, as she'd wanted for the longest, she put her hand in his hair, stroking it.

Feeling his silken strands between her fingers.

His colonge drifting from his head in a sensual haze.

He made no moves to stop her.

“I...Odette, I'd love to start a family with you. But I'm terrified that we'd have a brat like Cornelia--”

“We won't.” Odette said it so coolly she scared herself, and the chiseled, whitened face turned upwards to view her.

Eyes encapsulating his entire visage, arched brows meeting his hairline.

“How can you be so sure? Cornelia comes from my family, my blood. She's been reared in the best schools, she's been going to the nuns as all did all of her cousins since she was five years old.”

Grey eyes met brown ones grimly.

“Amelia is not your daughter, Michael.”

Leaning she smooched his smooth, pale forehead.

“She may have been born here, but she wasn't raised here. You didn't raise her—Taryll and his wife did. You aren't responsible for her upbringing, even if you don't agree with certain aspects of it.”

Michael Jackson's lips parted, but he said nothing, looking as if he were seeing the world for the first time.

“When...” Odette touched after his cheek. “...when we have a child, we will raise him or her the right way. Kind, humble, respectful of others...”

His eyes were sparkling.

“How...how do you know all of this, Odette?” His voice was a hushed, awed whisper. “How do you have it all figured out, Baby?”

He pulled himself up onto the divan beside her.

Searching the stern little face with it's chin poked out.

Odette answered him, but wasn't looking at him.

No...she was looking back, through the years, at that little clapboard, whitewashed farm house.

“I've always wanted to be like the mother I never got have.”

Odette had long wanted to be like Lysette Dufrense before her. A kind, loving, doting figure, tending house and raising a child or children.

Michael Jackson's children.

However many God saw fit to bless them with.

Soft lips were attacking her cheeks and face. Drowning her in kisses.

Michael vowing between pecks.

“You will be, Odette! You will be!”