Chapter Eight--PART TWO

 Chapter Eight: Part Two

By five am, on the morning of February thirteenth, calmness had once again been restored to the Rosewyck estate.

Behind a shut door, situated at the very rear of the first floor of Michael Jackson's grand showplace, a single light flicked on and a lazy hand slapped at the clock to silence it's incessant ringing.

Throwing back the quilts, Odette stifled a yawn before staggering out to draw herself a hot bath and prepare for her day.

Nervous excitement permeated the air around the teen; she was looking forward to her very first, official, salon visit at Cecelia's in downtown Toronto, but was a bit scared just the same.

She knew Her Mr. Jackson had promised a 'day of beauty' to prepare for Valentine's, but had never specified exactly what all was to be done.

From reading various movie and fashion magazines, she had learned that ladies of leisure—the line of which was very much blurred for her at that moment—received facials, manicures, pedicures and massages, hair removal treatments—oh, so many things to keep themselves slim, youthful and attractive for the male gaze.

(Odette wanted to always be appealing to Michael Jackson's eye.)

As far as her hair was concerned, the jet, naturally waved tresses that tumbled far past her shoulders, Odette knew the idea of bobbing it—no matter how popular the trend may have become—was out of the question.

Michael admired her long hair, touched and twirled locks of it often, ran his hands through it when hugging and kissing her. She'd never deprive the man she loved of so simple a pleasure.

If the topic arose, she's decline and shut it down once and for all.

As water rushed into the tub, frothing up from the addition of the floral bubble bath, Odette moved to the sink where she picked up a pink Lucite toothbrush, dipped it into a jar of Dr. Welson's Peppermint Tooth-Powder, and cleaned her mouth, swishing and spitting discreetly.

To keep her hair from getting wet as she bathed, she gathered it atop her head in a loose bun, held in place by several pins.

Satisfied that the tub was finally filled to her liking, Odette Dufrense stripped off her white gown and combination, standing nude in the somewhat chilled bathroom, as the radiator struggled to warm the space, and slipped into the hot water, cooing softly.

She never could understand how she'd managed to live so many years at the orphanage without regularly bathing.

Odette knew her appearance upon first meeting Michael Jackson had to have been positively ghastly and the way she'd smelled...

And the man had still seen something within her in which to fall in love.

It was astounding!

As she reclined, cherishing the heat and steam enveloping her, only a few meters away, there was movement.

The door to the bedroom cracked, a large brown eye, rimmed in a smudging of kohl, pressed to the crevice, ensuring the coast was clear.

Seeing that, the room was indeed, devoid of that feminine presence, the door swung open.

And through it, Michael Jackson eased, nearly a dozen boxes of a mint and white striped pattern, heaped in his arms. Every last box-top bearing the swirling emblem around bold lettering: Avonlea of New York, Established 1847.

Michael, on tiptoe, paused, his ear attuned for any sound coming from the slightly gaped door of the bathroom.

The only sounds were of the water splashing and Odette humming in a soft, delicate soprano.

She would be occupied for a while, but he had to work fast.

Glancing around, he saw that Odette had set out a very modest outfit for her jaunt into The City—a dress of dark blue wool with a wide collar of cheap, white , cotton eyelet lace. Obviously one of the dresses that had been hastily bought back in Louisiana. Beneath where the dress had been laid on the foot of her bed, was a pair of white plain stockings and her well worn black pumps.

Quickly the items were put back into the armoire from whence they'd come.

Michael couldn't help but grin as he began opening the boxes and fumbling through tissue paper, to remove an outfit more befitting his girlfriend.

A Jackson Lady.

A pale pink—his sister, Maureen, warned it may have been too pale for winter but he'd ignored that bit of advice—silk frock made in the peasant style, with off-white smocking about the neck and dropped waist. Long fingers ran over the floral embroidered balloon sleeves.

A matching pink cloche with an off white band of lace around it and a massive rosette on one side was placed beside the dress.

An ecru teddy that was more lace than anything went on the bed next, with pink garters—embroidered around with MJ in a contrasting pale green, so whomever happened to see it, knew whom Odette belonged to—and pink leather strappy pumps.

A simple handbag, of pink crushed velvet with a silk, tassel-adorned cord was finally set down and opened.

Rummaging in his pocket, Michael Jackson produced a thick roll of bills and counted off one hundred dollars, in ten-dollar notes, folding and stuffing it into the bag.

Another box was opened: a lush coat, more an evening than day coat, but such details failed to bother him, of more pink velvet, closing along one side with gold-braided Chinese-style fasteners and heart-shaped brass buttons.

Again, fingers caressed the fabric, velvet on the outside and dyed pink mink fur on the inside for warmth. That coat had been the most expensive piece, nearly five figures, but Michael Jackson didn't care. It was for his living, breathing doll, and but pennies to him.

The look was completed by a pair of pink kid gloves.

He loved buying and dressing his little doll up in finery.

“...bah...bah...bah....someone put your hand out...” Odette was still singing, as she reclined in the tub, water and bubbles up to her shoulders, eyes closing and she sighed, smiling so deeply a dimple appeared in one cheek.

How she did so love taking baths.

“...bah...bah...so...” She crooned tossing her sponge absently from one hand to the other.

The nostrils on her streamlined nose twitched, picking up a scent.

So strong, it easily cut through all of the rosy, florally scent of both the bubble bath and her French-milled soap.

A musky, aroma, mixed with hints of bergamot and sandalwood. An aroma Odette Dufrense knew better than she knew herself.

Grey eyes shot open.

And found the serenely smiling face of Her Mr. Jackson bobbing above her.

“Michael?” She gasped sitting upright, the water just barely keeping her bared bosom from exposure.

Dark eyes took in the damp globes for a scant moment, returning to her face.

“Darling...” His grin grew larger as he shifted from one foot to the next, each encased in an argyle sock and patent loafer.

She found that Michael was already dressed for the day, and was so fetching, in a powder blue oxford, worn casually without a tie and loosened at the throat, with navy trousers and suspenders.

The laid-back theme continued with his hair. Instead of being painstakingly straightened with a hot comb, which Odette knew took him at least a hour and a half, daily, it had been left in it's natural state, long, glossy ebony curls fluffing about his shoulders.

“...I wanted to ask a favor of you. I have a letter I need mailed and seeing as you and Taj will drive right by the post office on the way to the marina, would you mail it for me? It's a letter to Mother.”

“Of course...” Odette was nodding as Michael dropped down to his knees at the side of the tub.

“I had a special thought.” He was touching after his dimpled chin, eyes on those round mounds again. “Since you're going to be dressed up anyway—there's a new frock and all in your room that magically appeared from some boutique in Harlem—I've arranged to have a photograph of us taken. I want a professional shot of us, so I can send it to Mother and my sisters down in New York and Joseph in Spain. They're wanting to know what the Love of my Life looks like.”

Odette sucked in her bottom lip, heart fluttering in her ample bosom.

Love of His Life! That's what he'd called her.

And to his mother!

“Oh, Michael...” She whispered, as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers.

“Tell me something, Odie...” He was playfully plucking at the suds near her shoulder.

“Yes?”

She noticed his gaze shifted from her, to the sink. Where a small jar stood apart from her other toiletries.

“Have you used the SmoothEx, yet?” Sharp brows went up.

The grey eyes were downcast at the water and shyly, she nodded.

He inched closer.

“And you...eradicated...that little issue...down there?” His voice dropped an octave and Odette shivered.

“Yes, Michael—what are you doing?”

Resting on his knees, Michael had shrugged his suspenders off his shoulders, with them dangling from where they buttoned onto his trousers and was unbuttoning his light blue shirt.

“You'll see.” Was all he replied, tossing the shirt aside, revealing a white undershirt.

He slid behind her at the end of the tub in the space between it and the wall.

His chin resting on her shoulder, his hair brushing her pale cheek.

“You do know what's going to happen tomorrow...on St. Valentine's Day...don't you?” Her cheek was pinched.

Odette gulped audibly and mumbled something.

“Pardon?” His eyes were cutting through her like red hot blades.

“You're...you're going to...fuck...me...” She repeated a hair louder, not truly believing it herself.

“You shouldn't use crude words like that—you're a lady. I'm not going to fuck you.” He spoke off into her ear, kissing at the lobe. “I'm going to make love to you.”

“Michael--” Her cry was muffled as one large hand obscured her mouth.

His other hand, traveling downwards, over her body through the water.

“Of course, that's tomorrow. Today, is today...Ah!” He chucked into her ear.

Odette jerked, the water sloshing as fingertips found her pubis, rubbing and poking after it.

Feeling and assuring that, yes, it had been stripped of all fuzz, and was but a naked, fleshy mound at the present.

“It's so nice and soft...I love it...” He was half-growling into her ear.

“Hmmm! Hmmm!” Small hands clutched at his wrist as fingers fumbled then began forcing their way between her legs.

“Don't fight me...don't fight me, Baby...” Michael was cooing, his tongue swabbing her reddening cheek.

Fingers finding their way inside of her.

“Ugh!” Odette threw her head back, nearly hitting him in the nose, as the fingers began flexing.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” He was whispering, encouraging as he kissed along her jaw and neck.

“So tight...so tight...I can't wait until tomorrow...” Michael was almost singing in a falsetto in her ear.

“Ugh...Ah! Ah! Ah! No--” She gasped, his other hand pressing her mouth to subdue her erotic noise.

“You're mine...you're my girl...my doggone lover!” He was still taunting, still slipping his fingers back and forth.'

His hands! By God, what that man could do with his hands!!!

Just two fingers...

She was going to scream.

Odette managed to tear his hand from her mouth.

“Stop! I'm....I'm gonna...” She whimpered and his mouth covered hers, kissing violently.

“I don't want you to come, not yet...” He spoke down her throat and pulled his hand from her inner depths, her folds almost audibly snapping.

“Don't—don't stop.” Odette begged clutching after his damp hand as he released her and pushed himself to his feet.

He couldn't stop now! He couldn't leave her like this! He...he...he had to finish! Was he crazy?

“I have to.” Dark eyes blazed as the curls fell into his face. “If I don't stop now, I won't be able to. And I want to give you everything...tomorrow.”

Her cheek was pinched with moist fingertips.

“I just wanted to make sure I stayed on your mind, today.”

“Michael, please. Don't do this! Don't stop now! Damn it! Damn you!” This was madness.

She was upset.

He couldn't bring her this far, then abandon her on the cusp of rapture!

Why was he being so cruel?

He was unwrapping her fingers from his.

“Victoire.”

Her chin was cupped to the point of her wincing.

“The way you feel now, hold on to it. Keep it in mind, let it grow. Tomorrow I'll have you splattering the walls.”

“But Michael--”

“I'll be in my office, don't tarry. If you and Taj miss the ferry I'll have to hire a boat for you since my yacht isn't anywhere near ready to sail.”

“Michael!” Stubbornly, she stood, fully nude, dripping wet. Pouting.

“I love you, more than you'll ever know.” Her mouth was smooched, and backside patted, Michael stooping to retrieve his dress shirt.

At the door to the bathroom, he paused, and looked back to the unclothed beauty, frowning after him.

“Wrap up in a towel, I don't want you to catch your death of pneumonia in only your birthday suit.” A finger wagged at her and with a wink, Michael was gone.

Not sure what to feel, but something close to anger surging through her, Odette kicked water, splashing loudly and almost fell out the tub.

Just as quickly, Odette Dufrense was laughing.

* * *

Half an hour later, Odette Dufrense was putting the finishing touches on her new ensemble.

The young girl couldn't help but smile, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser.

Her Dear Michael did seem to possess an innate gift when it came to dressing the feminine form, and thus far, his eye had not failed him.

The dress fit Odette perfectly, skimming over her curves, as the style of the day dictated. She was in style—perhaps a step ahead of it, even!

Her, the poor little farmers daughter from Toulouse Parish, Louisiana.

She did so love the feeling of the velvet against her skin...the feeling of all the fine fabrics Michael Jackson had introduced her to.

Silk, satin, velvet, fur—genuine fur, not artificial!

(Nevermind some poor creature had sacrificed its life to be skinned for her pleasure.)

Michael Jackson had introduced so many wondrous, luxurious things to her.

Carefully, delicately, she placed the cloche atop her flowing tresses; the pink did look so nicely on her.

It was still a very new concept to her, this art of dressing to compliment one's features, coloring and personality.

At the time, Odette was unaware that, for every one ensemble that was selected and purchased, Michael Jackson had pored over dozens from just as many stores and clothing houses.

(And those were just ready-to-wear pieces; Michael Jackson had definite ideas of custom garments for Odette, stashed from view in a secret sketchbook.)

For the former showman, everything was a performance; Odette his little star, and his star had to look as such at all times.

As impractical a sentiment as it was, Michael Jackson wasn't troubled, as that notion had never crossed his mind in the first place.

And Odette, eager to please her lover in any way possible, was complicit with these nearly theatrical garments.

These showpieces rendered in fine fabric.

Knowing no better and caring even less.

She only knew she felt special when those dark, doe eyes sought her out, and pinky lips curled in bliss at the very sight of her.

Odette Dufrense was being slowly, carefully, painstakingly molded into Michael Jackson's Ideal Woman and was an agreeable, well-shaped lump of clay.

It was all quite exciting to Odette; before Michael had entered her life, she never considered herself beautiful or worthwhile to attract the attentions of any man, let alone one so cultured, intelligent, and wealthy as Michael Jackson.

Yet, here she was in a boutique-bought dress, dabbing a French-made perfume on her pulse points, and fastening a bespoke, one-of-its-kind diamond bracelet around her wrist.

Satisfied with her appearance, she gathered up her outerwear and started down the corridor out the front foyer.

Passing the bare window, she stopped.

Outside, several yards away, standing in the light snowfall, was Dr. Taryll Jackson.

Bundled in a light-colored trench and derby, he was calmly smoking a cigarette, standing in profile and staring off into the distance.

That did Odette's heart a bit of good; after the wild, chaotic events of the previous day, she had been worried about him.

He did appear back to his normal self, the Taryll she recognized, holding a hand out and letting snow accumulate in his leather glove before tossing it.

She couldn't hear him, but could make out that he was smiling and laughing to himself.

With a nod, Odette continued on her way peaceably, hoping she hadn't taken too long and made the eldest Dr. Jackson have to wait on her.

She moved quickly through the corridor out to the foyer and started for the stairs.

Odette had wanted to wear some of her makeup, but worried it would impede her beauty treatments, she wore nothing more on her face than a thin veil of Vanishing Cream, to protect her delicate dermis from the bitter elements that could chap it.

“Go Down Moses...into Egypt Land...tell old Pharaoh...Let My People Go....”

Through the open doorway to the front parlor, Odette could hear Gus singing, in a deep, resonant baritone, as he built a fire in the hearth, helping his wife with heating the first floor.

Touching absently after the coat slung over her arm, Odette started up the steps and came to a quick halt.

Seated, midway up the stairs, was TJ Jackson. Dressed for the day, he wore a suit of dark neutrals, a bowler hat laying on its top at his feet.

He took no notice of Odette, as his arms were wrapped around the spindles of the banister, eyes clamped shut, mouth partially open.

An ear tilted towards the open door.

“...Let My People Go...”

Was he truly that moved by Gus' singing?

She inched closer, surprised that anything not a loose woman with looser morals, much less an Old Negro Spiritual dating back to the plantation days, would have caught the most scandalous of the three Doctors Jackson's attention.

And apparently had him transcending somewhere rapturous, that didn't involve gyrating, nude forms.

But there he was, seemingly having some form of a religious awakening, and whilst TJ was distracted by deep, dulcet tones, Odette slipped by him without harassment for once and continued on her way to Michael's office, where the doors stood open.

“...but do you think it's too much? Too extravagant? I fear I may have gone a bit overboard...”

That inquiry had been spoken, right as she had come to the doorway, by Michael, directed at Taj.

Uncle and nephew stood at his desk, both gazing down at some form of large book or ledger.

“...of course not...” Taj, looking quite dapper in an all black, double breasted suit, offset by a bold, black and silver geometric print tie and pocket square folded to a point, was taking a cigarette from the red cloisonne box and lighting it. “...you want her to have a nice day out and about in The City, and to do it well, you have to pay for it. Trust me, I know. Between Talia and my twins, it is costly, but worth it. Besides, I'm the man; it's my job to provide for my family. Odette is your family now, you're providing for her...”

Odette's head spun—she was already considered family!

“I want the best for her, always...she should be happy, never want for anything...a girl like her...” Michael Jackson scowled as he picked up the diamond tipped fountain pen to record something in the book. “...I just become irrationally angry any time I think of that orphanage. Where she was, how she looked, how timid and frightened, the abuse she suffered...keeps me up at night. A sweet girl like her...”

“I know, Applehead...”

“I've been considering learning to fly and buying a plane just to go back to that swamp and tell that Lenoir bitch what I think of her--”

Odette's breath caught in her throat.

Michael still had his vendetta out against that old sow cow and wanted to avenge her!

Taj was shaking his head to the point the bowler on his head nearly flew off.

“And I keep telling you—no one is going to sell an airplane to a Colored man! I don't care if we aren't in The States!”

“Maybe I just won't tell them I'm Colored, then.” Michael simpered, scribbled something harder and Taj laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Uncle...don't. It's not worth it. And you're too proud of your heritage to ever conceal it. You wanted Odette out of Louisiana, you got her out. She's here—she never has to go back to Toulouse Parish, unless she wants to.”

“She may, I have Austin looking at some things...”

The statement faltered, as tumultuous eyes came up and caught sight of the young lady in the dusky rose ensemble.

At once they softened, and began to glow with admiration.

“Victoire...” The pen was cast aside with Michael rushing towards her with open arms.

“Oh, you look even more lovely in this dress than I envisioned—doesn't she look wonderful, Taj?”

“Yes...” Taj was smiling, a smoke ring dissipating above his head.

“Thank you...I...I love the entire outfit. It's beautiful.” Odette was blinking back tears. She couldn't start crying now!

Michael did love her so much!

“Are you about ready?” Michael took the coat from her and held it for her to slip on.

“Mmm-hmm--”

“Let me run, and get my coat.” Taj excused himself, leaving the pair alone.

Busying himself, fastening the heart-shaped buttons up for her, Michael advised in an almost fatherly way,

“I want you to go, and have a good time. I've arranged for you to have breakfast at the salon, since it's still so early. Good hearty food to give you energy. If you want to shop after you have your photo taken, you can do that. Taj will return to the salon once you're done. He won't hover; the salon is for women only. If you happen to run out of money, just have the balance billed to me. Just say 'bill it to Mr. Michael Jackson'.”

The pretty face turned upwards at him, grey eyes full of wonderment.

He would just pay whatever she lacked? Just that easy? Mention his name and the debt would disappear.

“Will...will it always be like this? If I should want to buy something and don't have enough--”

“You'll always have enough.” Her nose was tapped. “I'll see to it. I'm seeing to it, now.”

Michael turned and was moving back towards his desk.

“What do you mean?”

“While you're out, I'm going to see my accountant. I plan to open an account for you at the bank and deposit into it monthly for you.”

Odette sagged against the door frame.

An account? She was going to have her own account? At the bank? With money? Money for herself?

Why, her own parents, whom had owned a meager little farm hadn't had anything in the bank! And now she'd have her own account. Her own allowance!

“Michael, you don't have to--”

“Yes, I do. You're my lady, Odette. You're entitled to certain things. I shall treat you no differently than how any of the other women in my family are treated. You've made it clear you've no intentions to befriend any of the womenfolk in Juniper Peak, after Mass last Sunday. And right now, the only ladies in your age bracket, are my nieces-in-law. Talia, Lorena and Amelia, may be a few years older than you, but will likely be your friend group. The young ladies they run around with. And I want you to be able to fit right in...I'm most certain you will. ”

A drawer was opened and Michael produced a stamped, lilac envelope.

“Here's the letter I need you to post to Mother.” He shook it as he returned to the shell-shocked girl. All eyes and gaping mouth, which he kindly shut for her.

“Tell me, Odette, what is your favorite color? I don't believe I've ever asked.”

“Color?” She stared up at him and for a moment she had to remember exactly what colors were.

“I...I like purple. Like that envelope. I always thought purple was such a lovely color.”

“I should have known you'd like the color of royalty.” Michael was snickering and grasping her hand.

Royalty...yes, Michael Jackson was very much like a Prince or a King...an Emperor. And she was his Empress.

As they came out into the hall, Taj was emerging from his room, fixing the last button on a black trench.

“Where are your brothers?” Michael questioned, halting long enough for him to make their duo a trio.

“See for yourself...” Taj chuckled as they advanced down the stairs, and the closer they got to the first floor, the more apparent it was that Gus Clarke was still singing hymns whilst he worked.

“...Wade...in the Water...God's gonna trouble the Water...”

He must have moved from the parlor to the dining room because, hovering at the pocket doors, both enraptured apparently, were Taryll and TJ Jackson.

The siblings were outfitted and ready to leave in overcoats, hats and gloves, but were drawn by Gus' powerful, entrancing voice.

“...Wade in the Water, Children...”

Michael stopped Odette and Taj about three steps from from the bottom of the staircase and left them, moving quickly off into the parlor.

He returned seconds later, carrying a small, decorative bell of painted porcelain, holding the clapper inside to keep it from making noise.

“Wade--”

Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!

The singing ended abruptly, as Michael Jackson took to ringing the bell once he was at Odette's side again.

Taryll and TJ both jumped, and audibly gasped at the sound, while Gus emerged from the dining room, Mavis and Elsie, armed with feather dusters came from hallway that went past the stairs—they must have been down in the subterranean level of the manor.

Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!

The front door opened, and Chester, snow shovel in hand, came as far as the vestibule.

Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!

A small audience, all focused on Mr. Michael Jackson.

“You'll pardon my interrupting your day...” He began seriously, “...but I have an announcement to make, and wanted you all in one place together.”

A large hand found its place through Odette's thick hair onto the back of neck.

Kneading her supple flesh lightly.

“It has been brought to my attention that there are certain rumors...” Dark eyes narrowed conspicuously at Elsie. “...about Odette. The reasoning behind why she was brought into my household and the nature of my relationship with her...”

Speechless, heart racing, Odette stared up at Michael, her mouth going dry and her tongue becoming one with the roof of it.

He wasn't possibly...

“Odette...” His hand was cupping her chin as he broke character and smiled fondly at her.

By Golly, Sweet Jesus, he was!

“Odette, is possibly the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to me. She is the woman I believe I have waited my entire life for. I...I love her...and yes... she is my girlfriend.”

Gus, Mavis and Chester were smiling happily up at them.

Elsie, was not and had paled so swiftly, she resembled an upright cadaver. It was as if the world had collapsed in on that old woman and it was clear every slight she'd ever paid upon Odette Dufrense was replaying in her mind.

She looked positively ill.

Taryll Jackson was smiling openly, as was Taj, while TJ wore a cool expression of contempt.

“Odette...you're relieved of your duties as my maid. You're My Sweetheart.” He was giddily gripping her hands. “You can still be refereed to by your first name by the others but in company you will be Miss Dufrense...until I decide to change your name.”

“Oh!” Mavis clapped her stubby hands together at the insinuation, unable to contain her pleasure. Elsie's mouth sagged in horror.

“Michael--” Odette's head was swimming. Was he really doing this, now? Right now?

“Forgive me, Odette...” Dramatically a hand was lain over his heart. “...I just couldn't keep it to myself any longer.”

“It's quite alright--”She was slightly startled, Michael darting forward for a quick kiss. Sealing his words and putting as much pomp and circumstance behind them, as if they'd been etched onto a stone tablet.

With that, Michael took a step down and in front of Odette, addressing his servants.

“What I have just said, is to remain in this house. Between only us. If I even have a feeling that this has been discussed beyond the walls of this hall, I may have to dismiss someone.”

Michael was glaring directly at Elsie as he said this and Gus was showing every tooth in his head with malicious glee.

Everyone knew that the hole through which sensitive material slipped was Elsie and only Elsie.

The curly head tilted, with him adding viciously, putting the final nail in the proverbial coffin, highlighting a nightmare.

“Odette is second in command under myself; if she is displeased with anyone, she also has the power to dismiss as she sees fit.”

Elsie began hyperventilating and hand to her flat bosom was stumbling from the room.

Odette felt herself smiling smugly, as Michael bent, pecked her cheek, and repeated she have a good time.

Allowing Taj to take her arm and lead her out to where his car had been parked, alongside those his siblings, Odette Dufrense felt lighter.

The elephant in the room had been addressed, tackled and conquered.

It was such a weight off her shoulders.

Now she could be free.

Free to love and be with Michael Jackson.

Her Michael Jackson.

And it was no longer a secret from the others.

Soon...soon that damned town would follow.

They would all know!

A short while later, the elegant, two-toned Pierce-Arrow coupe began its ascent into the heart of Juniper Peak, aiming for Main Street. But, to Odette's surprise, instead of continuing onward, Dr. Taj Jackson maneuvered his vehicle to the side of the road, throwing it into Park, where it idled.

Taj, gripping the steering wheel, remained silent as he had, since they'd left Rosewyck.

Odette figured something had been on his mind, but had assumed it was Taryll's 'spell' and had felt it better left unmentioned.

Then Taj spoke.

“Odette, do you understand what is about to happen, when we get to the Post Office?” He questioned his tone dark, and Odette felt one of her brows raise in curiosity.

“I'm mailing a letter to Miss Katherine, aren't I?”

“It's far more than that—I told Michael he should have explained it to you!”

“What--?”

“This!” Taj waved at thin air. “You're not just mailing a letter to Grandma! Don't you see what Michael is doing?”

“Why, no--”

Taj Jackson leaned into her face, his smoky eyes wide.

“This is his way of softly announcing you to the town—what you are to him, without saying it directly!”

Odette was dumbfounded and could only continue to stare as Taj elaborated,

“The most important lady to my uncle is Grandma. Usually he—and only he—mails the letters himself. He's sending you to do it for him. He's having me deliver you to it. You're not being brought by Chester. You're being brought by a relative. You're getting out my car, and you're dressed to the nines. And I guarantee, you're wearing the most expensive outfit of any woman on this island. By a long shot! That shade of pink is a spring color, not a winter color. Trust me, I know! I live with three dames, full time. All they talk about is clothing, fashion, colors, et cetera! Michael wants you to be seen, to be noticed. This is bolder, brighter than the dress you wore to Mass. He's putting this crapshoot of a town on notice, about you!”

A gloved finger poked into her bosom.

“When we get to the office, I'll come around, open the door for you. You go in, alone. Make sure you hold that letter where folks can see it. Everyone knows Michael mails the letters to his mother in the purple envelope. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Odette whispered, sinking into the seat.

She'd only thought she were running an errand for Michael Jackson.

Not staging a performance before the bulk of the town.

She was quite literally sending a message, on his behalf!

Taj threw the car back into Drive and continued the rest of the way to the Post Office.

As expected, once they came into town, movement stopped.

Exactly like when Michael Jackson drove through the town, Taj drew the same amount of gawking.

Conversations halted, people were crowding windows, stopping mid-step on the sidewalks.

Across from the Post Office was Harper's Grocers, where a truck was being unloaded of its crates of fresh fish by a handful of young men in work clothes. An entire crate was dropped and it's oceanic contents scattered as the Pierce-Arrow pulled in front of the white-washed two story, wooden building, a large mailbox painted in the front bay window.

As discussed, Taj disbanded, rounding the front of the car, and opened the door for her.

“Slowly, take your time...” His lips didn't move as he spoke, hand out to help her. “...you're Michael Jackson's Lady, you don't have to rush.”

Doing as told, Odette slipped from the automobile in a sleek, sophisticated manner.

At least, that had been her intention.

She could feel the eyes on her.

“Hold the envelope in front of you.” Was Taj Jackson a ventriloquist in his spare time? How was he able to speak so clearly without his mouth moving?

The envelope was front and center and nearby, she heard someone gasp loudly in shock. Taj remained beside the car, watching as Odette stepped up onto the sidewalk, and snorted as Odette whipped her head to meet gazes causing people to look in every direction not to meet her fiery eyes.

They all wanted to stare, she could stare back!

She went up to the double doors and opened one, a small bell chiming.

“I'll be with you in a moment—Number, please? Huh? Mrs. Atkins, we've been over this! If you want to telephone Calgary from Juniper Peak, it's long distance! And you'll be charged for the long distance call! For crying out loud, ma'am, it's on the absolute other end of Canada! Thousands of kilometers! Now if the matter isn't an emergency, surely you can say what needs to be said in a letter! Send Leviathan by to post it! Good day!”

Odette was sure that had been Julius Abernathy speaking, but didn't see him.

The front of the building was scrubbed clean and unfussy, an entire wall dedicated to wooden cubicles with the names of residents around the island marked and showing letters and small parcels in each one. A framed portrait of the King was on the far wall,draped with the Canadian flag on one side and the United Kingdom of Britain on the other, above a potbellied stove that heated the small space,staring back at her, among different advertisements for postage stamps and a bulletin board of odd jobs.

The residents of Juniper Peak had to to come to the office to retrieve their mail, rather than have it delivered to their homes or businesses.

Off to the side was what appeared an alcove and out of it, Julius, in a heavy sweater over a turtleneck and trousers came speedily, his wild hair swaying, with him speaking professionally,

“I apologize for the delay ma'am, I'm the only one on the switchboard today. How may I...”

He stopped, squinted and his eyes lit.

“Odette?”

Sheepishly, she nodded, as Julius, beaming goofily at her, made his way behind the wide wooden counter.

“You're the last person I expected to see today—gee, you look really nice! What can I do for you?”

“Thank you! Mich—ahem, Mr. Jackson wants to send this letter to his mother.”

The smile on Julius' face fell off and he went erect, almost as if he were frightened.

“He...he sent you to mail the letter to his mother? Is...is Mr. Jackson alright? Has he taken ill?”

Odette was taken aback. Was it really that much of an event for her to be posting this letter?

“No, Mr. Jackson is just very busy today.”

“Oh...” Julius half laughed his hand out for the letter which Odette gave him. “I'm sorry. It's just I've been helping my Pa with the post since I was about five years old and every single letter ever mailed to Mrs. Katherine Jackson in Albany, New York, USA, has been personally handed to me by Mr. Jackson. He's never had someone else mail the letter. He must really set a store by you, Odette.”

Julius was mashing an inked stamp to the envelope showing it had been processed and it was added to a sack against the wall behind the counter, marked as “Outgoing”.

“Was that all, or was there anything else you needed?” Julius offered, smiling warmly.

He really was the only friend in this town she had.

“No, that was all, thank you, Julius. It was nice seeing you.” A pink gloved hand was extended and Julius gamely shook it.

What he said next unnerved Odette.

“It was nice seeing you too, Miss Dufrense. You have a pleasant day.”

Her name.

That quickly, he'd changed how he'd addressed her from the more familiar, using her first name, to calling her Miss Dufrense. There'd been no change in his demeanor, his tone.

But that single scrap of lilac paper had raised a wall between the two.

Taj Jackson had been correct. That one letter, in her hands, was telling an entire story, without a single word being mentioned.

And even simple, sweet Julius knew what it meant.

As she left, she heard a soft buzzing noise and turned to see Julius retreating back to the alcove where the switchboard must have been housed.

“Number plea—Mrs. Atkins! For the last time, Calgary is long distance, and you WILL be charged extra, by the minute, doggone-it! No—I am not swearing at you, ma'am! You're just being hardheaded like my kid sister right now! No, my father is not here and you cannot speak to him, instead! He is upstairs taking a nap!”

Slipping back into the car, Odette hadn't known it but it wasn't just Julius Abernathy who made the switch to referring to her as “Miss Dufrense”.

Everyone whom had witnessed her carrying that letter became keenly aware that Victoire Odette Dufrense formerly of Louisiana, currently of Juniper Island, was somebody.

A very special somebody to Michael Jackson.

Two Hours Later

Among a sea of Ford Model T's and other, smaller domestic-made automobiles, all in a utilitarian, economical shade of black, congesting the roads of downtown Toronto that morning, one vehicle was different.

An elegant coupe, much as a well-dressed and coiffed woman was elegant, of brown and beige painted steel, a product of the luxury Pierce-Arrow automakers, stood out amongst it's counterparts.

The ride in from Juniper Island had been a pleasant one, if quiet, as Dr. Taj Jackson was still a man of few words whom said no more than needed when his peachy, pursed mouth chose to open.

In the silent interval, Odette Dufrense had had much time to turn over the events thus far in her mind.

Though the full understanding of her new position as Michael Jackson's Sweetheart had many codes and subtle nuances that had yet to reveal themselves to her, the teen did have a vague idea of her new status.

It was quite strange to her that something as simple, albeit vital as the addition of money—a few meager dollar signs—had altered people's perception of her.

She was no longer the poor little girl whom had been rescued from an orphanage in the backwoods of Louisiana.

She was a lady now.

She was no longer Odette, but Miss Dufrense.

Did money truly buy...respect?

In a way, Odette did feel different. Was aware of how lucky she was, her good fortune.

Most girls in her age bracket and lack of schooling were already at work, else as domestic servants, factory workers, waitresses...all at the bottom rung of the workforce. Some had begun to work while their ages were still in the single digits!

It was a dawning Wednesday morning in the middle of the week. Most made do with a cup of black coffee and maybe a fried egg and piece of toast in their bellies; at the marina, Taj had telephoned to ensure a hot breakfast was waiting for Odette when she arrived at the salon.

She was to have scrambled eggs with onion and cheese, a grilled ham steak and croissants with coffee.

She was to have a full meal on her belly, for...a day of leisure.

Sit and have her hair and nails done; instructed in makeup and lounge about with other women whom had been born to or married into wealth.

Ladies who had no more to worry about than what color frock they wanted to wear out that particular day.

They weren't burdened with the idea of working to make ends meet, or trying to find a job to keep afloat. Didn't have overdue bills staring in the face or a growling, empty belly nagging them all the day long.

Riding along, Odette glanced at Taj, his eyes trained on the road, humming quietly to himself.

She thought of Talia, his wife.

What had her life been like in Belgium, before the outbreak of The Great War? Before she met and married Taj and joined this powerful, moneyed family? What was it truly like to come from meager means...to this?

To this grand lifestyle?

To bear children into it?

The idea that if—when she had a child for Michael Jackson, it would grow up never knowing poverty. Never knowing hunger or wanting for anything.

Everything would be provided without hassle.

She would make sure her child didn't grow up entitled or egotistical just because her father was a self-made man.

Odette would ensure her child knew how truly blessed she was for having the nicer things in life...

That so few people—especially Colored people, got to experience.

At the end of the road, Odette's attention was drawn to a rather large building.

It stretched on for about seven stories, quite literally dominating all the neighboring structures, and was made of a deep, bloody red brick.

All along the front, over a tremendous multi-colored, stained glass door were twenty flags, representing a bulk of European countries, England, Ireland, France, Italy, Belgium,and Spain, among others.

Briefly, it crossed Odette's mind, that it was a lovely hotel, that catered to international tourists and holidaymakers. Would she and Michael stay there whenever she could manage to talk him into attending Mass with his nephews and their families?

Her surprise and confusion were palpable when Taj maneuvered the car to the right, coming up alongside the curb.

Odette's mouth opened to inquire why they were stopping at a hotel—was she to take her breakfast there—when a polished plaque by the glass door glinted at her:

Cecelia's Beauty and Wellness Salon, Toronto

Established: May 8, 1913

And her mouth continued to hang.

This...this building was the salon?

This was the place where she was to spend the day?

Yes, yes it was, because Taj threw the car into park, shut off the engine and was out, making his way around to the passenger side.

And there he was, offering his arm to her.

Helping her across the icy sidewalk, rock salt crunching beneath their feet as they wove around and through the throng of people walking here there and everywhere, up to the door where a man in a black and gold uniform and hat rushed to open it for them.

“Good morning, Dr. Jackson...Ma'am.” He greeted in a dignified manner.

“Good morning Jesse...” Taj nodded and Odette smiled.

“Good morning--”

Odette found herself in a short corridor, delightfully warm compared to the subzero temperatures outside, the walls painted in frescoes of nude women frolicking through forest landscapes and splashing about in waterfalls.

Michael Jackson would have liked it here.

At the end of the hall, no more than one hundred feet, if that, another doorman greeted them and Taj replied with his name also—Ernst.

It still baffled Odette that these people knew Dr. Taj by name, and, conversely, he knew them. How often was he there, likely escorting his wife? He did say Talia was having her hair color touched up every two weeks. His wife was in there twice a month, at least.

Through the second set of doors they proceeded and Odette let out a small gasp of awe.

Marble.

As far as the eye could see was nothing but pristine, unblemished white marble.

The floors, the walls, the ceilings, everywhere was covered in it.

A vast lobby it was, decorated with glittering crystal and gold chandeliers so large they should have pulled the roof down upon them. Sculptures of carved marble and glass set here and there, with stuffed divans and arm chairs for patrons to sit and wait to be called for their appointments.

On the far wall a curving staircase led up to a balcony on the upper level.

Odette didn't know it at the time, but she'd gotten her first taste of the Art Deco architectural movement.

In addition to a smattering of finely dressed women in gems and furs, a few whispering and giggling softly to one another, one flipping through an issue of Redbook magazine, a handful of beauticians were roving about.

Odette even saw the curly-haired blonde whom had done her very first manicure, this time in a pale blue version of the Cecelia's uniform—all wore very professional looking jackets and trousers in shades of pastel pink, purple, green, yellow and blue. All with the fancy, script C embroidered above left breasts of varying cup sizes.

All of the uniformed women were some of the most beautiful Odette had ever seen. White, Colored, Latin, Asian, with nary a hair out of place, most in fashionable bobs and waves, expertly applied makeup, nails showing a variety of reds and pinks.

Taj led a gawking Odette up to the receptionist's desk, an island of marble upon which small figurines had been arranged attractively. Each end marked by a vase of artificial white roses.

There was a woman ahead of them, whose face Odette couldn't see for the tall, red fox collar of her embroidered coat, but her hair, the bit of curls that could be seen on top, were a lovely, dark, golden-blonde that reminded Odette of Cornelia Jackson's hair.

“...let's see, Mrs. Van Addams...”

The receptionist, in a white version of the uniform, a charming woman in her late twenties, with straight black hair cut into a boyish bob with a fringe over the forehead.

“You had the Swedish massage, a deep dermis facial, manicure, pedicure and a French permanent...that comes out to...three hundred and eight dollars, ma'am.”

Odette staggered, light-headed, Taj patting after her.

Over three hundred dollars?

For this? Odette stared up at Taj questioningly and he was giving her those coquettish blinks.

Though no words passed between them, Taj intimated to her that yes, the treatments were this expensive, but worth it.

“Where the Dickens did that extra eight dollars come from?” Mrs. Van Addams demanded in an affected, snooty accent.

Dark eyes rolled with the receptionist replying,

“You received the French permanent Mrs. Van Addams. It costs extra as the ingredients for it have to be imported from Nice.”

“Oh, very well, then.” The blonde head shook derisively. “Charge it to my husband, of course.”

“Yes, Mrs. Van Addams. Have a nice day...”

“You too, Ruby...”

With that, the woman, face still unseen, turned and was tutting off towards the door, as Ruby was writing into a ledger of pink paper—charge to the Van Addams account.

“Good morning, Dr. Jackson, how may I help you?” She was smiling politely up at Taj.

Large hands massaged the teen's shoulders through the velvet and mink,

“This is Miss Odette Dufrense. My uncle called earlier this week and arranged a day for her...?”

“Why, of course!” Ruby was instantly out of her chair and rounding the desk to her, grabbing her hand and shaking it warmly.

“Welcome to Cecelia's, Miss Dufrense. My name is Ruby and I'll be escorting you to your private room. You'll have breakfast, then Cecelia herself will come in to consult with you, ma'am.”

“Why—thank you!” Odette was beaming that special feeling washing over her.

“About how long do you expect her to take?” Dr. Jackson was removing his hat out of decorum. “She's to have her photograph taken once she's done here”.

“Oh, several hours, Dr. Jackson.” The receptionist was nodding. “It's like 'they' say: anything worthwhile, takes time, Sir.”

“Very well, then...” He replaced his hat adding, “...when she's ready, please ring me at my office. I'll be over there doing some paperwork.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Taj embraced Odette, whispering to her,

“Have a good time. Enjoy yourself. I'll see you this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Taj...”There were those merry tears again, needing to be blinked away as Taj pecked her cheek and turned, ambling away in his usual, unfussed manner.

Leaving Odette with Ruby.

“Please follow me, Miss Dufrense...” Ruby was already in motion before she'd finished her statement, Odette rushing to keep step with her.

“You'll be put into one of the premiere rooms on the top floor, Mr. Jackson saw to that for you. Most of the ladies have to go from floor to floor for treatments, but everything will be brought to you ma'am.”

“Everything?” Odette echoed with uncertainty, as, instead of climbing the staircase, she was brought to a small elevator made like something of a gilded cage, manned by a woman in a black version of the beauticians' uniform as operator.

“Yes ma'am. The premiere rooms are outfitted with all the equipment needed for any treatment—hair, manicure, facials, massages. Mr. Jackson wanted you comfortable to the point you didn't even have to traverse floors and we aim to please.”

The elevator creaked slightly as it rose, headed for the seventh floor and Odette couldn't help asking,

“I know all of this is quite expensive--”

“And how!” The girl in black exclaimed, she and Ruby snickering.

“--but just how much is Michael—ahem—Mr. Jackson spending on this?”

“I'm afraid I can't disclose that Miss Dufrense. Mr. Jackson explicitly instructed us not to bother you with specific dollar amount. I'm sorry...”

Ruby had been smiling in that false cheery way all folks with people-facing jobs seemed to affect when needed.

“Are you really Michael Jackson's girlfriend?”

“Ida!” Ruby was alarmed and pushed at her shoulder in an effort to shut her up.

“You can't fault me for asking!” Ida, the woman in black shot back defensively. “I've seen him out and around town for years and I didn't even know he had a girlfriend!”

“Still, it's rude to ask such a thing, Ida!”

“We've only been together...about two weeks.” Odette spoke over the bickering woman, her lips tingling, it was still so odd and new to speak of her relationship publicly.

“Golly, Michael Jackson sure works fast!”

“Jesus Christ, Ida, that's enough!”

“Alright, Ruby—I'm sorry, Miss Dufrense.”

“Think nothing of it.” Odette smiled sweetly then turned to stare down at the floor far below them.

She really was moving upward in this life.

* * *

Half an hour later, Odette Dufrense sat, tearing a piece off a croissant so fresh, it was still steaming, and spread a mixture of whipped butter and honey on it, before tossing it into her already bouncing mouth.

Reaching for a crystal tumbler of orange juice to wash it all down, for the first time in her life, she understood what it was to truly be spoiled.

She had been greeted at the door of her suite by yet another pastel wearing woman, named Tillie, a light-skinned Colored of about twenty-two, whose sole function for that day was to assist Odette in any way she needed.

Then Odette was led into a room of blue marble.

Everywhere the eye looked was blue on the walls, the floors, the ceiling with a small waterfall providing a soothing, trickling sound.

As mentioned, around the vast space were appliances for beauty making: a bowl for the washing of hair, a standing metal hair dryer, and entire manicurists station, a styling station, a padded table for massages along with a wall of oils, and more equipment which Odette had never seen and could only speculate upon their uses.

There was even a strange contraption of metal and wire that looked something akin to an oversized spider, that when asked what it's purpose was, Tillie had tittered saying,

“That's the permanent wave machine, ma'am”.

Odette had been presented with a kimono-style robe of mauve satin, embroidered with dragons in dark blue stitching and slippers. Not the plain white robes all the other customers wore—gifts from Her Mr. Jackson.

No sooner had she covered her teddy with the robe, did the door open and one of the stiff-necked waiters from The Morgana had entered, carrying the silver platter containing her breakfast, followed by two more waiters, one carrying a tufted chair, the other a small table for her to eat at.

The Morgana didn't even serve breakfast, but Michael Jackson had managed to make it happen.

She was forking the last bite of ham and eggs into her mouth, when the door swung.

And through it walked an exquisitely dressed woman.

A rather youthful woman who appeared in her early thirties, Colored, with a rich deep complexion offset by the day dress of ecru chiffon, trimmed about the cuffs and hem with a border of wide black and off-white checks.

For a pop of color a gauzy scarf of red had been tied to the side of her throat and would have dragged the floor, so long was it, but instead flowed in a haunting manner as she crossed the room towards Odette.

Her hair, in loose spirals, fluffing around her face, made up almost too heavily with cosmetics, but expertly so as not to appear vulgar, bounced with every step she took in red patent pumps.

Several strands of waist-length pearls clacked as she approached, her perfume—the strongly citrus and mossy Mitsouko by Guerlain—reaching Odette before she did.

A fine brown hand, tipped with pearly white nails and a tremendous natural pearl so large it resembled an egg set in gold and rose precariously, was extended.

“Odette Dufrense, I presume?”

Odette nearly choked on food, her ears perking up.

It had been nearly two weeks since Odette had arrived in Canada, and this woman, whomever she was, possessed the first Southern (United States) accent she'd heard! If she weren't mistaken there was the barest trace of a French accent mingled in, much like her own!

Was Cecelia a Creole transplant like herself?

“Yes...” She was offering her hand which was gamely shaken the woman grinning wider,

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance! I'm Cecelia Murphy! It's wonderful to meet you, Dear! Welcome to my salon! It's an honor to serve you.”

For a second, amazement shone itself on Odette's face; she hadn't expected the Cecelia to be a Colored woman, but it did make sense.

The Jacksons were a wealthy Colored family and of course they'd support businesses run by like kind.

Also, it was clear Cecelia's Beauty and Wellness Salon was intended for everyone—her entire staff was multi-racial as was the clientele, a ground breaking innovation for anywhere on Earth at that time.

“It's nice to meet you too, Miss--”Odette glanced at her hand and found a more obscure band of gold, a wedding ring “Mrs. Murphy.”

“Please, call me Cecelia, everyone does! Only person who calls me Mrs. Murphy is my maid!”

Cecelia was laughing and Odette was too.

“Please call me, Odette...”

“Mr. Jackson has entrusted you to me and My Girls, to help you reach your full beauty potential.” As Cecelia spoke, the waiters from The Morgana wafted in, cleared up the plates, tray and their furniture and were making a speedy exit.

“You needn't worry, I've a long history working with the Jackson women. I take care of Mr. Jackson's mother and sisters whenever they come to town, and his nieces-in-law on a regular basis...”

Cecelia continued speaking, with it coming to light everything Michael Jackson had wanted for his little doll. Cecelia was looking her over, squinting and scrutinizing her face, eye, skin and hair color, her hair texture...Cecelia said she was aware Odette was Colored but had hair like a White woman, with a slight natural wave that she decided could hold a curl and thusly would be given a perm, and have her hair styled like that of actress Mary Pickford, as Michael Jackson so desperately wanted of her.

Odette's nerves were put at ease with Cecelia telling her that even though a lot of women were cutting their hair into bobs, many more were keeping their hair long, and mimicking the appearance of bobbed hair by pinning it up.

At some point, Odette was seated, Tillie soaking her nails and stripping the old polish from them, Cecelia still chattering away.

Something about a new polish color, a shade between a true red and coral that Cecelia swore was the most becoming shade, but since Odette had such cool, pale coloring she could pull off darker, more dramatic shades of red in polish and lipsticks.

Once her nails were done, in a deep, dark red called Black Cherry, as were her toenails, something Odette found silly as no one would likely see her bare feet until in the summer.

There had been the mention of a full-body massage, but it had been staunchly denied by a scandalized Odette upon learning she'd have to lie nude on that padded table to receive it.

It just didn't seem right to lay in only the skin God gave her while some woman she'd only known for an hour at best ran her hands all over curves only her lover had seen. Maybe once she knew Tillie better, a few months from then, but not that very day. No matter how Cecelia pouted and repeated several times that “all the ladies of note in Toronto take Swedish or Spanish massages, Miss Dufrense!”

But Odette remained firm, pushed almost to the point of outright belligerence and eventually, Cecelia Murphy, not wanting to upset who could become her best client of the entire nineteen-twenties conceded defeat.

Odette's hands were slathered in more of that lemony lotion as were her feet, only, and massaged by Tillie, who later scurried to follow her as Cecelia took her to a scale in a far corner and weighed Odette.

Odette was quite pleased to see she'd put on an entire eight pounds bringing her weight to a healthier one hundred and ten, only two pounds from the one-twelve she'd been advised to strive for.

Cecelia was quite dismayed, as when she told Odette to lose five pounds, the teen staunchly refused pointing out that both Dr. Taj and Dr. Taryll had agreed she needed to weigh one-twelve!

Cecelia was quite slim, as was Tillie, Odette noticed and while the clothing did hang attractively off their scant frames, were the rest of their bodies truly healthy?

This was further evidenced by Cecelia, after Odette became a sitting duck, her tresses slathered in a quite odorous perming solution and wound around various sizes of metal rods, electricity applied by way of that large arachnid-looking device and would have to remain beneath it for over an hour for the curls to take as her hair was so long,trying to force what seemed an unnatural diet onto Odette.

Some foolishness that seemed centered around mostly clear broth and dry, unbuttered toast, passing for meals and “a cup of unsweetened, black coffee, should you feel tired during the day”.

Nothing like the filling, nourishing meals she'd grown accustomed to eating in Mr. Jackson's home.

Odette had been raised and malnourished on a starvation diet, and she'd be damned clear on to Hell if she'd return to it for the sake of fitting in a dress or some unattainable beauty ideal.

Michael Jackson already thought her the most brilliant creation God had committed to Earth and she was convinced Doctors Taj, Taryll and TJ knew a great deal more about health and maintaining it than Cecelia did.

Frankly she wondered how many of the other women she'd seen thus far truly believed in and were following this cockamamie excuse for a 'diet' that could only lead to bodily disaster in the long run.

There was no way Taj, Taryll or even TJ let their wives only injest beef juice and black coffee every day!

They surely didn't let their wives starve when they could afford the very best food money could buy.

Odette was polite, smiling and nodding and agreeing with Cecelia but mentally throwing out every shred of 'advice' handed to her.

At least not for the inside of her body...the outside was a different matter.

After about an hour and a quarter, during which her head had resembled something that would have been the basis of an H.P. Lovecraft novella, and smelled twice as badly, Odette had been ushered to the hair styling station, a few of her tresses still smoking to be properly coiffed.

While Tillie did all of the grunt work, Cecelia hovered closely like a vulture watching its wounded prey, instructing her behind the chair and Odette about after-care.

In the span of about forty-five minutes or so, the curls which had been extremely tight and and had shrank so her hair appeared only ear-length, had been combed and coaxed into a much more becoming arrangement—that indeed mimicked Canadian Sweetheart Mary Pickford's signature style.

Michael Jackson must have referenced Miss Pickford and only her as, at one point, a film magazine had been propped open to a photograph of the star.

Odette found that what she had assumed were only sausage curls were deceptive. The first few inches of hair, that would frame her head itself had been laid into something of a halo of curls, that if the longer bits had been pinned away, would mimic a bob without having to cut any of it, Cecelia explained patiently. And Odette did like the alternative.

She'd seen a different film star, Alla Nazimova, with a far more dramatic and exaggerated halo, standing quite a few inches from her head. Odette felt, if needed, she could pull off a more tamed version for herself.

In the end her hair was lovely and Odette had grinned at her reflection, knowing that Her Mr. Jackson would love her appearance even more.

A white towel was pinned so that only her face peeked out and her hair was protected from the next step of having her makeup applied.

And to Odette's mild aggravation, no one was reinventing the wheel for her—every talking point and instruction Cecelia touted, she'd already heard, from when Michael had done her makeup for her that past Sunday.

The only difference was, different shades were used.

Darker shades.

Grey shadow, but not the lighter ash Michael had used, this was more of a gunmetal, a few steps away from black. The color did, shockingly intensify her grey eyes. Going from concentrated at the lashline to dispersing to a whisper at her brows.

Creme blush and lipstick, both in that deeper, richer, bloodier Black Cherry were applied sparingly but well.

Features that typically receded were brought screaming to the forefront.

Powder, white with the barest hint of rosiness, was applied quite liberally, perhaps even more than when Michael had applied it, and left to set a full minute before the excess was dusted away.

And after the powder, more than a bit of cake mascara was stippled on, Cecelia advising to make this the final step as the powder would cling and lighten it to disastrous results.

“No brunette should ever have white eyelashes, Dear!”

At the end of several hours of primping, making up and coiffing of the highest degree, Tillie, at last, helped a half-exhausted and fully overwhelmed Odette Dufrense change back into her dress.

In the meantime, Cecelia had vanished from the private suite, Odette had vaguely heard her mentioning something about boxing up all of the items that had been used for her 'beautification transformation' that day.

Sitting atop the unused massage table, Odette was once again in her combination and stockings, slipping on her garters to hold them in place, Tillie standing at her side patiently, holding her pumps in one hand, her dress draped over one arm.

“You really don't have to help me...”Odette spoke up, adjusting the strip of elastic and lace around her thigh “...I can dress myself.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Dufrense, but I'm to assist elite clients such as yourself ma'am.” Tillie nodded with dignity.

“I'm quite capable of dressing myself, Tillie. I'm nineteen--”

“Ma'am...”The single word came out an octave higher with urgency, as the young woman placed the frock across the table and dropped to her knees, starting to strap one of Odette's feet into a shoe. “...if I don't do my job, I might lose it. And I can't afford to lose it. I...I'm the only one able to work now. My husband...lost part of his leg in the war and is between jobs at the moment, Ma'am.”

“I'm sorry...”Odette was at once silent, watching as long fingers topped by polished nails were latching buckles. A slideshow of Dr. Taryll's 'spell' playing in her mind's eye. “I...always forget how far of a reach The Great War has had.

“It's alright, Miss Dufrense. I'm glad my Walter came home at all. Some of the girls' sweethearts never came back.”

The other shoe went on and Odette stood to have the dress carefully lowered over her.

“Are you really from Louisiana, like folks say?” Tillie wondered, somewhat awed while she was straightening the garment so it hung just so.

“Yes--”

“That's where Cecelia's from, Louisiana. She likes to tell people she's from New Orleans, but she's really from some little place called New Iberia. Have you heard of it?”

(That explained why Cecelia's accent had been so familiar to Odette, she was a fellow Creole!)

Odette was now in front of a sliver of mirror that ran from floor to ceiling as Tillie went about fluffing her curls with importance.

“I have heard of it.” Odette giggled, her new appearance still needing time to get used to. “I come from a place even smaller—Toulouse Parish. Where are you from, Tillie, are you from The States, too?”

“Oh, no ma'am.” The pretty face squinched and she shook her head. “I'm from Halifax, Nova Scotia. Tell me something, Miss Dufrense?”

“What?” Odette was busy admiring herself, she almost didn't hear the inquiry.

“How did you end up here, all the way from down in Louisiana?”

“Believe it or not, I was brought in to be a maid.”

“You're a maid, Miss?” Dark eyes were clouded with confusion, as Tillie retrieved the fine velvet coat from where it had been lain across a chair.

Grey eyes were downcast, and Odette ran her fingers over her twinkling bracelet.

“I was a maid...” Odette felt her painted lips curling.

“I was fired this morning.”

“Oh...” The expression on Tillie's face was one of somber remorse, then realization struck like a bolt of lighting.

“Oh!”

Odette Dufrense had been fired, because she was promoted.

Becoming a wealthy man's Sweetheart would do that for a girl.

A few minutes later, after another elevator ride—this time, Ida the Operator kept her thoughts to herself—Odette, Tillie still by her side, arrived at that island of white marble.

Ruby beamed up at her in that studied, polite manner all service people came to acquire after a certain stretch of time.

“Ah, Miss Dufrense...” Odette doubted she'd ever truly get used to being addressed so formally. “...I trust you found everything to your pleasure?”

“Why, yes...I had a wonderful time! Thank you!” She looked down as the woman in white opened the accounts ledger in front of her, showing it was filled with pale yellow pages covered in scribbles, tallying the bills of the well-heeled and highly-moneyed.

A new, untouched page was flipped and she watched as Ruby began to fill it out.

Miss Odette Dufrense:

French Permanent--$58

Manicure--$30

Pedicure--$25

Nail Varnish--$3

Hand Creme--$5

Vanishing Creme--$8

Cold Creme--$8

Face Powder--$12

Eyeshadow--$7

Creme Rouge--$7

Mascara--$7

Lipstick (x3)--$15

Odette stood in a stunned, shocked silence.

If she had been counting correctly, and arithmetic was one of the few subjects she had a fair grasp up, then her single day of beauty came out to over one hundred and eighty dollars!

Nowhere near as costly at the three hundred and eight that Mrs. Van Addams had balked at, but still, that was a high sum.

And nearly double what Odette had discovered in her little handbag.

It was the most money she'd ever possessed at one time, yet it wasn't enough.

She was helpless, mouth going dry as Ruby, a bit slower, tallied it up saying,

“That'll be one-hundred and eighty-three dollars. Miss Dufrense, would you like to pay now or be billed later, ma'am?”

“I--” She started, her grey eyes beginning to sting with tears of embarrassment, when a light, familiar voice chimed in, over her,

“Please...bill it to Mr. Michael Jackson.”

“Yes, Sir...” As Ruby scribbled a note, Odette slowly spun, scarlet mouth ajar.

Off to the side, a few feet away, and smiling warmly, was Her Mr. Jackson.

He was a wondrous, dapper sight in his white cashmere coat, the coat she'd first met him in, worn open over a deep green, three-piece suit, off set by a tie and pocket square of a green, brown and white geometric print.

A matching green fedora had been pulled down, so that one, outlined brown eye was visible, widened and taking in the sight of the “new” Odette.

A long hand, covered in an expertly tooled tobacco leather glove, was extended and gripped her bare hand.

Pulling her nearer for a closer a look.

“Gosh, you look even more beautiful, My Darling...”

The words came out as a low, admirable rumbling and caused Odette to tremble all over with zeal.

She trembled harder as his plump lips brushed her own. (someone in the distance, perhaps that nosy Ida, gasped)

Michael Jackson had recognized her, in public, as his sweetheart.

Taking her hand and draping her arm over his, his gaze remained on her as he spoke to Ruby,

“Is Cecelia in? I would love to thank her taking such good care of My Odette.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson, you just missed her—she's gone to lunch with her husband.”

“Would you please give her my sincerest thanks and gratitude when she returns?” Michael inched closer to the counter. “And would you kindly have all of the cosmetics sent to my home, Rosewyck, on Juniper Island.”

“Of course, Mr. Jackson, do you require anything else, Sir?”

With a satisfied grin, Michael shook his head and began leading Odette towards the door.

And as they stepped out into that brisk, cold and bright afternoon, Odette Dufrense was also effectively taking her first steps into her new life.

As Michael Jackson's Sweetheart.

No longer a maid, no longer an impoverished, starving orphan.

But a grand lady of note and repute.

At least, that's what she intended for herself.

And by golly, she aimed to achieve it!

She'd already gotten so far in less than two weeks!