Chapter Eighteen

Two Days Later
The Landmark Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana


Late Friday morning found the lobby of one of the oldest establishments in the Crescent City, bustling and full of life.


Back and forth across the expansive, polished, black and white checked floors, people were coming and going.

Men, women and children, all well dressed, cultured and somewhat aloof in their finery.

Here and yonder, bellhops were doing the very thing their name declared, hopping hither and thither carrying the luggage and overnight bags of the guests.

Over the omnipresent classical music that was pumped throughout the hotel, except between the hours of midnight and eight am, was the constant dinging of bells for the hops, the louder bell of the coming elevators and speech.

There was so much talking. Men with foreign accents and hearty laughs, women with French-tinged Creole and Cajun voices, tittering giggles as they gossiped, and children being loud and being shushed by louder nannies.

The lobby of the Landmark was a band of groups.

Everywhere one looked, there were at least a couple of people and at most, a small crowd rushing and idling in packs.

But, alas, though the lobby lent to groups greatly, there was a lone person without a companion.

Just off the grand staircase, leading up to the second floor, was a bank of several, quilted, white leather chairs and couches around a black lacquered table lined with issues of Vogue and Southern Comforts.

And nestled in one of the white arm chairs, was a single woman.

A young, gorgeous creature, though her attractive heart-shaped face showed her deep in thought. (more thought than any of the other pampered princesses around her were capable of.)

One well-made leg was crossed over the other and the young woman, in a short-sleeved frock of bright crimson, did not fail to stand out against her stark, contrasting surroundings.

Around her neckline a scarf of striped red white and blue silk, perhaps a nod to the upcoming Independence Day celebration had been tied in a humungous bow, harmonizing with her round, pancake of a red hat and gloves.

Lavender colored eyes were troubled in a pale and expertly made-up face, smooth black waves tucked into a roll at the nape of a long neck.

Those eyes shouldn’t have been so troubled. Not on a girl who was so pretty, so young and seemed to have everything she could want at her fingertips.

But Vylette Meraux was troubled just the same.

The last few days had gone nothing like she had expected.

There was supposed to have been a formal dinner at Jackson Manor, and a proposal and probably the fainting of both her cousin and her mother.

And none of it had come to pass.

It was the most remarkable, incredible thing she had ever heard:

Marlon Jackson had ‘Cold Feet’.

Sitting there, Vylette shook her head, bow quivering on her shoulder, and mumbled derisively to herself in French.

It didn’t seem to make any sort of sense.

Marlon Jackson was the bawdiest, most fearless man she knew. Why, he’d started a fight with Steven Wilkes and lived to tell about it. He started and finished the fight!

Marlon wasn’t afraid to fistfight anybody if they rubbed him the wrong way and would open his mouth to curse out a man three times his size if he thought they were looking at Lorraine too hard.

But according to the hushed, private whispers of Michael Jackson, one thing had stopped Marlon right in his tracks.

Fright over proposing to Lorraine.

Marlon could slug it out with the giants, but was afraid of a woman who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds.

According to Michael, who had been sent to break the bad news the day of the dinner, the official lie, was that Adelaide had had to stay at her own home, looking after her husband who was sick.

But alone with Vylette on a secluded lane near Jamison’s Pond, Michael had told the truth:

Marlon couldn’t decide how he wanted to propose to Lorraine.

At first, a dinner with all the family around seemed just perfect.

Then that morning before breakfast was even cooked, Marlon took Michael’s door off the hinges running in and jumping in his bed, declaring he couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t right. He wanted to do it differently.

Just him and Lorraine alone.

So the entire evening was shot to pot.

And instead of a fancy dinner fit for a king, they had roast beef plates at Mumfree’s and on a whim the four of them--plus Vinnie--decided to check out the little shack that passed as the movie house in the Parish.

The five of them had intended to see William Powell and Kay Francis in ‘For the Defense’--much to Vinnie’s wide-eyed, heart-skipping joy-- but the adults only made it about fifteen minutes into the picture.

Michael Jackson had claimed he didn’t like Kay Francis so much, but Vylette had known that had been also been a lie.

(Vylette liked Kay and Michael would have tolerated anything she favored.)

It was the ‘movie house’ itself that ran him.

The shack that sufficed as the Parish’s movie theatre, was a tiny, stuffy, one-room converted home that seated maybe thirty people at once, and that was with people shoulder to shoulder.

(Which was a nightmare that hot and humid night with perspiring folks and only a few who smelled sweet amongst them.)

There were no concessions, just what you carried in with you. But for a nickel a show, what could one expect?

(Considering that once opened, a ticket into the Palace and Paragon theatres would be twenty-five cents for a matinee and upwards of a dollar depending on later shows in demand.)

Vylette was unsure what Michael and Marlon Jackson had expected upon entering the hut, perhaps a rival for their nearly completed theatres, and Marlon had laughed outright at it.

A bunch of folding chairs, a white sheet on one wall and a projection and Victrola to play the soundtrack.

On the way out, Michael, shaking his head, had commented that his closet was larger than that entire ‘theatre‘…

Marlon took it a step further saying “I’ve blown boogers out my goddamned nose bigger than that sardine can!’

Vinnie had been allowed to remain inside and salivate over her beak-faced Powell, but the adults retired to Marlon’s car and in the darkness of the night had necked and petted happily and peacefully until the child returned.

She had even been given another nickel to watch the film all over again, just so the couples could continue to kiss and fondle their disappointments away.

If Vinnie knew what was happening in the cars,, or why Michael Jackson was wearing more lipstick than her sister, she didn’t make a squawk about it.

By the time the five returned to the Meraux home, shortly before midnight, all had been forgiven and for the most part forgotten.

And Lorraine Devereaux would never know just how closely she had come to and missed, being ‘taken off the market’ by Marlon.

But it was sure to come. Vylette knew Marlon had honorable intentions towards her cousin, even if they did carry on so recklessly at times.

Now, Vylette sat alone in the lobby, waiting for Michael.

Just after they had checked in, he’d received a telegram from Latoya stating that she had sent another shipment of the latest Ferocious brand products to New Orleans from Manhattan.

Vylette had been seated as Michael had gone to inquire about the packages at the front desk.

Turning slightly in her chair, leather squeaking, Vylette stared across the packed lobby, seeking out her man.

Standing at the engraved white counter, Michael had his back turned, chattering away at the long-nosed concierge.

He was so very dapper in his brown tweed suit, his fedora in one hand, the other one flipping as he spoke.

Oh, how Vylette wished he would get her ring and he would be the one trying to come up with a special, memorable way in which to propose.

Something brilliant and breathtaking and romantic. The kind of things she saw in movies and read about in books. Michael Jackson read so extensively, had something, anything given him ideas? She wanted something to always cherish.

Something she could tell their grandchildren fifty years from then, in 1981...the memory of the asking would be more dear to her, no matter what size the diamond he bestowed upon her was.

Vylette wanted the sentiment, more than the baubles.


“Now this is too, too tragic…”
At the sound of the raspy voice, Vylette turned and saw that in the chair beside hers, a man had appeared.

In a crisp black suit and with sharp, Anglo features in a butterscotch complexioned face, he was grinning at her.

And his eyes were gobbling her up ferociously.

Her face, her figure, her crossed legs with a crimson pump on the small foot.

Hat off, he had ’good’ curly hair that was even redder than Lorraine’s.

Vylette really didn’t like that smile on his face…he seemed… lecherous.

“What, may I ask, is too, too tragic?” She repeated, thin brows going up.

Just what she needed, another masher.

“You, Bebe!” The man grinned brighter. “A lovely little dame like you sitting here all alone in this big lobby--you need a friend.”

“I have friends--” Vylette started to look away when the man grasped her hand and was stroking at her tennis bracelet.

“How’d you like to collect one more, Angel Face?” He hissed and Vylette glowed red with aggravation.

“Do I look like Norma Shearer?”

(Author’s Note: Norma played a prostitute called Angel Face in the silent film A Lady of Chance from 1928.)

“Nah Bebe, you’re even prettier!” The man went knead her hand.

“Please…!” Vylette jerked her hand away. “My gloves are French silk, don‘t rub it like that--and my bracelet is costly!”

The man leaned in closer, his breath stinking of cheap wine.

“Maybe you’d like me to rub you somewhere…else…”

The amount of her nerve he had to say something so saucy to a lady! Vylette contemplated screaming.


“How’s about I rub you all over the floor of this here lobby?”
A cool voice intervened and a relaxed smile appeared on Vylette’s face.

Behind her chair, placing large hands on her shoulders was Michael.

The man stared up at Michael, his light brown eyes taking him in a moment and with a grimace, he stood.

“Sorry…” His hat was being replaced. “Didn’t know I was talking to a taken woman--”

“You think a creature this stunning would be available? Not even…” Michael chuckled and was taking her hand. “Come on Mein Leibling--”

“Hey, Brother, you a German? A Colored German--?” The red-skinned man wondered eyes bugging at the foreign term, and grinning Michael Jackson shook his head as he looped Vylette’s arm over his.

“Nein--Guten Tag!” Michael tilted his hat and started away with Vylette.

“Ja! Ja! Ja!” She called back and the two broke into giggles as they passed through the front door and Michael had his car summoned.

“This is starting to get ridiculous, Vy…” Michael chuckled, hand taking hers and swinging between them. “It’s getting to where I can’t leave you alone at all, not even a moment without some jerk making a fool of himself…”

His face came close to hers and moist lips brushed her rouged cheek.

“But of course, I’m a fool for you, too…” His mouth pecked hers and the two embraced right there, on the crowded sidewalk in front of patrons, workers and passers-by alike.

They could be fools together. Just a couple of blissful idiots in love--

“Mr. Jackson--Sir?” A meek voice called.

Looking up, both saw a young valet alighting from Michael’s black and red sports car.

“Oh! Thank you!” Michael was all teeth looking very young and reckless and it thrilled Vylette. “Shamone!”

Once they were on the road, and cruising towards the very heart of the City, Vylette, still clasping Michael’s hand, couldn’t hide her curiosity any longer.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Vylette wondered giving him a loving squeeze.

“A couple of places…” Michael stopped for a red light. “…Latoya goofed with the makeup and sent it to the salon here, instead of to the hotel. You see, the beauticians will already be lugging around so much equipment for you and Lorraine, the stuff for the permanents and manicures and all…, so we have to go pick it up. Then I want to look into the barber shop a few doors down and make sure they carry the right hair dressing for me and Marlon…the wrong one and all Hell breaks loose.”

As the car was set into motion again, Vylette stared up at Michael’s hair, thick, curled and lustrous peeking out from beneath his hat and framing his slim face.

“Is it so very harsh?” She inquired, hoping that Michael wasn’t doing anything that caused him physical pain.

“Well anything with lye in it is uncomfortable…but Dandy Don seems to be milder than the rest. I just have to be careful not to scratch my scalp for about a day before or after the process or I‘ll dance.” Michael nodded turning a corner, and starting towards a large, towering building made of pink stucco and constructed in a Streamlined Moderne manner.

As he pulled alongside the curb, a young woman, with hair just as white and frosted as sex kitten Jean Harlow’s came sashaying out, carrying a small poodle. Vylette thanked everyone in Heaven that Lorraine was back at the hotel unpacking with Marlon and couldn’t see.

Or the entire “…but I wanna be blonde, Daddy…” argument would arise again.

“I’ll be but a moment, Violette Blanche.” Michael was disbanding. “And if you’re molested again, run over the bastard with my car!”

Giggling at his protectiveness, Vylette watched Michael go in.

And very acutely heard the screech that sounded like a thousand dying cats that sent Michael running back out.

“Vylette, why don’t you go claim the packages, Darling? Apparently, Armand’s is a ladies’ only place--” He gulped, feeling after his bowtie, his life nearly ended by vain women.

“Isn’t Armand a man?” Vylette teased as he slipped back into the car.

“He’s…you know…” Brows wiggled with mischief as Michael refused to say what was still such a taboo thing in those days. Not spoken but well known to anyone who spent longer than ten seconds with the famed Armand.

(Author’s Note: It’s 1931...friendly reminder most folks were ass backwards.)

“Ah…” Vylette got out. “I’ve no problem with it. It’s his life, and who am I to interfere with what someone is doing for themselves?”

“Well, that’s broadminded of you!” Michael was nodding proudly and Vylette paused by his door.

“Just because I’m Catholic, doesn’t mean I followed everything I was taught.”

With a wink she was gone.


“Damn, I love you!”
Passing through the pink glass revolving door, inscribed with Armand’s name all over it, for the first time in her life, Vylette got the partial view of what a professional salon looked like.

Just as it had been outside, the inside of the salon was cotton-candy colored, and as soon as she passed through the door, Vylette was faced by a small alcove, housing a large black and white photograph of the salon’s namesake--Armand.

He was an older gentleman, French. of course, draped in a smock as he held a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other.

He was a very handsome gent, his sure fingers lined with diamond crusted rings, his dark hair combed back from a grinning and darkly tanned face.

And he was a man who’d dedicated his life’s work to the beautifying of women entrusted to him and those trained by him.

And it was the stylists who would be trusted to make her look her very best for the Gala the next night. (Or Michael would tear the place down, brick by brick.)

Passing the photo, and through another set of frosted doors, Vylette found herself in a blush colored lobby, with chairs grouped in fours, under pink glass chandeliers. Photographs of all the very best movie stars and even royalty lined the walls, silently urging women to copy these looks.

Vylette couldn’t help grinning, one of the photographs was of Myrna Loy, sitting in profile and looking very much sexy and vampish, with short waves and spit curls.

Vylette made a mental note of that style, if it could be done without the bobbing of her waist-length tresses, she’d like to look like that for the next night.

Several women, dressed elegantly in colorful day suits, looking bored, flipped through magazines, and across the room, a few more, draped in pink robes were making their way up a curling staircase to a small balcony and disappearing through an archway for numerous treatments and style.

Off to the side, an all female, string quartet played soft music.


“Have you an appointment, Ma’am?”
A curt voice questioned and turning, Vylette noticed the reception desk, made of backlit glass cubes.

A receptionist, not much older than herself and wearing a pale pink smock and skirt was staring at her.

She was pretty, dark hair and eyes, thinned brows up.

“Oh, no…my boyfriend was run out of here a moment ago…” Vylette started over. “.. he was supposed to pick up a couple of packages from New York. I’m just claiming them for him.”

“You must be one of the women that Gala is honoring tomorrow, aren’t you?” The woman bent and produced two sizeable boxes.

“Why yes--”

“We’ve been jumping the last three days with people coming in to look their best for it . All the society dames--uh--ladies.”

Vylette’s ear rang and she grinned, so many people were going to the Gala. Coming in special just too look their best for it.

To meet her and Lorraine and the Jacksons.

To welcome them into society! It was almost to much to process and Vylette was grinning broadly like an idiot.

“Is it a lot of women?” Vylette wondered, picking at a box corner.

“Yes Ma’am…” The woman nodded emphatically. “There’s so many, Armand has had to turn them away.”

“Zowie.” Vylette gasped and the woman’s eye drifted from her.

“Oh, there’s the dame causing the stir now--” A hand was waved.


“Lady Tabitha, a moment please!”
Vylette went stiff and stone-cold deaf for a moment.

Lady Tabitha? Lady Tabitha!

At the mention of the very woman hosting the Gala, Vylette whirled around in time to see a cheerful face approaching.

A woman, perhaps just barely into her twenties was making her way from the steps, hands in the pockets of a pink robe.

She was very beautiful, with a lightly tanned complexion, short, golden blonde hair in a straight bob and enormous blue eyes.

Why…she looked friendly.

Not at all like the cold, stiff creature Vylette had been imagining when she thought of British royalty.

There was no pale, cold-looking woman with a stick-straight figure.

Lady Tabitha had a wonderfully curvy body, that was almost too plump, and as she drew closer, her robe swished, offering a peek of black lace tap-pants panties underneath.

“Did you call for me, Alicia?” She questioned in a somewhat high-pitched and cultured voice, but surprised Vylette in that she didn’t sound English at all.

In fact, she had a more Northern accent, something like the way Michael spoke, when his native Indiana twang would creep past his usual, studied mode of speaking.

“Yes, Ma’am, this lady here is one of the ones you’re throwing that party for--”

“You don’t say! Well, hello, Honey!” Vylette’s hand was gripped and she was pulled against the noble being hugged tightly.

Lady Tabitha smelled delicately of florals.

“Which one are you, Darling, Lorraine or Vylette?”

Small teeth gleamed as she smiled, eyes coasting up and down Vylette, checking her out.

She wore no makeup that Vylette could see, but she was beautiful even without it. Her oval face, vibrantly pink lips and cheeks and without mascara her eyelashes were as blonde as her hair. Very, very thinly, eyebrows were visible.

“Vylette--”

“Oh it’s so nice to meet you, Reggie told me about you and your cousin. Ran into you all at the Gilded Lily, I believe. Didn’t half do you justice. You are implicitly pretty My Dear.”

Pretty--Lady Tabitha thought she was pretty! The girl’s head swirled and her heart thudded with glee.

Her hand patted Vylette’s and sparkled with the largest diamond she’d ever seen.

A big, beautiful, flawless emerald-cut gem set in shining gold.

“It’s so nice to meet you Lady Tabitha--” Vylette was cordial feeling she would swoon.

“Aw, can the formalities! I hope we’ll be grand friends, call me Tabby, everyone does!”

“Alright, Tabby…” Vylette giggled feeling drunk.

She was in…she was in…the most important person she knew of, as far as society went, had taken a shine to her!

“Oh you’re in for lulu of a time at the party--I invited so many people. I‘ll have to introduce you to all the gang--”

“Lady Tabitha!” A nearly masculine voice called from the stairs. “Ma’am--” A chubby woman in another Armand’s pink uniform came running, hazel eyes wide.

“Ma’am, Armand is waiting, please! Your permanent Ma‘am--”

“Very well…” Blue eyes rolled and Lady Tabitha was hugging Vylette all over again.

“The things we do to keep dainty and keep our men interested in us…” She sighed. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow! So wonderful meeting you!”

“You too…”

As ‘Tabby’ was being whisked away, Vylette stared after her, reeling from her luck.

Tabby was nothing like she expected. Kind and sweet and not a bit pretentious despite her title.

Were the other women as kind? Could they be?

This was all so new and daunting to her.

Would they want to be friends with her and Lorraine?

Would she be friends with these people? Run around with them, go out, visit their grand homes?

This certainly was a step up from Rainelle Parish.

As Vylette lingered, a woman with a little girl appeared, the child murmuring about wanting a pony.

The spell broken, Vylette took the two boxes and finally exited the salon.

Michael Jackson, sitting on his front fender was lighting a cigarette.

“Vy!” His eyes widened and with it hanging from his mouth, he ran over taking the packages.

“Jesus Christmas, I was wondering what happened to you! Everything okay?”

The boxes were set in the trunk and the two continued on their way.

“Oh…sure…just had to wait. The place is overloaded with people getting made up for the Gala. Looks like it may be the social event of the season!”

Vylette decided to keep it to herself that she had made acquaintances with Lady Tabitha and wanted to surprise him the next evening when they were sure to bump into her at the Country Club.

But it was exciting to see so many making an effort.

“See, this is why I have the people coming tomorrow. Lord knows how long you’d be tied up in there with a flock of other girls. It’s better this way, the only ones being looked after will be you and your cousin…” Michael flicked ashes as they came to a stoplight. “You took so long, I walked down to the barbershop. They carry Dandy Don…”

“Will I always have them come to me?” Vylette wondered, turning to gaze up at him.

It seemed so regal to her, having the stylists come in special.

Even Lady Tabitha went to the salon and she was a titled woman.

“You can have anything you like, Vy. Go to them, they come to you. My sisters go to a salon in New York, but they come to Mother…most of the brother’s wives have them in. It’s up to you, really. As you make more friends, you might go to the salon with them--women like to do that…” He explained calmly and tossed the butt away.

“You spoil me…” Vylette snickered leaning against him and draping his arm around her.

“That’s my intent…” Michael kissed at her head.

Suddenly, Vylette felt very, intensely bold.

Perhaps it was the high of meeting Tabby that was doing it, but her mouth was open.

Patting at his chest, the scent of vanilla tinged smoke on him, Vylette whispered into his ear.


“Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“You know, across the hall with Liver Lips…” Michael cackled and paused.

Glancing into the purplish eyes focusing on him, he questioned,

“Or…am I not?”

“You’re not.” Vylette replied and the chest heaved, “I’ve been thinking--I caused such a row last time over us being together, I want to tell you it’s alright. I’d like to turn over and see you beside me.”

“Your mother would kill me, if she knew!” Michael chortled hugging her tighter.

It was so taboo; they weren’t married and Michael didn’t even have her ring in hand, but Vylette knew what she wanted.

She wanted to be with him.

“What a way to go.” Vylette pecked his throat. “Just…just remember, I’m a lady going in, and I expect to still be one in the morning--”

“You know I respect you, Baby!” Michael gasped, at the same time his hand fondled her bosom.

“Keep it that way!”

The hand was swatted.


“Yes, Ma’am!”


A Few Hours Later

The Landmark Hotel

New Orleans, Louisiana

“…Vanishing Cream…Powder in Gardenia White…Cream Rouge in Antique Rose…Eye Shadow in Royal Purple…Black Eye Pencil and lipstick in Scintillating Scarlet…”

Vylette mumbled softly to herself, sitting Indian-style in the center of the bed, her hands rifling through the box of cosmetics and selecting just what was needed to make her look her absolute best in the Tropics Room that night.

Still glowing pink from a hot bath and eyes sparkling with refreshment from a two-hour nap that afternoon, Vylette made a pretty picture in the center of the lavender, cream and silver room.

Hair flowing around her like waves of ebony silk, she was luxuriously clad in an apricot colored robe made of flowing satin, its top comprised of fluffy, dyed-to-match marabou feathers.

It was a silly extravagance of a dressing gown, and Vylette felt like a princess in it.

The extravagances--that her pious mother would have surely thrown her head back and bayed at the moon about like a wolf--continued in the form of Vylette’s dress for the evening, hanging from a peg on the back of the closet door.

A bold, deep plum silk it was, to accent the purple tones in her eyes and paleness of her skin. It was the very latest fashion, at least that was what Lorraine had declared with the utmost conviction (and perhaps jealousy), featuring a high, choker collar, open shoulders, and yards and yards of swinging fringe, from braided detailing.

Pumps and a small beaded purse rounded out the look.

Content with her cosmetics, Vylette rose from the bed and opened her robe, revealing a pale peach colored strapless bra and panties, made more of lace than anything else, garters of peach interwoven with darker satin and silk, flesh-colored stockings.

Even more daunting than painting her face to perfection, was beating her hair into submission and producing a sleek chignon at the nape of her neck to mimic a bob.

She knew it was useless to discuss the cutting of her hair; Michael would be unyielding, staunch and firm with his ‘no’, as he considered her crowning glory one of her most attractive features.

And she wouldn’t dare do anything that would lessen her appeal to his eyes.

“Ouch--goddamned, son of a bitch!”

At the sudden shout of pain, the hairs on Vylette’s head straightened in alarm.

“Michael--Michael are you alright, Darling?”

Jogging to the cracked door of her bathroom, she opened wider and peeked in.

“Oh, Michael!”

Her hands came to face as she was met with a violent sight.

Clinging to the edge of the washbasin, Michael Jackson was stooped a towel in his other hand, pressed to his face and turning bright red with blood.

On the floor, a golden straight razor laid open.


“What the devil have you done?”
Nursing instincts alive and surging, she swooped in, taking him around his shoulders and guiding him to the closed lid of the toilet, making him sit.

“Is it a nosebleed?” She wondered, trying to pull the towel away.

“No…” Michael murmured, his eyes huge. “Lip…top lip … shaving …”

That was a relief to Vylette; he’d nicked himself shaving!

“Sweet fool…” She giggled, slapping at his hand and finally got the towel away. Barely visible on his top lip, was a small cut, still oozing.

“Don’t let me bleed on my robe! I got in Constantinople!” Michael cautioned, eyes rolling.

Michael wore a sumptuous robe of golden brocade, covered with camels and elephants. It made his brown coloring sing.

“You’re not going to bleed on it!” Vylette pressed at the wound again. “Why were you shaving? You’re getting shave and haircut and all tomorrow.”

Taking the towel, Vylette dampened it with cold water and dabbed at his face.

“I have a mustache growing in. I didn’t want to kiss you tonight and have you think I was Marlon…” He snickered patting at his hair, and stood up.

Vylette squinted at his damp face.

She could just make out a few hairs on his top lip.

“Sometimes I think you do these things to vex me!” She pinched his cheek, and turned to leave.

“Now clear a space for me, I have to do my hair and face…”

“Okay…Vy…”

Sharing the room with Michael Jackson seemed so natural, so fluid and easy, and Vylette couldn’t understand why she’d been so apprehensive before.

Michael had packed his suit case and jogged across the hall as Lorraine, bag in hand, ran to join Marlon.

(Thank God the folks back home couldn’t see them, they’d have been destroyed, like Wallis Pelant!)

Moments later, she reappeared, to find Michael off to the side, running a comb through his curls.

Coming over to basin, Vylette noticed an addition.

A large clear crystal bottle sat, its front showing the frosted nude torso of a woman, and was filled with a light amber liquid.

“What’s this?” She questioned, laying her items down.

“Perfume I picked up…next to the barbershop, is a perfume shop. Gal was putting puffs in the air…I liked it and bought a bottle. Claimed it was the newest thing out of Europe. Called Scandalous.”

“Hmm!”

Vylette lifted the stopper and ran the dauber under her nose.

And was treated to a heavy, deep, musky aroma with notes of citrus near the end.

“Oh…I love it! It’s so--”

“Sexy?” Michael provided and his brows wiggled devilishly.

“Yes, oh, you’re so sweet!” Vylette started to apply it to all her pressure points with glee.

“Was it very expensive?”

There was no reply but Michael batted his lashes at her.

“Stop spoiling me, you Cad, I may get to like it!” She was blushing as Michael slapped on some of his own scent.

“I want you to like it…” He appeared behind her, arms wrapping her middle. His face nestled her throat and he inhaled deeply.

“That perfume does things to me Vy…” He whispered, causing gooseflesh to take her. “…and if I hadn’t had to order that Coq au Vin a day ahead of time, I’d carry you right off to bed!”

“You fiend!” Vylette patted at his cheek. “You know Lorraine and Marlon are expecting us--”

“They aren’t. We’re dining alone tonight, our own table.” Michael pinched at the flesh of her shoulder and kissed it.


“Why--?”
“Because, tomorrow night we’ll have dozens of snooty, affected pea brains at the club in our hair. I want an evening with only you. Eat my meal, admire you…and have an intelligent conversation, that has nothing to do with my theatre, my money or what happened the last time I dotted my Colored ass out the country.”

Her shoulder was pecked again.

“I want to eat, waltz, and view The Conservatory out back. I heard talk it was lovely at night…” Patting her bare shoulders, Michael whispered,

“I bid you ‘adieu’ Violette Blanche and will leave you to your primping.”

Gently, he bounced her breasts from the underside, and turned to go.

Feeling more loved than ever, as the door shut, Vylette hugged herself, tittering, like the fool for Michael Jackson she was.


Sometime Later

The Tropics Room

New Orleans, Louisiana

As in love as Vylette Meraux had been with Michael Jackson up to that point, the most marvelous feeling in the world to her multiplied exponentially during that evening at dinner.

Michael had seen to it that they had a secluded table, far from the dance floor, but still well within earshot of the band playing.

For long stretches time, just as Michael had wanted, the waiter was absent and the nearby tables were vacant as other couples ran to hoof it to fast-paced jazz.

Several times, Vylette could make out Marlon, flinging Lorraine in a scant pink gown all over the floor. Parts of Lorraine were wiggling and shaking with reckless abandon and Vylette only hoped her cousin had at least worn panties. (Her bosom was far too free to have had a brassiere containing it!)

As the big band blared, Vylette was content to hold Michael’s hand, eat the chicken stewed in wine and chat about each other, how they had enjoyed the drive around town and how Michael said they should go on drives more often.

Vylette ate plenty and the only complaint she heard all the evening was from Michael, wanting to waltz.

He wanted to hold Vylette against him, not throw her around like a boomerang.

A ten dollar bill was sent to the conductor and The Blue Danube Waltz began.

And The Blue Danube Waltz continued for forty-five solid minutes--money being handed off each time they swirled past the bandstand-- to the point others began to vocally complain and Marlon, not wanting to fistfight a room full of half-lit partiers, escorted his brother, in that Viennese Ball Trance, off the floor.

Back at their table, as Vylette had tried to decide between a Chocolate Mousse or Chocolate Ice Cream for dessert, Michael abruptly rose, saying they would see The Conservatory right then and that they could have room service bring sweets later that night for them.

It was a long, silent walk from the Tropics Room, out to the very rear of the Landmark Hotel.

Michael, oddly enough, said absolutely nothing, and for the most part, Vylette saw he wasn’t even looking at her.

Instead, his gaze was set straight ahead.

He seemed tenser and even worried.

She wanted to speak, but didn’t quite know what to say.

At the end of an expanse hallway, a set of glass doors stood and beyond it, a dimly lit Atrium soaring up for two stories, showing gobs and gobs of bright foliage.

As the two approached, a bellhop, in a burgundy uniform exited the room.

“Mr. Jackson, Suh?” He questioned, pop-eyes huge.

“Yes, are you Ray--”

“People call me Sticky, Suh.” The boy, not much older than his teens was nodding.

“Well Sticky, yes I am Mr. Jackson…” Michael grinned, his arm around Vylette. “And this is Miss Meraux.”

“Hello Ma’am--” The boy tilted his hat.

“Key, please…” A large hand was extended and the key dropped it in.

“Suh, I need it back by two. I go home then--” The boy begged and Michael smiled. “I’ll be done by then, thank you. For your trouble…”

A crisp, fifty-dollar bill was extended to the boy.

“For me?” Both the boy and Vylette were bug-eyed.

He was giving away such a large sum!

“Oh, thank you Mr. Jackson! Thank you! Thank you kindly!”

“Thank you, Sticky…” The door was opened, and Vylette was allowed in.

She was immediately inundated with the aromas of exotic and floral blooms.

“We aren’t supposed to be in here, are we?” She questioned, having to squint in the warm, moist dimness.

“Not really, but a fifty-dollar lock between friends says otherwise…” Michael smirked, hand clutching hers.

“What are you up to?” Vylette was tugged along behind him, down a marble, curling path, made green to blend with the rest of the glass encased room.

Overhead, the trees and plants were silent, swaying gently and giving the room of a lush tropical rainforest.

She should have been worried about being in a restricted area, but there was a coolness to Michael that laid her worries to rest. And instead she clung to him, following along.

Enjoying the perfumed room and his company.

It did seem a wonderful place to hide out and neck for a while.

The two came near the back of The Conservatory, where loud, multicolored roses bloomed, and Vylette was offered a seat on a low, backless wooden bench.

Reaching, Michael picked a big, fine white one and handed it to Vylette.

Holding it under her nose and sampling its aroma she smiled.

He was so darling and sweet.

“I…I’ve written a poem for you, Vylette…” Michael spoke timidly, his voice in falsetto.

Above them, the moon came from behind a cloud and illuminated the room as brightly as sunlight.

Almost like a spotlight on Michael Jackson.

Hands clasped in front of Michael and he gave Vylette a long look, that seemed so affectionate, her breath staggered.

Then his eyes closed and his small mouth parted,

“You are the promised kiss of springtime


That makes the lonely winter seem long

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song

You are the angel glow that lights a star

The dearest things I know are what you are

Some day my happy arms will hold you

And some day I'll know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine…”

The rose in Vylette’s hand was mashed and a thorn pricked her tender hand, but she felt none of it, as her heart began to race and pound into her ears, her breath quickening and eyes starting to mist at the endearing words.

The poem, it was so beautiful…Michael had penned that especially for her?

Her free hand came to her chest, bosom quivering wildly, as Michael, still as a statue launched into the second stanza.

This was too much. He’d written scores of poems and love letters for her, so many she couldn’t count them, but something about this poem was different. Something about the way Michael was reciting it.

The sheer passion and quiet power he was revealing in his voice. At times it was breaking, as though he wanted to cry, he was so emotional.

“…You are the angel glow that lights a star


The dearest things I know are what you are

Some, some, some, some, day

My happy arms will hold you

And some day I'll know that moment divine

When all the things you are, are mine

Yeah, yeah, all the things you are, are mine

All the things you are, got to be mine

Some day you are, are mine
All the things you are, got to be mine…”

For a brief moment, all was silent in The Conservatory, Michael standing without motion, and Vylette a torrent inside a calm-appearing body.

Eyes huge, she managed,

“That…that was beautiful Darling, I love it…”

“And I love you…” Michael slipped onto the bench beside her and took her hand in his, kneading.

“Vylette, I have something I want to tell you…” He huffed and was looking away from her.

“I’ve said some things to you, that weren’t entirely truthful…”

Lavender eyes widened and then narrowed.

“You…you’ve lied to me?” Vylette whimpered, unsure of how to comprehend it, a tiny pain stabbing at her.

He could lie? Someone as God-sent as Michael Jackson could lie?

“Please…don’t say it like that!” Michael brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

“What have you lied about?” Vylette, feeling cold, started to jerk her hand away.

“It…it has to do with the dinner. The one that was cancelled…” Michael seemed to cringe under the piercing glare he was receiving.

“You see, Dear--”

Her shoulder pulled from his grasp.

“--Marlon didn’t get cold feet about wanting to propose to Lorraine--”

Painted lips parted in shock.

“Marlon doesn’t want to marry Lorraine?” Vylette gasped, scandalized to the point of wanting to pass out.

Were his intentions towards her not honorable, after all?

“But after all they’ve done! Michael! He has to marry her! He has to! What if she is carrying his child! They’ve compromised themselves! Papa will shoot him!--”

What would her father say? Her mother? The entire damn town?

Her eyes showed her fear. What if Steven Wilkes had been right all along? That the Jacksons were only out for a good time and once bored of them, would leave and move on to the next girls to take advantage of?

What if they had just been a novelty to them?

A finger mashed her lips.

“Vylette please hush!’ Michael begged, eyes glassy and pulling a hanky from his pocket he dabbed his forehead with it.

“Mein Leibling…” He groaned, his hands on her trembling shoulders. “…the dinner, was not intended to be for a proposal from Marlon to Lorraine…it never was…”

His curled head lowered.

“Oh Dear God…” Vylette shook her head, and wanted to find a heavy object to hurl at Michael’s brother.

And then he made a confession that nearly took the snap out her garters.

“Marlon wasn’t the one with cold feet, Vylette…I was…”

A startled gasp left red lips.

“W-what are you saying Michael?” Confused, Vylette was stuttering.

“I’m saying…I’m saying…” Michael was barely audible, as he stood. “I’m saying the other day, when I was at your Papa’s office, getting my shot, it wasn’t just for my health. Vylette…I was getting his blessing…”

“His bless--oh, Michael--no!”

And the realization hit Vylette like a brick, what was happening.

The rose was dropped and Vylette’s hands flew to her face, as Michael, smiling and with tears glistening in his eyes began to get down on one knee.

“No, Michael!”

From his pocket, a small, black velvet box was produced and with a small click it opened.

“Jesus!”

Displayed in the box was a ring.

Set in gleaming platinum with a double band of pave diamonds, in the center was a huge, faintly pink, cushion-cut diamond, sparkling in the moonlight.

“Oh Michael!” Vylette was sobbing off all of her makeup, as the ring was plucked from its setting.

Taking her trembling hand, the ring was slipped on, providing a perfect fit to the ring finger of her left hand.

“Vylette Evangeline…” Michael was blinking through his own tears. “…I’d…I’d be so honored, blessed and happy, if you would agree to be my wife, now and forever. Will… will you marry me?”

Vylette was crying so hard, it took several moments for her to render him an answer.

“…Yes! Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you Michael! Oh my God! Yes!”

She wept and fell to her knees, throwing her arms around his neck and mashing her lips to his with more force than she had ever mustered in her life.

“We’re…we’re engaged, Baby…” Michael, drunkenly delighted sniffed loudly, hugging her tightly and kissing at her damp face. “I’m…I’m going to marry my Violette Blanche!”

“And I’m going to marry my L’etalion Noir!” Vylette cooed, shaking her head and kissing him again.

Married…Vylette Meraux was going to be married.

Married…to Michael Jackson!

The sweetest, dearest, kindest, most loving man in the world.

Maybe, just maybe…dreams did come true!