The Following Morning
Landmark Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana
“…tell me about it again…please…?”
“Oh, Mein Liebling, I’ve told you four times already! Aren’t you tired of the tale yet?”
Michael Jackson lamented with a wry chuckle, flicking red embers from his cigarette into a small ivory ashtray.
Eyes coming up from his plate of a partially eaten omelet, too many strips of crisp bacon and a butter-oozing biscuit, he focused on the face peering at him from across the table.
The smooth, whitened, heart-shaped face with the queer eyes and elegant nose.
With the naturally rosy mouth bouncing as it chewed on some of the fried pork flesh.
That beautiful, entrancing face, framed by the loose, raven waves, contrasting sharply against the soft, translucent, fleshy pink of her crepe nightgown.
A gown that dipped just far enough in the front to show the tops of her generous bosom, swaying freely as she breathed in and out rapidly, her strange lavender-blue eyes sparkling and wild, staggering with attempted restraint as they searched his face.
It was the face Michael could not begin to utter “no” to.
It was the face of his wife-to-be.
The young, childishly exuberant, glowing face of his Vylette.
He loved her so much. Was proud to near busting that she wore his ring and had answered the most important of life’s questions with a yes!
A long hand was extended, grasping at the smaller one, bearing the tremendous gem studded bauble.
Rocking her hand back and forth so that the maximum light was reflected by the jewels, Michael teased, a smirk creasing his face,
“You’ll never grow weary of the story.”
That head shook and both beamed a long, silent moment.
The dark eyes eventually tore themselves away, and focused back on the ring, still throwing faint rainbows in the early morning light.
“Even though your ring was handcrafted by an artisan jeweler employed by Cartier…” He began lightly and treasured how those eyes danced with a passionate glee at the heralded and esteemed name, “…the diamonds themselves came from a mine in Zanzibar. When I corresponded with the overseer of the mine, I told him I wanted a rare, unique diamond for the girl--ahem--the lady I intended to marry, I…I wanted something no one else had, because we have something no one else has…”
Shifting in her seat, color appearing in her cheeks and spreading to the rest of her face, Vylette’s chest fluttered and her stomach was in an uproar, the butterflies transforming into happy, drunken hornets.
This was too good to be true!
Too wonderful.
Too encapsulating.
Too much of a blessing!
Did God really bless this way?
Michael Jackson was a dream come true for her.
Everything she could have ever wanted in a man, and more.
“…I specifically requested absolutely flawless gems. And was turned onto the pink diamond. I was sent a drawn rendition of it, in color and knew I wanted it. You deserved it. Your…your ring…the diamonds come from two larger diamonds. One faintly pink, the other, white…”
Michael paused to take a sip of Tabasco-laced tomato juice.
“The pink stone is a full twelve carats, cushion, cut down from a rough, seventeen carat stone. There are one hundred and twenty-eight rose-cut stones making an extra two carats. That was cut down from a three carat stone. What’s left is in the safe at home. You…you can have them mounted into anything you like, Vy. They’re yours…”
The remnants of the raw diamonds were hers. To do with as she chose!
“It’s more than enough, Michael…” Vylette blinked, hot tears starting to roll down her cheeks again. “I can’t stop crying--I’m so happy!”
Would she ever be able to stop crying?
Arms were held out to her and Vylette swiftly ran to be cradled in his lap.
“I’m sorry…I’m just a big baby!” She wept, saltwater falling onto his shoulder, draped in a paisley print pajama top.
“You’re my big baby…” Michael cooed, lips pressing after her cheek and hugging her tighter.
“I love you so much…” Vylette’s mouth was on his, lips sparking generously and causing the couple to break out simultaneously in goosebumps.
Speaking into her mouth, Michael inquired, lustily,
“Would…would you like to cross the hall, so we may tell your cousin and my brother of this new, exciting development?”
“Mmm-hmm!” Head bobbing, Vylette slipped from his lap and was immediately yanked against him, his arm around her waist.
Never wanting to let her go, always wanting to feel the warmth of her live, soft, plump body, Michael’s face was in her neck and recklessly the two stumbled for the front door.
As they rammed directly into it, Vylette was laughing and feeling so high, it was like she was on dope.
Perhaps she was.
Michael always did give her a zing, a crazed, energized sensation.
Love…it was love.
Hand coming out, she touched the cool knob and seemed to come back down to earth with the feel of it.
“Michael!” She exclaimed and clutched at his shirt so hard, her nails were puncturing his flesh.
Eyes huge with more worry than a girl of eighteen should have ever known, she shook him.
“My parents! Michael--my parents!” She choked out, going so ghostly grey, Michael feared she’d faint.
“How will we tell my parents!”
Her Mama and Papa, they had to know! They had to know their little girl had accepted the proposal of marriage! A proposal from a gent not of the Parish! All parents had to know such things--
“It’s alright! Don’t fret!” Michael stroked at her head. “The dinner is back on…for Sunday evening. We’ll tell your folks all about it, then. And I‘ll wait until tomorrow morning to call my mother and tell her. I tried this morning, but she‘s out at the polo matches with Maureen, my father is sailing in Italy last I checked--”
He’d already tried to call his mother…
Seeing Michael had done a man’s job, taking the load from her shoulders. Vylette sagged against him, thankful.
Michael always did make things better.
Moving her hand, Michael opened the door to the quiet hallway.
“Now let’s go tell Mar--”
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Across the hall, from behind the shut door of the room occupied by Marlon Jackson and Lorraine Devereaux, a piercing howl broke the serene morning and was followed by the sound of glass breaking.
Without thought, Michael and Vylette were immediately bounding across the hall, where the door was found unlocked and promptly flung open.
The two dashed inside, where they skidded to a short halt only a few steps within the suite.
In front of them, was a startlingly bizarre scene.
Much like themselves, it appeared that Marlon and Lorraine had been taking their breakfast.
The plates were still steaming on a low table.
On the marble floor, a cup and saucer lay shattered in a pool of spilt coffee--even that was steaming.
A few feet away, Marlon Jackson, wearing only blue pajama bottoms, was frantically patting at the still, colorless face of Lorraine.
The teenager was sprawled on the floor, completely devoid of life, her form covered in a scant, chartreuse lace teddy.
Her auburn waves fanned out around her, almost as is it had been arranged that way.
That vain creature had managed to faint beautifully!
“Lori! Lori, Baby! Baby! Wake up! Cherry!--Lorraine! Lord Jesus Christ!” Marlon was pleading, continuing to prod after her.
“Lorraine Christina!”
“Marlon, what the devil happened?” Michael demanded, as he and Vylette, feet bare, picked their way cautiously around the broken china to Marlon’s side.
“What the hell’s it look like? She passed out! Baby! Come on, Red!” Marlon exclaimed starting to rub at her freckled arm, trying to bring about a reaction.
Pull her back to consciousness.
Anything!
“Lorraine, wake up for me! Wake up for Daddy, Lover!”
“What caused her to pass out?”
Michael and Vylette chorused and Marlon’s reply was nothing short of spectacular.
Golden eyes, going muddy brown with turbulence, Marlon barked,
“I asked her to marry me!”
Silence permeated the room as both were stunned, and Michael spit out the only response he could muster.
“You’re bullshitting us!”
“No, you emaciated bastard, on the level--look!” Marlon insisted, and grabbed Lorraine’s left hand.
“Zowie!”
Vylette’s hand was clapped to her own cheek, eyes growing in amazement.
Sure enough, on Lorraine’s hand was a devastating engagement ring, featuring a huge, rectangular, faceted emerald of the deepest, most saturated green, surrounded by round, princess and trapezoidal cut white diamonds.
It was a strange and eye-grabbing arrangement set in platinum and seemed just the kind of ring befitting a showy girl like Lorraine.
Just the bauble to proclaim her belonging to a jazzy man like Marlon Jackson.
“Goddamn you, I can’t have anything to myself, can I, you moose-lipped motherfucker!” Michael cried in anguish as Marlon took hold of Lorraine’s shoulders, shaking her vigorously.
Other than a white breast and peachy nipple being exposed--which Vylette swiftly covered for decency’s sake--Lorraine remained OUT.
“What the hell are you babbling about? Your girl is awake! Mine didn’t even answer me before she hit the floor!”
A hand laid itself on Marlon’s shoulder and he looked up into his brother’s face, smiling peacefully.
The eyes shifted between Michael and Vylette, who held up her hand, displaying her own engagement ring.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Marlon wailed and forgetting Lorraine in the moment was hugging Michael, before embracing Vylette.
“You’re stuck with this lunatic now!” He guffawed before dropping back to the floor.
“God forgive me…” He prayed, and raised his hand.
“Oh no--” Vylette started, realizing what he was about to do.
“Marlon wait, she‘ll bruise you fool!--” Michael reached after him, but it was too late.
Pop!
Marlon, much like the actors in the films they screened, had slapped Lorraine across the face.
“…Say, what’s the big idea?” Lorraine stuttered, her right hand touching at her cheek, starting to go red. “Somebody sock me in the jaw?”
Greenish eyes opened and focused on Marlon with vengence.
“Did you hit me, you scoundrel?”
“Yes, but you fainted--” Marlon tried to tell her.
Whap!
Lorraine slapped Marlon with such force, he fell over onto the cold marble.
“I bruise easily, damn you--” She went to wag a finger at him, when the gigantic emerald on her hand caught her eye.
“Sweet Fancy Moses! What’s that?” She cried and leapt to her feet staring at it as if she couldn’t imagine why something like what would be on her hand.
“You hit like a damn man…” Marlon was clutching his jaw in agony, and staggering to his feet. “…I asked you to marry me, before you decided to slip into a coma!”
Lorraine Devereaux hunched as if she’d been punched in the gut.
“M-M-Marry you--?” She stammered, and instantly started to sway.
They were going to lose her all over again!
“Oh no, you damn well don’t!” Marlon had his arms around her, steadying her on unsteady legs.
“You answer me--yes or no! Lorraine, I love you and want you to be my wife! Will you marry me?”
Eyes, green with a touch of grey, rolled every which way, as the freckled body grew limp again.
With one last, tiny burst of air, Lorraine whispered,
“Yes…”
And was gone, sagging back to the floor.
“This damn woman!” Marlon cackled, scooping her up and carrying her to the couch.
Then it dawned on him, her reply.
“She said yes! She said yes, hot shit--”
Setting her down, Marlon performed a back-flip, coming up clapping and ran, embracing Michael and Vylette all laughing loudly.
“SHE SAID YES!”
“Mr. Jackson--” A bellhop entered, his pimply face filled with aggravated concern. “--we’re getting calls of noise complaints--”
Striding up to the boy, Marlon threw his head back and cackled,
“Fuck you, Son!” He announced, grabbing the boy and bodily tossing him out into the hall, where he flew thought the open door and crash landed into Vylette and Michael’s suite.
“I just asked the girl I love more than life itself to marry me and she said YES! You ain’t ruining my day, you luggage-hauler!”
“I’m gonna tell my boss on you!” The boy cried from where he laid in a pitiful heap of burgundy wool and searing embarrassment.
“Tell him! Tell the manager! Tell ya Mama! Tell ya Daddy! Tell Herbert Hoover! Tell the King of England! Take out airtime and tell everybody! I don’t give a good goddamn!”
With that, the door was slammed and Marlon jumped in a circle, before starting to dance the dance of an elated man--also known as The Charleston--entire body in motion to no particular tune, white teeth flashing and all showing at once.
His curled head jerked back and he howled for anyone with ears to hear,
“I’M GETTING MARRIED!”
* * *
Several Hours Later
The Landmark Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana
Each time Vylette reread that brief, open declaration of affection, the more and more she became convinced that Michael Jackson was the most perfect man in the world.
The most loving, thoughtful, caring and spoilsome man in the world.
She’d already been pampered better than royalty that day, the attention of talented and capable stylists under Armand’s strict tutelage focused unwaveringly on her.
Vylette, along with her cousin Lorraine, had received facials and mineral body masks that left their skin remarkably clear, smooth and supple. (Lorraine had also been rubbed down vigorously with halved lemons and grapefruits to bleach out her freckles.)
She had been treated to a full-body massage that left her loose as melted butter.
Copious amounts of time had gone into the waving of her hair and styling had taken over an hour alone.
An even longer amount of time had been dedicated to the expert, exacting application of her make up and the painting of her finger and toenails.
Though he had been gone most of the day, Michael had made it crystal clear that his mind was on Vylette, his Violette Blanche, his wife-to-be.
All day long, while Michael, along with Marlon, was down at the barbershop, on the receiving end of a Dapper Don process, straight-razor shave, clear buff manicure and full-body massage of his own, packages from him had been steadily arriving.
There was Vylette’s gown for the Gala, on a dressmaker’s dummy built to her specific measurements, a wonder of the purest ice-blue silk, with matching silk pumps and fleshy stockings. Michael had even gone so far as to include pale blue lace panties to be worn underneath.
Next had come jewelry. As if the honker of a pink diamond engagement ring weren’t enough, she now had dazzling aquamarine and diamond earrings and impossibly large matching cuffs, along with a satin bag.
A short while after that a box containing a crystal covered lipstick holder and matching powder compact had arrived, with another note attached stating that Michael hoped it was the most extravagant touch-up kit in the Club. (And not too subtly hinted to tell people the crystals were diamonds.)
And now, with only about twenty minutes to go until time to depart for the Country Club, an arrangement of roses had arrived.
In a stunning vase of dark blue fluted glass, decorated with sterling silver lace and embossed florals, it was a motif echoed by two dozen pristine white roses, arranged in a ball.
Looking over the tender note, rendered on hotel stationary, Vylette tittered to herself, before setting it down, next to the arrangement, on the bedside table, and slowly started to cross the room.
A pair of full-length mirrors had been left in each suite, compliments of Armand himself, and Vylette couldn’t help staring at herself.
Oh, she had looked pretty before, with the help of fine jewelry, cosmetics and clothing, but never before had she felt so chic, so completely secure and confident in her looks.
She knew she was looking at herself, she recognized her face, and her funny-colored eyes, but she looked nothing like the poor country girl she been.
Staring back at her was a cosmopolitan, refined woman of eighteen, who, to strangers might have just stopped into New Orleans en route to a foreign, exotic locale.
Her figure was draped in the exquisite gown, of icy blue, making her eyes appear as crystal as it, it was long and hugged her lines, the hem and small train rimmed with tiny, puckered pleats, adding visual interest.
Over thin straps that offered a peek of bosom in the front and a scandalous amount of back, was a short cape. Made of dangling strips, each sparkling with blue stones and silver bugle beads, all extending from a thick border of more pleats.
Vylette’s black mane had been arranged in a low bun, parted on the side and wispy with spit curls framing her face.
Her complexion was a creamy pale, the only color coming from pencil thin brows, a hint of blue shadow on her lids, pale pink in her cheeks and a pinkish red on her pout that matched her nails exactly.
Her gems glittered in the fluorescent lighting and she sighed passionately, wondering just how Michael would look.
She knew the Gala was an explicitly formal, black tie affair, but she also knew the Jacksons--they’d find some way to bend the rules to wear something different.
Stand out and set a trend. Perhaps cause all the other men to dress like them.
Vylette grinned at herself, her fears of Vanity being forgotten.
Would she and Lorraine usher in a new trend amongst the women?
Would they wear their hair like them? Try on dresses like them?
Wear the Scandalous perfume like her or the new Vibrant that Marlon had sent to Lorraine?
All the day, Vylette had read an etiquette book and worried about fitting in with the debutantes, of noble breeding and overflowing bank accounts.
And now, seeing herself, she wasn’t worried. Not at all.
She’d already gotten off to a good start with Lady Tabitha, and that was important, as Tabby was the hostess of the event.
No matter, as long as she was on Michael’s arm she could have walked through the Seven Circles of Hell and come out unscathed--
“Vylette?”
At the soft, inquisitive voice, the teen turned.
Gliding through the open door of the bedroom, Lorraine Devereaux was a vision in her signature color: green.
Her lithe, voluptuous figure was shown off by a rather frank, jade chiffon creation.
As she scurried across the floor to her cousin and confidant, Vylette couldn’t help shaking her head.
Never one to turn down a flair for the dramatic, Lorraine wore a much longer cape, embroidered in a paisley pattern and rimmed in lush, bright silver fur.
“Mink?” Vylette questioned as Lorraine reached and grasped her hand, a bracelet of cabochon emeralds and faceted diamonds was exposed from beneath the cape.
Only Lorraine would wear fur, in June, in New Orleans!
“Fox!” Her cousin corrected her, pale eyes, shadowed in green, false lashes fluttering with excitement and crimson lips were bearing a wide smile. “Can you believe it? Real, genuine silver fox. If only the gals in the Parish could see me right now!”
Her head, bearing a style similar to Vylette’s, but with no spit curls, wagged with arrogance.
And Vylette knew by the fierce glaze to those green eyes, she was wishing she could rub her finery in the faces of the entire Povah clan.
Emeralds swinging in her lobes, Lorraine was pulling at her.
“Come on, Vy! Daddy just called--he and Mike are down in the lobby waiting for us! Ooooh, I can’t believe it, we’re going to spend the night dancing at the Country Club--and the party is in our honor! Jesus Christ! Times like this, I wish Mama and Papa were here!”
Vylette was practically dragged through the suite and out to the hall.
“Vy…you do think my Mama and Papa would like Marlon, don’t you?” Lorraine wondered tentatively, as they arrived at the elevators and summoned one from the ground floor.
At such a question, Vylette looked to curiously.
Lorraine had her hand up, gazing at her engagement ring.
“I… I mean if they were here…Marlon would be their son-in-law. I’d want them to love him--”
“Of course they would. Hell, my Mama likes him and she used to couldn’t stand him. Yankee from Sodom and Gomorrah!” Vylette cackled thinking of how her mother had been so opposed to their courting and now they were all engaged together.
A look of relief came to Lorraine’s face, as a bell dinged and the elevator opened.
The operator, seeing the beautiful women, straightened and sucked in his gut.
“Going down?” He asked dutifully and both nodded, stepping into the mirrored box.
As they drifted downwards, he cleared his throat.
“You ladies…going out?”
“Yes.” Lorraine spoke up curtly and cut him down in one blow.
“We’re on our way to the Fleur de Lis Country Club where Sir and Lady Cavendish are throwing a Gala in honor of our and our fiancés joining, understand?”
The man seeing he was far out of his league nodded and grumbled in Creole.
Vylette made a mental note that if Lorraine got too full of herself, she’d have to slap her.
A second bell rang and the door slid open.
And Vylette lost control of her senses for a moment.
Standing just outside the bank of elevators, chatting softly and smoking cigarettes, were the Jacksons.
And as expected, they’d wiggled through a loophole in the dress code.
Both men were turned out in charcoal grey tuxedos, with tails, replete with grey waistcoats and bow ties studded with crystals. Each shifted from one foot to the next in grey patent dress shoes.
White silk glovers were on their hands and behind them, on a side table, were top hats and folded silk scarves.
They were going out in full dress!
Michael couldn’t have been more dashing if he tried.
His hair curled and shined with pomade circled his head in thick halo, as did his brothers.
Marlon was chuckling, smoke coming from his wide nose as the girls approached them.
“…I don’t care, I could buy it if she likes…” Michael went to his mouth for another puff.
And his eyes found Vylette a few feet away.
The cigarette tumbled from his fingers and hit the floor.
Eyes widened and began to take her in, his mouth parted, staring, his chest visibly straining as his breathing stalled.
“I know you steeple-headed ass could buy it, would you?” Marlon laughed, before taking notice of his brother’s condition.
“What ails you?”
With no reply, Marlon followed his gaze and saw Lorraine.
“Goddamn!” He murmured, mashing his cigarette into an ash tray and inadvertently stepped on Michael’s dropped one, rushing to her.
“Baby, you’re gonna kill them tonight! Sweet Fancy Moses! You’re ravishing!”
“Oh, Daddy!” The two pecked at each other so as not to muss Lorraine’s makeup.
Stepping closer to the speechless Michael, Vylette noticed he wore two pins on his lapel: a diamond peacock with aquamarine cabochons in its downcast plumage, and below it, a dangling pin with both an oval and teardrop stone.
He always wanted to advertise they were a set.
He didn’t have to speak…
Lips touched and both gasped, seeing stars.
Instantly, the hat and scarf were donned and an arm offered to Vylette.
As the foursome wafted through the packed lobby of idlers and revelers, heads turned.
Whispers were exchanged and everyone’s lips, people wondered who this set was.
The enchanting young women, the handsome young men.
They were soon to soar to the top of the New Orleans social register.
Next to the sidewalk, a pair of limousines idled.
Sleek Duesenberg models, gleaming black with white tops and whitewall tires.
Each with a studious chauffer leaping to hold the doors.
“We’ll see y’all at the club!” Marlon called gaily, helping Lorraine up into the first vehicle.
Michael waved, then helped Vylette into the black leather interior.
Snuggling close as the door was shut and the chauffer took the wheel, Michael Jackson spoke up for the first time.
“Did you receive my roses?” He wondered, patting at her soft hand, not seeming to care at all about the Gala, as the car merged with traffic on the dark street, a few cars behind Marlon’s.
“Yes, Darling, they were beautiful…” Vylette pinched at his cheek and he kissed the top of her hand.
“Not as beautiful as you, nothing will ever be as beautiful as you…” He whispered still smooching.
The things he said that could make her tremble.
“You almost set your self on fire, dropping your cigarette.” Vylette pointed out as his mouth moved to her wrist.
“Was I smoking? I don’t remember…” Michael’s eyes came up and managed to glow in the blackness.
“I love you.” Vylette stated and head coming up, Michael removed his hat.
He was closer to her, the two of them breathing audibly.
Being in such close quarters and unable to do as they liked always was torture.
“Damn this party…” Michael confessed heatedly and his fist pounded the seat in anguish. “If it wasn’t for setting us up properly in this city, I’d make the driver circle back and I’d take you back to bed and…and…and I’d--”
Grasping his shoulders, Vylette was kissing him, their tongues flicking against one another.
It was the most could be done, just shy of doing something devilish in the backseat and destroying the looks that had taken so many hours and work by skilled hands to achieve.
“I don’t care about it here. I’m happy in the Parish!” Michael cried and Vylette nodded with understanding. “I don’t even like Reginald’s antiquated ass--”
“Why do you dislike him so?” Vylette inquired, unable to make any sense out of Michael’s strict aversion to the aristocrat.
“I’ll tell you some other time, Mein Liebling. I won’t ruin your night talking about it--”
That quickly, the topic was changed.
“I‘m looking forward to the dinner tomorrow night. I can‘t wait to be back home, and tell your folks. Well, your father knew, because I asked him for your hand, but he hasn‘t told your mother…”
At the mention of spilling the news, Vylette took his hand, rubbing and patting after it. She still couldn’t believe she was wearing his ring and destined to be his bride!
It all seemed so surreal to her. Would she ever be able to truly grasp it?
“May I cook the meal?” She questioned and Michael’s grip tightened.
“Will you feel up to it? We’ll be until the wee hours at the Club--” He cautioned and Vylette bobbed her head violently.
“Yes, it’s best Mama and Papa get home-cooking, not the chi-chi stuff you have Adelaide make.”
Yes, that would be better, since her Kathleen had raised such a stink the first time a dinner had been suggested and had seemed to hate all of the more upscale nuances it entailed. Something more simple and down-to-earth would have been better.
“I’ll call Adelaide in the morning, so she can run to the market. You just tell me what all you decide you need, Vy--” Michael was rubbing at her arm and interrupted by her adding.
“Oh, and make sure Vinnie gets out there too, I’ll need her help. Whether or not Lorraine will help remains to be seen.”
They both laughed, knowing that lazy soul would find every excuse to avoid the cooking.
“Imagine!” Michael snorted like a hog. “Tonight you’ll be rubbing elbows with nobility, and heiresses who wouldn’t know a stove even if it burned them, and tomorrow, you’ll put out a meal better than the inflated shit we’ll be served tonight. By your own hand and the help of a ten-year-old! Lord have mercy!”
Proudly, Vylette’s head was raised and in that moment she was thankful for her meager honest upbringing than anything Michael could ever buy for her!
You couldn’t buy character and Vylette was slopping over with it.
And was that character that had won her Michael Jackson’s love and adoration--the greatest prize of all.
* * *
An Hour Later
Fleur de Lis Country Club
Outskirts of New Orleans, Louisiana
Dizzy.
That was the only way to truly, accurately describe the feeling that was seeming to overwhelm Vylette Meraux that evening.
She was merrily, damn near drunkenly, dizzy.
And she had been, from the very moment she had stepped down from the limousine and taken in the grandeur that was the Main Clubhouse.
After a drive of close to half an hour, that had taken her from the noisy, crowded, steamy inner city, to a much more idyllic, quiet, forest-rimmed area, the Fleur de Lis stood out of the virgin wilderness like an out-of-place castle.
Indeed, the entire estate, as far Vylette could see, lit by hanging glass and gilt lanterns all over the outside, did have the look of something passed from one royal to the next.
It did not even seem as though she were in Louisiana anymore, nor even the country of the United States.
The whole of the property was twice as large as that of Jackson Manor back home, somewhere near six thousand acres, that in the dimness of the coming nightfall, contained a stable with dozens of the members’ purebred horses, a large man-made lake for swimming and rowing, four tennis courts, a full golfing green, an archery range and gardens dotting the landscape, including several gazebos and miniature cottages for those to rest in and even stay the night if they so chose.
Between the gate and the Main Clubhouse was a lane that stretched inwards for three miles and on either side of it were tall hedges, the outer-most walls of growing labyrinths, where a person could be happily lost for hours at a time, trying to fumble their way out.
As their limousine had pulled up to the building, Vylette’s breath had left her and had yet to return.
Vylette wasn’t sure exactly what she had been expecting of the Club before her arrival, but once seeing it, all of her preconceived notions were far-exceeded.
The Clubhouse had the look of a Georgian palace, a symmetrical, stoic building of taupe masonry, boasting arched and rectangular windows, all of which seemed to glow a soft yellow from candlelight against the blackness around it.
The front entry way, topped off by a delicate grate over the arched, carved front doors was flanked by a set of twin, curling staircases, leading up to a wide veranda on the second floor.
From the open windows, for the first time that night, Vylette had heard the music…the big band playing jaunty jazz tunes, and the noise of several hundred voices carrying on conversations, and laughing.
The noise of partygoers without a care in the world, enjoying themselves, and the security their wealth afforded them on a night, when most others were trying to find something to eat to quiet an upset, empty stomach.
But that world, the real world, ceased to exist, as Vylette had been offered Michael Jackson’s thin arm, and the two had followed his brother and her cousin, up the stone steps, into the front foyer of the hall.
At the front door, the foursome was greeted by a footman, clad in an elaborate brocade embroidered costume of a jacket, cropped trousers and lacy cravat made him seem plucked from the time of Marie Antoinette and not of the present. He even wore a tall, cumbersome powdered wig.
A front foyer that was more impressive than anything ever seen before.
A hall that was decidedly masculine, made darkly of rich, naturally deep colored woods like mahogany and ebony, carved with various figures: the namesake Fleur de Lis was seen over and over again, along with cherubs, nude figures of both male and female forms and animals such as bears, foxes, and deer more than hinting that game hunting was a shared pastime of many of the members.
Underneath Vylette’s feet, the floors were inlaid in geometric
shapes, and the walls hung with larger-than-life-sized paintings of the previous founder and previous owners of the Fleur de Lis.
Vylette was quite surprised, that it appeared the founder and owners were all of the same family, the Vales (or Va-lles, if one wanted to pronounce it in French) and by the varying tones of complexion from nearly as white as her own, to black as oil, it was clear the Vale clan were Creole as she.
Colored people owned and ran the prestigious Club!
Hanging onto Michael for dear life, Vylette was deaf as every few seconds, an excited, rosy-cheeked Lorraine, clinging to Marlon, kept turning every few moments, snickering and giggling with glee, touching at everything around her.
The four then mounted the staircase, with more wood surrounding them, their footfalls being cushioned by the plush, blood-red carpet lining it and advanced upwards to the second floor.
The second floor was just as extravagant as the first, and overhead, a stained glass ceiling glittered with what appeared to be dozens of coats of arms for some sort of royal families. Hearts and crowns and men in armored suits, stared back as Vylette craned her neck looking upwards, as she was lead around the open second floor.
Several doors stood closed, but at the end of a long corridor, a set of massive double doors stood open, and on either side, a pair of footmen, both dressed as silly as the one that had bowed to them at the door, leapt to attention.
As the two young couples approached, Vylette heard the dance music stop abruptly and be replaced with bright, echoing fanfare marked by over a dozen trumpets blowing at full blast, ringing through the hall.
And in unison the footmen exclaimed,
“Presenting Mister Marlon Jackson escorting Miss Lorraine Devereaux, and Mister Michael Jackson escorting Miss Vylette Meraux, all of Rainelle Parish, Louisiana! The newest inductees of the Fleur de Lis Country Club!”
Vylette would have cried, if not so much time and effort had gone into making her presentable that evening.
(Lorraine was dabbing at her eyes with a lace hanky from her bosom.)
They were being announced like heads of state, and as the four, high, tickled and giggly with arrogance and appreciation--perhaps not Michael, his face was still as tight as a snare drum--glided on into the ballroom, a sea of people, filling the room, were on their feet, applauding, some whistling and all smiling and welcoming the newcomers.
From the midst of the throng, Sir Reginald Cavendish, elegant in every way, wearing a black tuxedo, tails and glove emerged, his hair crisp and silver, with Lady Tabitha close behind, a vision in a charcoal grey dress and black mink capelet came shooting forward, embracing them, and offering polite kisses as the applause continued to thunder for two solid minutes without a break.
It was too surreal, a dream she dared not wake from.
They were being received like Hollywood Stars.
Was Vylette still Vylette or had she become Myrna Loy without realizing it? Was she even larger? Mary Pickford? And was Michael her Douglas Fairbanks, Sr.?
It seemed very much like it.
A wondrous, miraculous and lung-crushing as that moment had been, it also marked the last time Vylette had enjoyed the company of Michael Jackson.
Simultaneously, Lady Tabitha was arm-in-arm with Vylette and Lorraine, whisking them away, and Sir Reginald had a hand on the backs of each Jackson brother.
And for the last hour, there had been nonstop introductions, hugs, kisses, and the choking upon every fine perfume and smoke of imported cigarette that God could have created.
There were frigid blondes, exotic brunettes, a veritable rainbow of Colored and Mixed-Race women, and even a distant relative of the Chinese royal family represented.
(As Marlon had predicted, Lorraine was the lone redhead, natural or otherwise to be seen.)
It was a diverse interesting bunch and Vylette could scarcely get a hello out before the next heiress, or society columnist, or purebred breeder was grabbing at her, squeezing her and complimenting her.
Michael Jackson had frequently joked and teased that Vylette would be the ‘Belle of New Orleans’ and she had taken it lightly. But tonight she knew just what it meant to be the most popular girl in the room.
It was nearly half an hour before she and Lorraine could even have a seat, at one of the small tables near the floor, packed with others, dancing back and forth, calling yoo-hoos and hellos, and hey y’all’s, at them.
Though the table had only been intended to seat four, Vylette was packed in with close to twice that amount.
Chatter never stopped for an instant, as their new ‘friends’ spoke over one another, vying to be heard, going around the table, while Vylette was silent and still trying to drink it all in, Lorraine was showing no trouble in replying to the rapid-fire inquisition.
She was reveling in the attention, vain as a peacock, her full bosom thrown out as far as possible beneath her cape.
“My Dear, you’re so youthful-looking! You’re seventeen, you and your cousin?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re both engaged?”
“Yes--Vylette to Michael and me to Marlon--”
“Smart men! The men here outnumber the dames three to one and if you don’t stake a claim, someone else will!”
“Have you any children?”
“Oh, no--”
“You have such a lovely figure, how do you maintain it?”
Vylette’s eyes drifted and she looked into the face of Tabby, tittering and blowing a ring of smoke upwards, her cigarette in a exquisite red and blue enamel holder.
Through unbridled information exchanging, Vylette knew the life’s story of all seated.
Tabby was the fifth and current wife of Sir Reginald, and was a native of Toronto. She met her future husband at the age of sixteen at a polo match in London--he was fifty-one at the time and had seduced the youngster. By the following year she had borne him a child, a now, eight-year-old named Isabella, and the two were wed shortly thereafter. The union had caused a scandal in the royal family, as Reginald had already been married and divorced so much, plus Tabitha had not been of noble blood, hence their being exiled.
Now, at the age of twenty-five, Tabby was a careless young mother leaving her child in the care of a parade of nannies.
“Your red hair is so beautiful, Lorraine. Is it really natural?”
“Of course!”
“Oh I just love red hair, but I despise it on myself, otherwise I’d dye it that color!”
The sigh of envy had come from the woman on the other side of Tabby, Eliza Young.
Not particularly pretty, but an alarmingly witty woman, also of twenty-five, Eliza a native born and bred from a fine old standing family of New Orleans. She was of average height, her body slim but with a bosom just as large as that of Lorraine’s and Vylette, that seemed out of tandem with the rest of her figure,
She had a pale, sallow face, with deep green eyes that seemed too large for her oval face and bobbed, honey-blonde hair that wicked at the very ends by her ears.
With every motion, the black tulle bow offsetting her blush colored frock swayed.
Eliza came from money, her father was a luxury liner builder, and had come into much more upon her being widowed when her husband’s liner--not built by her father--went down during a storm off the coast of Ireland two years earlier.
Eliza had also been the youngest mother of the bunch. At only twenty-five, she had a ten-year daughter, Hortensia Jane.
“You and your cousin are Colored, I’d have never known. Look as lily-white as the rest of these wenches!”
“Oh shut up, you Old--”
“Watch your mouth or I shall drag you, Eliza!”
Snickering and reaching to pat their hands, was a bronze beauty, Zelda Cormier.
Twenty-nine year old Zelda was the oldest and also had the most children--Zelda, Jr. (known as Zuzu), 11, Jeremiah, 9 and Silas, 6. Though she had graduated from the historically Colored women’s college Spellman, she was a woman of leisure, the wealth of her husband, Dr. Elias Cormier, a physician and professor at the New Orleans Academy of Medicine, more than enough to provide for them all.
Zelda was perhaps the most arresting, her rounded face marked by plump lips, and slanted, dark eyes full of knowing and jest and her willowy body was draped by a lacy silver gown.
Vylette liked her best and was eager to known an educated lady.
“…oh, I’ve tried so many diets…everything Joan Crawford has ever done…the crackers and mustard left me so hungry…if either of you have any secrets, do tell…”
“Nothing to tell…”
“How about ‘put the goddamned fork down!’” Tabby wise-cracked and was squinted at angrily by Barbara Newcomb Walters.
“Why don’t you go to Hell!”
Barb, as she liked to be called, was a petite, full-figured hell-raiser with a high voice and sullen demeanor.
With a bit more weight on her, she was nonetheless attractive, her curves packed into white brocade gown, a matching fox stole around her shoulders, and a three-rowed diamond tiara gleaming from her chocolate, clipped waves.
She was the wife of Robin Walters IV, a man whose involvement in the distribution of newspapers went back to the 1700s, and made them as a Southern version of the Hearsts.
At twenty-seven she had a pair of what she described as “oversized” twins, Robbie and Vera, aged ten.
As the conversation continued over her head, Vylette couldn’t help but wonder where Michael had been taken away to.
She had at least wanted to spend part of the evening with him.
Her eyes drifted around, seeking out his handsome brown face.
“Imagine, theatre men! Why I’ve already bought tickets to…City Lights for my children They are wild about that Chaplin!”
“I want to see this Dracula. I hear its mighty scary!”
“Dracula bites you and gets a neck full of fat!”
“So help me Eliza, I’m going to slug you!”
The ballroom itself was taking her breath away, emptying her very lungs of air the more she looked around it, her queerly colored eyes remaining bugged in the beautiful heart-shaped face.
The ballroom was a two-story masterpiece of medieval inspired architecture. All around her, the room was a painted a pale beige with golden accents, and by the aid of hundreds of candles burning from sconces and dimmed electric lights in crystal and gold plated chandeliers, the room itself was a wall, pale, luminescent yellow.
Through arches on both levels, French doors stood open allowing the cool night air in, ruffling the crimson velvet curtains that had been robed off with golden chains.
On the first level, around a vast, dance floor of lighter wood, dozens upon dozens of round tables had been placed, allowing for the nearly four hundred guests in attendance to have a seat, for the dinner to come. Each was marked by a low arrangement of red roses and white baby’s breath.
The guests of honor had been placed right near the dance floor and the orchestra, boasting seventy-five players--Vylette had counted them--took up the far right corner of the second level and everywhere, people were dancing to the jazz tunes.
Two levels of gentlemen and ladies in the finest fabrics, rarest gems and most sumptuous of furs and smelling of hundreds of exotic perfumes Charleston-ed, Black Bottom-ed and Shimmy-ed their way past.
And yet, in all that time, she had never seen Michael, Marlon, or Sir Reginald.
Where had they gone, where could they possibly be?
She wanted to take dinner with her lover--.
Hands were suddenly on her shoulders, pressing through the fabric of her cape and all the gaggling and joshing ceased.
Twisting in her seat, Vylette could see why.
Standing behind her, holding onto her, was Michael.
And seeing him, Vylette could tell there was something different about him, but couldn’t place her finger on it.
The look of aggravation that had consumed his features was gone and there was actually a genuine smile curling his decadent lips.
“Vylette, I know you’re conversing with your friends, but could I possibly steal you and Lorraine away? Marlon and I have someone we’d like you to meet.”
There was a strange echo his voice. Something was exciting him, and he was struggling to keep his composure.
Meet? All Michael had wanted was to run back to his home all day, now he was being cordial with someone?
Who?
“Certainly.” Vylette nodded in excusing, and she and her cousin rose. “Pardon us…”
“See y’all later, Dearies…” Zelda waved.
“Michael, what--”
Michael was moving away so quickly, he was practically dragging the cousins.
“Mike, what are you doing? My shoes!” Lorraine whimpered as he sped on out the doors and back into the cavernous hall.
“I’ll buy you new ones, Shamone!” Michael grinned, tugging them along down the hall.
“Vy, has he gone mad? It took me five hours to look like this!” The redhead continued to complain, as they were pulled around a corner.
“Michael…what ails you?” Vylette snickered, more amused than anything as they arrived at a closed door.
“Vy…” His eyes were tremendous. “Promise me you won’t scream, Mein Leibling.”
“Scream?” She repeated confused and Lorraine huffed on the other side of him.
“I’m getting in good with the dames here and wants to be all conspicuous!”
Fist going up, Michael knocked on wood.
A moment later, a lock disengaged, and was cracked by Sir Reginald.
“Oh, you managed to pry them away--Splendid!” He exclaimed, taking a drag on a thick cigar. “Come in ladies, by all means, come in!!”
The door was opened, and the women were ushered into a large hall that appeared to be a library or study.
All over the room, beneath a frescoed ceiling and glowing sconces, were quilted leather couches, oak desks and arm chairs dotted around.
And from one of the nearby couches, Marlon, cigarette in hand rose with a gentleman Vylette didn’t recognize.
Seeing the women, the two approached.
As he got closer, Vylette noticed the unknown man was about Marlon’s height, with a trim build, dressed well in a black tux and bowtie.
He was White and appeared in his late thirties, older than the Jacksons, but younger than Sir Reginald . He was quite handsome with a healthy, athletic glow to his tanned skin. His hair, dark brown and touched at the temples with silver, was slicked back deftly.
His eyes, a pale, crisp blue swept back and forth between the young women, and his lips formed a somewhat naughty smirk.
Vylette noticed, strangely, that Marlon stepped behind Lorraine, and held his arms out.
Was…was he expecting her to faint?
Vylette squinted at the man. Who was he? Was he someone important?
Why would he cause Lorraine to faint--maybe?
He didn’t look to be anyone important…
Michael’s hands gripped her shoulders tightly and again she looked back at him.
Saw the gaiety and joy in his eyes. He was so happy.
Why--
Vylette looked back to the staring, smirking stranger.
And it hit her like an avalanche.
“Oh my God!” She exclaimed into her hands, backing up and bumping against Michael.
No…
Goodness no…
“Vy, what?” Lorraine, clueless asked as her cousin continued bouncing.
“Lorraine!” She reached and clutched her cousin’s cool soft hand.
“That’s….he’s…he’s….oh, I’m going to faint!”
“Vy, don’t you dare!” Michael warned seriously.
“Who is he--?” Lorraine started and Vylette, losing herself, and possibly all her good sense, was rushing forward, embracing the strange man.
Cradling her, she could feel his hands on her bare back as he returned the hug.
She couldn’t believe it. Oh, no….this was too much.
Touching him, holding him, smelling the mix of cigar smoke, aged bourbon and citrus cologne on him. Vylette who had vowed to never embrace another man besides Michael or her Papa, couldn’t help it!
If she didn’t touch him, feel him with her own hand, she’d never be able to convince herself he was real.
Eyes closing as her heart assaulted her ribcage, Vylette’s voice was barely heard as gloved hands continued to pat at her back.
“He’s Charlie Chaplin!”
“Quit being ridiculous, Vylette!” Lorraine scoffed from behind her. “He can’t be Charlie Chaplin, where’s his little mustache?”
Hearing the insanity, Vylette loosened her grip and turned to gaze upon her cousin in confusion.
“My Dear…” Came the high-toned, clipped British accent from the acclaimed actor, the first time either had ever heard his speaking voice, “My mustache is in my make up kit, where it remains, when I am not filming.”
Now it was Lorraine’s turn to appear stunned.
“You…you…mean…you’re really….Ooooooh!”
And she was falling backwards into Marlon’s strong arms.
“I saw that coming!” He grunted, lifting her easily, and carrying her to the couch.
“Your fiancée is enchanting Marlon…if unconscious…” Charlie snickered and the other men laughed, while Vylette continued to gaze on him, star-struck.
An actor. A real, live film actor that she’d only seen in celluloid and read about in magazines!
“Mr. Chaplin…” She was gripping his hands. “It’s such an honor to meet you, I adore your work! You’re the funniest man in film!”
“Why thank you, Vylette…” Her hand was up being pecked by moist lips and she flamed bright red all over.
“Michael…your fiancée is also charming. If she wasn’t already promised away, I might try to take her for myself!”
“Oh, Mr. Chaplin!” Vylette, flattered at the flirty comment was swirling, and it wasn’t until days later she realized Michael had made it abundantly clear, even to his own idol that Vylette was taken.
“Call me Charlie, all my friends do--”
“Isn’t it the most amazing thing?” Michael was chiming in, as the rest of them left Lorraine to sleep, and took seats a few yards away on another couch, with Vylette nestled between Michael and Charlie, whom, she couldn’t stop staring at.
“Reginald and Charlie are friends when I told him that Charlie had declined coming to the theatre opening, he made a point of seeing that he come--”
Michael was squeezing her hand so hard it hurt,
“Charlie will be at the premiere of City Lights!”
“No!” Vylette exclaimed near swooning.
Charlie Chaplin was going to be there?
Her parents and kid sister and the whole gaggle of skinny Povahs were going to meet The Little Tramp?
A real celebrity?
Vylette was looking around at all the gentleman, smiling peacefully back at her.
“How?”
“Well…” Sir Reginald inhaled on his cigar deeply, “I told old Charlie here just what sort of company he’d be missing if he skipped the premiere here. You, and your cousin and of course, Michael and Marlon. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse…so…the premiere in London was simply moved back three days to allow him time to fly back to England.”
Vylette was flabbergasted, her ears ringing….
Charlie Chaplin had moved his own premiere back to make an appearance in New Orleans?
“You’re doing this for us?” She whispered, blinking back tears.
“Please don’t cry, Violette Blanche…” Michael cooed as the tan fan beamed warmly.
“That’s all they do: his cries, mine passes out!” Marlon chuckled and Reginald slapped him on the back.
“I can’t believe it! I simply can’t believe it!” Vylette was whimpering, and Michael’s lips touched her ear,
“Believe it My Darling…” He was whispering with extreme lightness. “It’s happened….we’ve made a splash in this town and the ripple will be a tsunami!”
They had arrived! They had truly arrived!
Not only was Vylette and the barely breathing Lorraine off to a good start with some of the highest standing members of the clubm but Michael Jackson’s opening of the Palace theatre was sure to be an epic hit with Charlie Chaplin himself in attendence.
If Bela Lugosi showed up for Dracula at the Paragon, Vylette was going to scream. She wanted desperately to pinch herself, prove it was real, but if it were all a figment of her imagination, she didn’t dare spoil it.
Nothing would spoil it. Not so long as she had Michael…
And his love in her life.
Life was just too good to be true now!
And to think she’d almost ruined it with that…other boy!
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