Not So Old Fashioned PART ONE

As many of my readers/friends know, I have quite an affinity for classic films and all things to do with the silent, early sound films especially. My passion for such film is so thorough that I oftentimes feel as though I were born in the wrong era, growing up as a child of the 80s-00s instead of perhaps the 30s-50s. As such, I never felt I quite meshed with my peers and always felt like an outsider looking in. Armed with that idea I began to wonder could a young woman so fully entrenched in a bygone era ever find her, hmm, Cary Grant or Clark Gable or Gary Cooper in a modern man. The answer, quite simply is yes...as you will read below. Enjoy.

(I apologize for the length but by the story's end, you'll see it was well worth the copius amount of detail.)

“Not So Old Fashioned”

PART ONE

A 3T Erotic Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

Photo Credit: 3TJackson_

Brent, Montana

October, 1999

As winter had long made its stand and taken its stranglehold on the northern-most states of the Union, all was eerily silent.

White.

As far as the eye could see was only frosty, virginal white mounds of snow, which had begun falling days earlier and showed no signs of slowing, nor stopping now.

The sun was slowly rising over the horizon, just as sleepily as those it was bound to eventually awaken.

The rays were bright, vibrant, multiplied ten-fold as reflected off the snow, causing it to glitter here and there like refined, polished diamonds.

Yet, the rays offered no warmth; temperatures hovered below freezing and estimates predicted they would remain so until well after the new year.

The new millennium.

In the distance, the only sound to be heard was the faint chug-chug-chug of the diesel engine of a skid steer loader, going block by block, clearing the roads to make driving easier.

That is, if anyone where fool enough to stray beyond the ends of driveways leading up to the elegant, wood-fronted showplaces; mansions masquerading as log cabins.

On the outskirts of this wealthy enclave...this exclusive getaway for those monied enough to choose to leave warmer climates behind in search of slopes, wildlife and ice fishing, stood the largest, most impressive abode of them all.

A difficult feat as every resident, still nestled beneath quilts in front of crackling hearths were multi-millionaires, with a few foreign billionaires thrown in for good measure.

With gentle creaks, a set of wrought iron fences swung open, over which a black marble arch had been carved to read but one name in bold lettering: JACKSON.

Below it, clashing ever so wonderfully against the pallor of the snow, the freshness of the evergreen pines and scrolling inkiness of the gates, a Rolls Royce crept up the mile-and-a-half-long lane aiming for the manse in the distance.

A pale, iridescent gold it was, setting proudly upon matching twenty-two inch rims.

The hallmark being its custom hood ornament, depicting an eagle in flight, crafted of the finest frosted glass and lit from within by a small bulb to show as a bloody red.

The luxury vehicle, continued up towards the main house and as it drew nearer, the snow, which had been untouched closer to the main road, started to show signs of...abuse?

Footprints tracking here and there, an overturned snowboard, with puffy boots still attached.

Swinging up the driveway, the car came to a slick, yet crooked halt, just barely missing the pile of lazily discarded skis and poles thrown just behind the black, stretch limousine already in the driveway.

The Rolls idled a few moments longer, then the engine was silenced.

The driver's side door opened and from it unfolded a tall gentleman, bundled against the elements in a black trench coat and scarf, the scarf embroidered all over with the initials MJ in off-white stitching.

The silver heels of his leather boots clicked on the pristine cobblestone drive as he jogged to the front double doors, icy wind causing his long, ebony tendrils to fan out from his head, turning his alabaster cheeks bright pink along with the tip of his impish, upturned nose.

The alarm system was disengaged by the rapid pressing of a sequence of twenty-five numbers, more from muscle memory than his mind actually recalling all the digits.

With a key, the four locks of the door were disengaged, and he let himself into the cozily warm, vast foyer of the 'cabin'.

The scarf was discarded onto a Louis XV sideboard, but the coat remained on, lest he spoil the ensemble.

A pair of rustic French doors opened to the living room, where the fire in the mantle had been reduced to glowing embers.

A quick sweep of the area showed nothing too amiss.

A few glasses with varying amounts of wine in them, a plate with the remnants of a cheeseburger on it, fries in a congealing blob of aioli...

No...the maid hadn't arrived for duty yet, it was only a quarter past five.

A glance at the sleek Piaget watch circling his slim wrist said as much.

As he started for the grand staircase, his attention was diverted by a periodical beside one of the glasses.

Stepping around the leather divans, he picked it up, curiously eyeing it.

A magazine that must have been quite old, as on the cover, it depicted a very young, very blonde Joan Crawford, long before the infamous actress had been touched by too much red lipstick and heavy-handed eyebrow pencils.

(Or exposed by her daughter's tell-all best-seller!)

It was in alarmingly good shape and had it not been for the cover giving away its advanced age, it could have passed for a recent magazine.

Though he'd never heard of any magazine called Photoplay.

Mr. Jackson loitered momentarily, flipping through the still glossy pages, reading over reviews for films such as The Squaw Man, starring Warner Baxter, The Marx Brothers' Monkey Business and Five Star Final with Edward G. Robinson, all of which had been released in 1931.

Mildly intrigued as to why such a magazine could have found its way into his winter vacation home.

Shutting it, he meandered a handful of steps and stopped.

In the far recesses of his mind, a nugget of information came to him, and though the only soul on the first floor of the three story abode, he nodded with deep understanding.

Magazine in hand, he quickly moved to the staircase, going up two stairs at a time until he came out in the expansive hallway on the second level.

Faced with a myriad of doors concealing guest rooms, he began carefully opening each, seeking out any other signs of life in the 'cabin'.

The first bedroom was empty, though looking as if a hurricane had slept the night as all of the bedding were balled up on the corner of the mattress, articles of men's leisure wear and sneakers thrown anywhere and everywhere.

The next was a bit neater; the bed still rumpled, a family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos opened next to an empty bottle of Surge soda. On the television, highlights from a Cowboys/Redskins game was playing.

The polished brass handle of the knob to yet another room turned, the door opening without a sound.

The vintage magazine fell from his hand, brows shooting up in alarm.

In the king-sized bed, lay four bodies, deep in slumber, the room lit plainly by sunlight streaming through the parted curtains of the windows on either side.

And as evidenced by the clothing tossed around none of the quartet wore more than their birthday suits.

Not to mention the one young man, lying face down at the foot of the bed, snoring softly, his bare, meaty backside jiggling with each breath.

Under the covers, a second young man was lovingly spooning the lone woman, the duvet should have been revealing her untethered bosom, but were hidden as the man had his arms wrapped around her, concealing them, thankfully.

The young woman's head rested on the bare chest of third man, her black waves fanning out, his arms tucked behind his head.

Was...was he actually smiling in his sleep?

Yes! Those were white teeth visible!

Mr. Jackson, flushing red all over, and undecided if he should be angry or just get the hell out of the room and figure what to do later, stopped in his tracks.

There was movement on the bed.

The young woman was pushing at the man spooning her.

With a bit of prodding he released her, turning away, his back to her, while she sat up, pulling the sheets and duvet to her bosom, unaware that the fifth person in the room got an eyeful of peachy pink areolas for a scant second.

She patted first at the back of the spooner, then the chest of man to her other side, all the while, a willful, almost evil little smirk curled her lips.

Playfully, she reached to grab a naked buttock on the man at the foot of the bed, and stopped suddenly, hand hovering.

Through the waves, naturally large eyes grew larger at the sight of the man in the doorway.

And her shrill shriek—of fright, embarrassment, both?—broke the stillness of the new day, causing movement in four different directions.

The man in the door disappeared, sprinting away at top speed.

The spooner was out of the bed, clutching the only weapon he could find, a lamp from the bedside table, while the smiling man was twirling, becoming tangled within and tripping over the curtains, hollering sleepily in Spanish.

The nudist at the foot of the bed simply rolled off with a startled thud and screamed something incoherent about his man bits having been pinched under the weight of his own body.

His head poked up at the foot of the bed with a grimace as all three men asked the same of the woman in unison,

“What?”

Raking a hand through her hair she pointed and cried,

“Your Uncle Michael saw us!”

Through the sudden wave of swear words, feet running and banging about, the woman fainted, falling back against the stuffed pillows.

Out cold, other hand still clutching the duvet, as the nude three scampered out, screaming for their relative.

This was not how their vacation was supposed to end!

It had already started off with a tragedy!

La Victoire

Los Angeles, California

Eight Weeks Earlier

“...let my heart be still and listen to one song of love...”

Rising high above the packed, noisy streets of the much-fabled City of Angels, was an impressive architectural feat which had soared past the clouds for well over a century.

For the first fifty years of its existence, La Victoire, that stunning mammoth

of off-white limestone, chrome and stained glass (the latter reputed to have been handcrafted by Louis Comfort Tiffany himself) modeled after the French Renaissance style which had been all the rage at the turn of the last century, began life as one of the premiere hotels in the city; hosting the likes of long-forgotten film stars, heads of state, royalty and those with cash to burn and not a single qualm about it.

In the years following the Second World War, trying to keep in step, and compete with all the other luxury establishments suddenly springing up around it, La Victoire was reborn as a luxury apartment complex.

While not as highly sought, as it had been in its heyday, the building still drew a monied, mostly carefree free and youthful clientele.

Some of whom had had a relative from each generation staying under La Victoire's roof since the day of its inception in 1892.

If they weren't living off hefty trust funds, they were the young businessmen and women of tomorrow, with a lusty gleam in their eye and the ambition to run a Fortune 500 company of their own one day.

La Victoire was but a stepping stone in many of it's resident's relationships, both platonic and otherwise.

On that warm, balmy morning in the middle of August, many of the doors leading out onto balconies over looking the inner courtyard and conservatory, not visible from any of the four streets facing the outer facade building, had been left open, with snippets of popular music to be heard all over.

Macy Gray's raspy voice here, Backstreet Boys harmonizing there...

Christina Auguilera shrieking a high note, interspersed with Cher's deeper throaty sound a few floors above.

There were too many rap verses being spit at once by at least a dozen different artists to even begin to decipher what was being uttered.

And yet...if one listened just hard enough, with their head turned at the just right angle they could catch wisps of a song not like the others.

“...let me feel the thrill of a quiet we know nothing of...”

From a room on the thirty-fourth floor, a song that was not R&B, Rap, nor Bubble Gum Pop was playing.

A torch song of yesteryear it was, its vocalist a mournful contralto who's name had long be lost to the annals of time.

Alas, the occupant of Apartment 3486 was not like the neighbors around her.

Not at all.

The music did not come from a compact disc or even a cassette tape, but from a 78 rpm record, spinning on a vintage player of oak inlaid with mahogany in the corner of a bedroom that seemed to have been snatched right from the celluloid of an Old Hollywood film.

A warm breeze caused thin, pale green curtains to dance on their heavy gilt valances, matching the green carpets and papered walls.

The bed, boasting a tremendous swirling gold headboard, covered in floral bedding and more throw pillows than any one person needed had been made up immaculately, and matched the decorative skirt, rimming the vanity table, overflowing with a litany of glass bottles of perfume, cosmetics and a keen silver-plate and enamel hairbrush set.

A small bookshelf filled with classics faced a tufted, velvet chaise, where a copy of Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile laid open, a page marked by a strip of bright purple silk ribbon.

The door to the attached powder room stood open, vanilla-scented steam wafting through the air.

Was the mistress of the house still enjoying her morning bath?

No...the tub bore only a few lingering suds circling the drain.

A second sweep of the room, upon closer inspection uncovered more clues.

Near the bed, an imprint where a pair of high-heeled slippers had set was still visible, while the door to the walk-in closet stood ajar.

Amongst a mangle of sumptuous, lavish robes and negligees to one side, a single, padded hanger was empty, still swaying.

“...oh give me time for tenderness...

Through the living room, the shades of green were darker, as the wood went from oak to mahogany.

Tufted lounges and divans circled a low coffee table,its surface littered with framed portraits, all facing the fireplace, its hearth unlit.

Above which a large, risque portrait hung.

A young woman, incredibly fair of skin with raven waves, sat with her back to all who looked upon her, nude, clear down to the buttocks where, for modesty's sake a length of black tulle had been draped around her hips, though the rounded, soft cheeks were still quite clearly visible.

The photo could have easily been mistaken as a high contrast black and white portrait, were it not for the subject's feet curled beneath her, showing crimson polish on the toenails.

More books lined either side of the mantle, also displaying vintage statues and figurines both of nudes and animals.

There were more modern conveyances such as a large screen television and stereo in the room, but one would be hard pressed to locate them as they'd been well-hidden so as not to spoil the old-fashioned aesthetic of the room.

Nay the entire home.

Down a long hallway, which branched off into guest rooms, a formal dining room, home office, and another full bathroom, the hinged door to the kitchen in the rear swung.

“...to hold your hand and understand...”

The kitchen, once more a lighter shade of green was juxtaposed to the black and white tile floor was full of movement and sound.

On the granite counter, a percolator bubbled, the rich, pungent aroma of brewing coffee in the air, overpowering the mellower, sweetness of a couple pats of butter slowly melting into a skillet on top of the six-burner stove.

In the center of the room stood a circular island, where at one of the stools a single plate, white and rimmed in rose gold, had been set out with a matching cup and flatware.

On the opposite end of the kitchen the heavy door to an icebox was kicked shut, the young woman...the very same forever mooning her own living room and incidental guests, was juggling a variety of items in her arms.

Ursula Mildred Buchanan may have only inhabited Earth since the late nineteen-seventies, but it was quite clear her passion and preference was for anything and everything from the decade forty years preceding her birth.

Not only did her home appear to be something out of an Ernst Lubitsch wet dream, Ursula was self-styled after the starlets of yore.

While most everyone else entering and exiting La Victoire were (bleached) the blondest of blonde, tanned crispier than burnt bacon and thin enough to slip through cracks in the sidewalks, Ursula was by far a rarity on sheer appearance alone.

Though slim, Ursula was shapely in all of the places that counted, but not so much so that it spoiled the lines of the old-fashioned modes she so loved to grace her body with.

Her skin was a cool, pale shade of porcelain, a stark contrast to her hair.

Naturally raven and thick, her mane had been cut to where it just swept her shoulders, and had been painstakingly trained into deep waves around her heart-shaped face.

Eyes, large and steely blue underneath gently curved, penciled in brows, were accented by long black lashes, curling on their own.

Save the brows, her face was bare of cosmetics, for the moment, as her focus was more on her belly, rumbling like distant thunder, than her looks that morning.

Dumped out onto the table were three eggs, half of a white onion, ,several jars of spices and two slices of white bread.

Instantly the eggs were de-shelled and being scrambled, salt, pepper, and granulated garlic joining the party, while bread was slid into the chrome toaster and depressed.

As the eggs cooked up quickly, she poured a cup of coffee, tossing in a handful of sugar cubes.

Toast was up next, onto the plate it went with a heavy slathering of more butter, later topped by the eggs and a few thin strips of raw onion.

Yes...so simple was her favorite breakfast.

Fork in hand, she started to hoist herself up onto the cushioned stool.

Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong!

“Damn it!”

Ursula grimaced to herself, tossing down her fork in defeat.

Someone would come calling the very second she was settled to eat.

Rising to her feet, she made a brisk, annoyed strut through her abode and was almost to the door when it dawned on her; she was nearly naked, only wearing a thin lace teddy of the palest blue, bringing out the aquamarine tones in her eyes.

And hiding nothing of the naughty bits of flesh it was meant to cover.

Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong!

“Just a moment, please!” She called through the vestibule separating her door from the apartment, rushing to her bedroom and shuffling through her packed closet.

Seconds later, while hastily tying the braided rope belt of a kimono-styled satin robe, that exactly matched the teddy, Ursula opened the door.

To find a delivery man holding a large brown box and clipboard.

“Miss...” He started, without it lost on her that his eyes were tracing her hourglass figure, accented by the robe.

“Miss Buchanan?”

“Yes, I'm Miss Buchanan” she replied, her voice clipped and cultured, fluid to some letters, sharp on others.

“Package for you ma'am.”

“Thank you.”

The box was taken and set on a sideboard just inside the door.

“Signature please.”

Taking the pen in her left hand, she scribbled with a flourish,

Ursula M. Buchanan

Rather than leaving, the man remained rooted to the polished hardwood floor, staring at Ursula.

“Yes?” She questioned, brow raising curiously, as sweat began to form and roll down the man's forehead, mixing into his own wild, untamed brows.

If it could have gone unseen, Ursula would have rolled her eyes like dice, but as this man, starting to stammer, stood less than a foot away from her, she had to maintain her composure and remain stoic.

In the face of the one question that bothered her and always threatened to cringe the wave right out of her hair,

“...um...if you're not busy later tonight...”

“I'm always busy,”

Was all she said and with that, shut the door, leaving the man staring at the number plate in brass mounted to it.

He lingered a moment, then gripping the clipboard with such ferocity it bent in his hands, he stormed off down the hall, muttering under his breath,

“...all these damn rich bitches the same...think they're better than everyone just cause they have a few extra nickels than the rest of us...”

Unnoticed by neither the scorched man, now thudding an impatient foot at the elevator nor Ursula, behind the door, eagerly unboxing several more bespoke, thirties-inspired garments, were the three doors across the hall.

Doors which had opened just a sliver, the moment three sets of ears had heard the distinctive, musical chime of her doorbell.

Doors which slowly and quietly shut once the lady across the hall had disappeared from view that morning.

Doors which always seem to crack whenever Ursula arrived or departed.

Doors, which, two hours later, at exactly eight-thirty on the dot, cracked yet again, when the door to Apartment 3486 opened.

And, out stepped Ursula M. Buchanan.

Gone were the robe and lace teddy, replaced by a stunning royal purple day frock, cut on the bias so that hugged all the right places but not to the point of vulgarity.

Delicate white piping in geometric shapes marked the collar, cuffs and detail along the right hip.

A small purple cloche topped her black waves, the brim pulled down to hide one of her blue-grey eyes.

Tucked beneath one arm was the Christie novel, as she dug around in a small clutch, while shifting from one purple and white spectator pump to the other.

Discovering the key, she turned, showing she wore flesh colored stockings as an unmistakable seam ran up the back of each comely calf.

With the door locked sufficiently, Ursula made her way to hail the elevator, unaware of the peering eyes charting her every blessed move.

How her hips swayed, her bosom bounced...

After a moment there was a faint chime, and the bronze doors of that dangling rectangle opened, allowing her on and she began her descent to the ground level.

As soon as the elevator slipped away, the three doors across the hall opened fully.

And from each a young man wandered out, shell-shocked and dazed much like deer caught by a speeding vehicle's headlights.

“Did...did you see what she had on today?” The eldest of the three, having come from the door off to the right, whispered, mesmerized, glancing back at the other two, smiling dreamily.

“That purple? I've never seen her in purple before! She looked...heavenly.”

“...But did you see what she had on earlier when she got that package?” The youngest, from the apartment on the left sputtered, hands on his hips.

“That satin robe? Like something out one of those old black and white pictures? I'm convinced she's an actress! Has to be! She's always dressed up like that when we see her!”

“But where does she act?” The eldest inquired more to himself than the other two.

In between the others, the third man remained silent, only looking at the door across from his own, mouth curling and cheeks reddening.

The oldest continued “I've called every theatre, acting troupe and improv society I could find in the Yellow Pages. None of them ever heard of a Miss Buchanan, outside of that revival of The Great Gatsby being put on by the Echelon Theatre. And the girl playing that role is blonde, not brunette!”

“It doesn't seem to make sense.” He continued, with a shake his head. “Half the time I don't even know if that woman is real or not. I've asked around to all the people I know here, no one's ever heard of her. I've never seen her in 'normal' clothes. Every time we see her, its in a getup like that. Feel like I'm chasing a ghost! In broad damn daylight!”

The youngest chuckled,

“If she's a ghost, Taj, then explain to me how we saw her get a package from a UPS guy. A modern UPS guy—not somebody dressed up old fashioned like her!”

His chuckles were cut short and he recoiled as Taj shot him a glare of pure hatred,

“If I knew the answer to that, TJ, would I be asking you?” He sneered through grit teeth, leaving TJ to shrug.

“Maybe...” Finally the man in the middle spoke softly, hand going to his dimpled chin,

“Maybe she works at one of those themed restaurants. You know, like over at Out of this World all the waitresses are dressed like space aliens. Might be working at a place that's supposed to be like a Prohibition-era speakeasy or something. What's that one steakhouse we went to? Taj you remember, you got full of that gin and pissed off the waiter, saying he looked like a bald hyena, so he shot you with a BB from that toy pistol they all carry around in there?”

“Club 30's?” Taj remarked, his hand unconsciously rubbing after his left shoulder where the BB had left a permanent mark. “I don't think so Taryll. All the people in there wear the same pinstriped suits. Even the waitresses. Nah...you see the Buchanan girl wears a different outfit all the time. Doesn't make a damn bit of sense.”

“Well maybe she works at a place we just haven't heard about yet.” TJ reasoned, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

POP!

Taryll snapped his fingers and it echoed in the empty hall, causing the others to jump.

“Come on, I'll call my buddy, Louie. You know he's got that cousin—Maria, Melanie, Marissa, something—who's the food critic. If anyone knows anything about the restaurants in this city, it's her!”

With that, all three men turned and rushed into Apartment 3485, slamming the door after them.

* * *

For the last eighteen months, Ursula M. Buchanan had come and gone as she pleased, venturing to work, the grocery market, the theatre, shopping; partaking of all the mundane activities and tasks which made up her life.

With nary a clue as to the affect her very being had on the trio of men living so close, yet so far away from her.

In a time and age when so many were so forward, outspoken and lived recklessly—was the world truly doomed to Armageddon come midnight on January 1, 2000?—the Jackson brothers were a rarity much like lady they admired from afar.

Taj, Taryll and TJ, though they kept a tight-knit circle of friends and confidantes and an ever tighter bond with their large family, the young men were quite shy, especially when the fairer sex was involved.

And in the year and a half since Ursula had moved into La Victoire, neither of the three had managed to work up the gall to approach her, speak to her, even try to wave at her.

Oh, there had been many (failed) attempts:

One morning, Taj, whom had paced the hallways all the night before and was functioning on about fifteen minutes sleep with a crust of drool still in one corner of his mouth had watched that heavenly creature leave her apartment at eight-thirty, and had fallen in step behind her, intent on making his presence known.

Only when he realized he was following her in no more than a pair of Boba Fett boxers and one white sock did he make haste and dove behind a large, potted plant,whole body going scarlet with embarrassment at his near gaff.

There was the night, TJ, shortly after his twenty-first birthday and full of enough liquor to have ten men seeing pink elephants dancing about, had come half drunkenly staggering/half bawdy strutting from his apartment, mind set on at least asking the woman her name. He'd made it a good three steps into the hall before his intestines summarily pushed 'eject' on the mix of beer, wine, and vodka he'd ingested and it was a messy sprint back to the bathroom for him.

Taryll, during an afternoon where he had lingered in a room of lit, scented candles, reading poems by Lord Byron had almost floated across the hall, a hand to his heart, lovesick tears in his eyes, yearning for the attention of the raven-haired vixen whom had transfixed not only him but his brothers, hoping to get a leg up on them. Oh he'd possessed the nerve, that is until he was faced with her door, hand up to knock.

The knock never came. An entire half hour he stood and yet, couldn't make himself execute even one meager tap, nor his finger press the doorbell. His retreat, head hanging, was just as quiet, tempered, tear-stained and unnoticed.

Three examples of the hundreds, maybe thousands?

These setbacks only added fuel to the proverbial fire burning at the heels—and perhaps other regions—of these men.

There wasn't a day that passed that Ursula wasn't mentioned, thought about, dreamed of when heads hit pillows.

It was almost a school boy's crush times three.

And much like school boys, the brothers tried to go through their friends and acquaintances, in an effort to glean more intel on the occupant of Apartment 3486.

Alas, Ursula was frankly impossible to track, once she stepped on the elevator it seemed.

No one knew where she went, what she did while gone.

It seemed Ursula kept to herself even more than her neighbors.

Never was anyone seen entering nor exiting her apartment aside from the bi-weekly maid service provided by the complex.

No friends, no family, no lovers—much to the Jacksons' relief.

Ursula was a beautiful mystery...a code that seemed destined to remain uncracked.

That is...until Fate seemed to take mercy on the “Teez”.

While the majority of the residents of La Victoire were lay-abouts living off their parent's dime, the Jacksons were a part of the minority who held down actual day jobs.

The brothers were a part of prestigious realty empire that had been started by their paternal grandfather, Joseph, in the late nineteen-forties, springing from grassroots in the surrounding, smaller rural communities, helping to finance and provide people of Color with their own property as banks and other such establishments refused to work with non-whites at the time.

In the forthcoming fifty years, the small business had grown into a massive conglomerate and thanks to all of Joseph's nine children succeeding him, Jackson Realty and Holdings had a flagship in Los Angeles, with offices in the United Kingdom, Europe, Canada, and South America with talks of conquering Asia sometime in the new millennium.

Taj, Taryll and TJ were but three of dozens of grandchildren joining the family business. And reaping the benefits thereof.

A week had passed since what was dubbed colloquially as the “Purple Dress Incident”, with nothing new gained.

Taryll may have talked a big game about his friend Louie's cousin,but, regrettably, in the end it had all been for naught, as Louie's cousin Marissa could offer no help. She had been to five new restaurant openings—two Italian, one Armenian, one French-Chinese fusion and one that left her ill with food poisoning verging on botulism—none of which employed a dark haired maiden in old-fashioned clothing.

This lack of revelation bothered Taj Jackson the most out of the three.

While he was still unable to will a foot across the hall, he was becoming restless, antsy.

He was a learned, sharp and intelligent man. He was the type that sought out facts and only facts when he wanted to know something.

He didn't stop until the tidbit came to rest in the recesses of his memory.

And there he stood, in the marble, chrome and glass swathed lobby of the twenty-five story headquarters of his family's office building, fidgeting slightly.

He wasn't usually in the office on Fridays—one of the perks of being a blood Jackson was that he, his brothers and their multitude of cousins were granted three-day weekends—and he squirmed at being very much under-dressed for such an upscale environment.

Taj typically wouldn't set foot in the door unless he was dressed down in a luxury brand suit, bespoke, with all the fine accouterments included: pocket square, tie, precious stone cuff links, etc.

Instead, his tall, lean frame was clad in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, his trousers of choice after a parade of stuffy suits during the week, and a sweatshirt bearing the name of his alma mater, Clark Atlanta University, with plain sneakers.

But that day had been an emergency, Taj being awakened in the middle of the night by a frantic phone call from his father's younger brother, Michael, begging him and only him to go to the office and fax a document he'd forgotten to take with him when he'd flown to Glasgow to start the final steps of closing a deal on a property.

And this wasn't just any chunk of land in the country of kilts and bagpipes—no!

This was a multi-million dollar property that included a fifteenth century castle and fortress that had been in escrow for three months!

Somewhere along the way, Taj on a solo mission had turned into his siblings tagging along, and while annoyed, he had been happy to have two extra sets of eyes and hands help him locate the contracts their uncle needed.

Only, now, the two were upstairs, in their father's office, dusting and tidying up.

Taj would have been playing the part of janitor also, if he hadn't quickly ducked from sight around a corner when he heard his name being called.

Pushing up the sleeve of his shirt, Taj glanced at the face of his watch, where Mickey Mouse's hands were denoting the time as a quarter after twelve.

His thoughts occupied with the elusive Miss Buchanan, Taj Jackson was unaware that he, himself, was drawing lustful, wanting gazes from the handful of women, clients waiting to see other members of his family, and the two receptionists at the control desk.

Indeed, he was quite the attractive young man.

Possessing a clear, olive complexion, Taj's face had an endearing, sleepy quality to it; his eyes, a deep quartz color, under straight black brows, dipped ever so slightly on the ends. It was a face what appeared constantly lost in thought, if he wasn't otherwise engaged in an active conversation.

His ears, jutting out from either side of his head, were framed by the dozens of cheek-length plaits falling from his crown, highlighting his softly round cheeks.

Below a small, patrician nose, his plump lips curled off to the side, his default expression, as his mind never quite stopped firing ideas, thoughts, memories.

Miss Buchanan.

PING!

On the opposite end of the lobby, the doors to one of the four main elevators opened, another young Jackson sauntering off, head lowered as he was occupied with trying to beat his high score at Snake.

A moment later, without a word, Taryll Jackson sidled up beside his sibling, thumbs flying wildly over his phone's keypad, dull boops resounding.

Taryll, two years Taj's junior could have easily been regarded as a softer, more fluid version of Taj, as far as appearances went.

Both plainly showed their mixed African-American and Latin heritage, but while Taj was a lighter-complected version of their father (a resemblance he denied being able to see) Taryll, on the other hand, favored his mother more than either of his siblings, with a bit of an androgynous look; whereas Taj was handsome in the manlier sense, Taryll was more on the “pretty boy” side.

He bore a high, intelligent forehead, good bones, an upturned nose and sharp jawline.

His eyes were a startling, amber-tinged hazel, framed by arched black-brown brows.

Brows that had matched his hair, once upon a time.

Though his hair was naturally dark, at that point in 1999, his loose curls, cropped short on the sides and left longer on top, was now a pale shade of honey-golden blond.

A color which had been achieved by misadventure.

Initially Taryll had only wanted frosted tips, the latest trend in hair color at the time, but with a stylist who chatted more than listened, a few streaks of color became a whole head's worth.

It was a color he was going to be stuck with for quite some time, at least a month, until it was safe for him to dye it back to it's original color without the risk of looking like a cue-ball with eyes.

Not that it really detracted from his good looks, if anything, the jarring color drew more attention to him.

Like his sibling, he wore pajama pants; his were striped, paired with an oversized tee with the Looney Tunes character Bugs Bunny grinning for all to see.

Taj, looking to his watch again, questioned,

“Where's TJ? Don't tell me Pops is still working him like a slave!”

Boop...Boop...Boop...

“Nah, we both got the hell out of there when he got a call from Grandpa. I came straight down; TJ went to the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

Boop...Boop...Boop...

“You wanna grab something to eat, if TJ hasn't flushed his skinny ass down the toilet?” Taryll wondered still messing about on his phone.

“Sure. We're downtown anyways.” Taj replied looking over his shoulder at the bank of elevators, squinting to see which floors they were stopped on by the lights above their doors, engraved with large, interlocking “J”s which were the logo of their company.

“I'm in the mood for a burg—shit!” Taryll grunted to himself, as his phone vibrated in his hands, indicating he'd lost again. “I was seven points from beating my score!”

Automatically the booping resumed, another game launched.

Taj started to chastise his brother about obsessing over a silly time waster, nevermind the dozens of consoles and cartridges on display in his own apartment, when something off to the left caught his eye.

And caused his brows to race to his hairline in disbelief.

“What the hell?” Taj gasped under his breath, causing Taryll's head to pop up out of curiosity.

A pair of legs, visible from the mid-calf down were dangling a good ten feet from the ground!

Being that nothing was an unusual sight in Los Angeles, the constant stream of pedestrians below paid a man hanging from a building by his hands and careful maneuvering over the brickwork no mind, as did the cars clogging the street, with not an eye batted at the spectacle.

Before either could make a move, the person dropped down to the pavement outside, crouching low a few seconds to maintain their balance.

On the opposite side of the glass, rising and standing straight, was TJ Jackson.

Instantly his brothers were through the door.

“Have you lost your whole-ass mind?”

“Who do you think you are, Spider Man?”

“Did you take the fire escape?”

“Thank God you didn't set off the fire alarm, you dumb ass!”

“Set it off last time and had half the LAFD out here!”

“And people were evacuating like it was The Exodus!”

“You can't just climb down the damn building!”

“Please tell me you didn't climb down ten stories, TJ!”

“Pops would have a fit if he had seen you!”

“Pops? What about Grandpa, Good Lord--”

In the face of incessant nagging, TJ Jackson was calm, only offering a toothy grin to his siblings, stuffing his hands into the kangaroo pocket of the blistering yellow hoodie he wore, a light breeze causing his dotted pajama bottoms to sway.

Five years younger than Taj and three than Taryll, TJ was no stranger to mischief and even at times caused a stir just to get a rise out of them.

But didn't younger siblings everywhere irritate the shit out of their older siblings for kicks?

Smile growing ever wider as Taj continued dressing him down, only sounding like the “wah-wah-wah” of an adult in a Peanuts cartoon to him, TJ produced a single pink Starburst chew from his pocket, unwrapped it and tossed it in his mouth.

TJ Jackson was fine looking devil of a man, standing the tallest of the three, and as demonstrated by his scaling a skyscraper, was the fittest of the trio, though all three had excelled at sports while in school.

While his brother was a literal copy of their father, TJ was a more refined version of Tito Jackson.

His complexion was a bit deeper; rather than being of an olive tone, he was more of a rich sepia. His features were the most clear-cut and sharp, pointed cheekbones, angular jar and a chin lacking the subtle cleft his brothers had.

Chewing loudly on the candy, his lips curling in a Joker-esque manner, his eyes, a warm golden-brown danced beneath impossibly thick, yet groomed arched black brows, cutting obliques across his forehead.

TJ's hair had been cut in a manner similar to Taryll's, short on the sides, but while Taryll had trained his curls into place with pomade, gel, hairspray and a few prayers, TJ's dark curls were allowed to flop and spring where they wanted all over his head adding a wildness to his overall appearance.

In a different life, any one of them could have a been a male model.

Another candy in his hand, TJ flagged at Taj who was still very much reading him the Riot Act; Taryll had turned his attention back to that pesky pixelated serpent.

“I know, I know, I know!” TJ intoned, flicking the small pink wrapper away and putting the sweet in his cheek, talking around it as he tried to explain,

“But it was the only way I could figure to get out from under Pops! Do you know he followed me to the toilet and was hanging around outside the door? Waiting for me to come out? If he hadn't been on his phone talking to somebody in Dutch, I'd have walked right out into a trap! Pops was blocking the only exit. Thank God there was a window in the Men's Room, or I'd have really been stuck between a rock and hard place! Hell, it's my day off !”

“It's all our day off!” Taj huffed, rolling his eyes. “You didn't have to come! I told you: Uncle Michael called me and asked me to fax that Scottish contract to him--”

“I don't care! I'm here now!” TJ interrupted, smooth bottom lip poking out with consternation. “I just don't know why Pops still makes us do chores! I'm twenty-one! I got college degrees, a full-time job, my own place and I still gotta dust and arrange his office for him like I did when I was ten! You'd think he didn't know there's a janitor team of fifty-two ladies and that one sensitive dude, who clean the damn building from top to bottom every night! It's frustrating! I don't even clean my own apartment! We've got maids!”

“Yeah, well...” Taj shrugged, giving his brother a playful punch to the shoulder, “You know how Pops is. Wants to make sure we stay grounded and never turn into snotty spoiled brats like some of the kids we grew up with did.”

“If I was going to be a stuck-up, spoiled brat, wouldn't it have happened by now, Taj?”

“Oh shut up!”

“You shut up!”

Taryll, annoyed, not at the squabbling going on less than a foot behind him, but at the fact that beating his score seemed not to be in the cards for him that afternoon, stuffed his phone into his pocket with a dejected sigh.

“...will you get out of my face, Taj?”

“It ain't nothing for me to get Grandpa on the wire and tell him you were pretending you were in Cirque du Soleil, again!”

“You bug the shit out of Grandpa and so help me God, I'll drop kick your phone like I did last time!”

“And I'll kick your narrow ass after it!”

“Taj, shut up!”

“TJ, you're a Jackson! We don't climb all over buildings like vermin!”

“Get off my damn back!”

Fully tuned out to the argument, Taryll Jackson was scanning the row of buildings across the six-lane road, several of which were bistros and eateries, trying to determine which one could provide him with the best slab of cow on a bun for his buck.

Let his brothers brawl; his belly was more important.

“...Ronaldo's makes a Double Cheeseburger bigger than my head, but Brynner's has 'Bottomless Fries', good extra crunchy crinkle-cut ones...”

He had been reasoning to himself, when unconsciously, his mouth slowly started to fall open, eyes swelling in their sockets.

On the opposite side of the street, in front of a small restaurant called Delish, a car was being handed off to the valet posted just beyond the stained glass doors.

Instead of the steady stream of modern luxury vehicles—Hummers, Range Rovers, Mercedes, Bentleys—Taryll noted it was a classic car.

One of those huge, iron-clad monstrosities that seemed to always be getting shot out of in old gangster films.

A beautiful, lapis blue it was, trimmed in chrome, setting on snowy white wall tires.

At first glance, anyone would think it was the typical story of a man being in awe of a fancy vintage coupe.

Not so.

As the car chugged away to be parked, Taryll reached vainly behind himself, until his hand made contact with the front of Taj's sweatshirt, and started slapping at his chest so hard, he should have left dents in his wake.

“Ow! Ow! Taryll! Taryll—what? Quit hitting my nipple! What is your malfunction? Stop, that's my goddamn nipple!”

Taj was doing his best to deflect the blows, while TJ tried to poorly mask his chuckles.

Everything came to a standstill, when quivering lips parted over white teeth and Taryll managed to utter a single word.

“Buchanan!”

Four more eyes grew, as recognition was instantaneous.

The candy in TJ's hand fell and bounced away into a gutter; Taj's head whipped around so hard, the elastic securing his braids snapped, causing them to fall forward, cascading about the upper half of his face.

All three gaping openly.

Standing outside of Delish, was the elusive Ursula M. Buchanan!

It was more than easy to spot that remarkable creature. She stood out in an any crowd.

That Friday afternoon was no different.

She was in profile, head lowered as she was poking about through a small brown leather clutch, matching the pumps on her feet.

She wore a cool dress of coral floral lace, buttoned down the front and cinched at the impossibly slender waist by a coordinating satin belt. More satin rimmed the capped short sleeves and glistened at her white throat where a sizable bow had been tied.

A small, disc of a hat sat at a jaunty angle, half her beautiful face obscured by a length of lace, same as the dress was constructed of.

Under one arm was what appeared to be a book.

The three stood breathless, gawking as she located whatever it was she was hunting in her handbag and opened the door to Delish, disappearing inside.

Why, this was a watershed moment.

Never before had they seen the little ruler of their hearts outside of La Victoire!

For a while, they'd wondered if she simply vanished from the face of the Earth after setting foot on the elevator for the lobby from the thirty-fourth floor!

This, in short, was a miracle!

Taj Jackson, the most level head in the bunch, wasn't typically known for thoughtless or brash behavior, but in that very moment, it hit him with the weight of the entire world.

Somewhere within him, not his mind, but his soul, was screaming at him, that if he didn't move and move right then, he was going to be damned to spend the rest of his days staring at the shut door catty-corner from his own, never knowing the woman living behind it.

“TAJ! NOOOOO!”

His brothers screamed in abject horror, as, without so much as a sideways glance left or right, Taj stepped off the curb, directly into traffic.

Actively moving, Los Angeles traffic.

Tires screeched, horns blared and obscenities in several languages were shouted from open car windows, but Taj heard none of it.

He was on a mission; he only saw that stained glass door.

The bricked facade of Delish.

The woman he sought was somewhere in there.

And By Golly Sweet Jesus, he was going to find her.

He was blind and deaf to the fact he could have very well been splattered over the general downtown area, his brothers jogging after him, arms up, making themselves known and visible to ensure the lot of them didn't get reduced attractive grease smears on the asphalt.

By some Grace of God, the three made it across unscathed, and Taj, head high, approached the valet, returning to his podium from the parking lot at the back of the building.

Eyeing the man, close in age to himself, he asked two blunt questions,

“Do I need a reservation?”

“No--”

“Is there a dress code?”

“No Sir, it's casual dining—”

“Thank you.”

Through the amber colored door framed in brass, the three passed, entering to a bustling, busy dining room.

Flatware and china clinked, glassware tinkled and waiters moved on the fringes of the room, tremendous trays held steady above heads as dishes were passed about.

No words were spoken between the three, but the same thought occurred to them nonetheless: This looks exactly like the sort of place Miss Buchanan would dine.

In a block of contemporary, of-the-moment restaurants, some even decked out in futuristic décor with the forthcoming millennium, Delish's interior hearkened back to yesteryear.

Over their heads,the entire ceiling boasted more of the stained amber glass, inlaid with swirling, curling and fanciful depictions of flowers, every few feet marked by a heavy crystal and bronze chandelier.

The walls were painted with frescoes, in muted tones, of beautiful Edwardian women, alternately holding single flowers and bouquets of them.

Dotting the floor were round tables, with simple white cloths and golden place settings, an oil lamp lit in the center of each.

Four, fancifully eclectic chairs of curling, whirling bamboo were upholstered in tone on tone, striped, rust colored fabric, lending a subtle warmness to the entire space accompanied each table.

Along one wall a massive oak bar was filled shoulder to shoulder with patrons, on stools that echoed the make of the chairs, having a “Liquid Lunch” rather than a solid one.

The Jacksons did stick out whether they had intended to or not; as far as they could see everyone wore business suit or dress sets, regardless of the establishment being “casual”.

Of course they were in an office district, it only made sense that Delish's bread and butter would be from serving such a clientele.

But they would have to have been physically lifted and thrown on their faces into the street if they were to leave without finding that pale-skinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed sylph.

Heads turned, eyes scanning each and every table with an occupant, seeking out Miss Buchanan.

The more time passed, the quicker and more frantic the eyes roved.

And the more dismayed they became with the sight of weather-beaten faces of men throwing back glasses of pinot, the unmoving faces of women whom came out on the wrong end of a Botox needle, but no sign of the youthful, smooth, flawless face of the girl from across the hall.

Doubt began to settle into the trio's minds causing them to second-guess themselves.

Had they seen her? Had she gone into Delish?

Was it fevered, wanton minds that caused a group delusion?

Were they going to have to make a slow, pitiful retreat?

The golden-brown eyes under the thick brows on TJ Jackson's face were the lucky pair to discover her.

Across the floor, near the back corner, he was able to make out her pinkish-orange chapeau, peeking over the top of the menu which she held open, and upright relatively hiding the rest of herself from view.

A hand was laid on the shoulders of his siblings, with them also zeroing in on the lone woman.

A gentle, lustful, collective gasp popped from three mouths and as if moths drawn to an alluring flame, the Teez were shuffling towards the table with much haste.

Lunch at Delish was a weekly treat for Ursula, whom, like the the trio moving towards her in a zombie-affective manner, also pleasured in having three-day weekends at her disposal, though she was not an employee of her own relatives.

For a woman of Ursula's tastes and sensibilities, she enjoyed the ambiance of the surroundings almost more than the food which she consumed routinely.

She delighted in the Art Nouveau touches around her, and the dulcet notes of Chopin, DeBussy and Beethoven being piped through hidden speakers.

At the moment, she was perusing the selection of gourmet sandwiches, trying to decide if she'd like the Quail Egg Salad on a Croissant or the Aubergine, Prosciutto, and Pesto Panini.

And that's when she felt it.

The odd, creeping, sensation that she was being watched.

For a while, she ignored it; styled the way she was, Ursula had grown accustomed to the attention—positive and otherwise—her unconventional fashion choices incurred.

Not a day passed without her catching some passer-by staring at her, with the more adventurous approaching her to inquire why she was dressed as she was.

An inquiry to which she always replied, “Because I like it.”

Jeans, halter tops, and all things holograms may have been en vogue, but to Ursula it was a mess of tackiness that few could pull off and didn't dare waste her time attempting.

Still...that feeling nagged at her, this time with her physically squirming in her chair, eyes drifting to the listing of desserts.

Belgian Chocolate Chiffon Pie did sound so tempting--

“...Are....Are you real...?”

The question, posed to her in a low, somewhat deep voice, caught Ursula off guard, and taken aback, she lowered the menu, her silvery-aqua eyes being met by smoky quartz ones, peering at her around a smattering of plaits.

Standing behind the chair opposite her own, were three men, gazing on her in what seemed a mix of awe, disbelief, and amazement.

The eyes swept each man in turn, the acid blond to his left, the brun to his right and again the man with braids in the middle.

Gripping the asymmetrical back of the chair so hard the bamboo squeaked.

It was then she realized...they were awaiting her answer.

The one with the braids particularly, so, as he had a hand pressed to his bosom, with it conspicuously rising and falling with each breath he took, sculpted nostrils flaring slightly.

The other threatening to splinter the bamboo.

He wasn't blinking.

Gaze downright piercing.

“Yes...” She gave a nod, reaching up and tucking the lace on her hat back, revealing her entire face, “...I'm quite real.”

Starting to feel bashful under the middle man's unwavering gaze, she dropped her eyes, to her hands wringing out of sight in her lap.

Direct attention had never come calling this way, and she was unsure of how to proceed.

“Are these gentleman dining with you, Ma'am?”

A waiter, pad and pen in hand, poised to jot down her ticket appeared at her side.

Long lashes fluttered and again, she nodded, with her lonesome becoming a quartet, the men occupying the rest of the bamboo chairs swiftly.

“Do you guys make hamb--” The blond man began, his higher pitched voice drowned out by the braided man speaking over him curtly,

“We'll have what the lady is having.”

“I want--”

“You want what the lady is having.”

A deathly glare was shot across at the blond, whom met his stare, hazel eyes showing a brilliant green with perturbation, then shut as he proceeded to do a slow burn, obviously wanting to say something but holding back in front of Miss Buchanan.

The third man was silent, hands folded on the white linen, eyes fixed on his knuckles, furry brows raised.

None of them wanted to screw up this chance meeting by starting off on the wrong foot.

You only got to make a first impression, once.

So far, they were doing quite well.

“Ahem...Ma'am?” Her shoulder was tapped with the end of the waiter's pen for attention.

“Oh!...We'll all have the Aubergine, Prosciutto and Pesto Panini with the Broccoli Salad, and the Frozen Apricot Lemonade, please.”

“Very well, excellent choice.” The waiter replied with false cheer, taking the menu and making himself scarce.

The air around the table was dense, heavy, with Ursula being observed in various ways.

The blonde to her right was intermittently casting his eyes at her, then diverting them when he realized she was returning the look; a behavior closely copied by the man with the eyebrows across from him.

The man with the braids was openly, directly staring at her, making no effort whatsoever to conceal what he was doing, and hadn't since first appearing at the table.

Straightening her spine, Ursula brought a hand to her lightly rouged cheek, asking of her new companions,

“Since we are going to be dining together...” with her free hand, she traced the table's edge, “...perhaps you could tell me your names?”

The Teez were struck by her unusual manner of speech, blending both American and British pronunciation; they were unaware they were hearing a Transatlantic Accent, in person, a version of speech that had long since died out with the black and white movie.

Not only did she look like, but spoke like an old-timey movie character!

“I'm...I'm Taj, Taj Jackson.” The man with the braids spoke up, indicating himself with a poke to the chest.

“These are my brothers...Taryll....”

The blond man gave her a shy smile, eyes sparkling.

“...and TJ”.

Broad brows bounced at her in greeting.

“A pleasure. My name's Ursula--”

“You mean like the octopus from The Little Mermaid?” The question popped from Taryll's mouth and realizing he'd spoken out of turn too late, slapped a hand to his lips with him trying to run damage control, sputtering. “I mean...”

Daggers were being shot at him from his siblings and he started to sink in his chair, cheeks glowing in shame.

Light, tinkling laughter leaving the red mouth perfectly framing her white teeth, Ursula beamed, with her admitting,

“I'm sure I don't know about an octopus, but I was named after my grandmother.”

“Well, um...” Taj began, and trailed off, the waiter returning with a large tray balanced on his arm, and went about setting down plates of still steaming food.

In the silence, there was a tick-tick-tick, as Ursula, waiting for the server to vacate the area, was tapping her nails against the hard cover of her book.

“Hey....your nails are cool. I've never seen them done like that.” TJ spoke up and without warning, grabbed the small, cool white hand in is larger, warm brown one, bringing her hand closer to his face to examine it.

Her hand was then passed to Taj for him to take a gander, with him rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand as he did so, before allowing Taryll his own chance to see.

From the bare, cool skin, a hint of perfume wafted to their noses: notes of citrus, lavender and vanilla...just enough to tickle the nostrils, not overwhelm them.

An aroma each savored silently.

Ursula's nails were long, but not to the point of commonness, rounded to an almond shape. Oddly, the tips and the moons at the base of the nails were left unpolished, while the middles were painted a dark scarlet, matching her lips exactly.

“Thank you, I do them myself...they're all the rage—at least they were about sixty years ago.”

There was that giggle again and TJ grinned, lips curling at the corners, white teeth mirroring her own.

“Are you an actress?”

Her attention went back to Taj, removing the slices of eggplant from his sandwich and stacking it on the far edge of his plate.

(Where they slowly disappeared as Taryll covertly stole them for himself with his fork.)

Ursula laughed harder and his ears flooded with color, with her quieting an unladylike snort,

“And what makes you think I'm an actress?”

Leaning forward, she took a sip of her lemonade through a long straw, eyes dancing across Taj, who was fumbling to explain himself, and his assumptions,

Did she make him so nervous?

“Well...I mean...the way you dress. Your hair, your makeup...even the way you talk. I...we...we always thought you were in some type of period play at a theatre somewhere. We see you dressed up like that every day.”

Nibbling at her sandwich, Ursula shook her head, coy smile on her lips, which made her all the more enchanting.

“I wish it were that glamorous....” She started, then her smooth forehead puckered, barely there brows meeting above her nose.

“What do you mean, you see me every day?”

Briefly, fear shone in her eyes, but went unnoticed by her companions.

“We're your neighbors.” Taryll stated matter-of-factly, now reaching to fork up the discarded grilled slices of eggplant from TJ's plate. “We live across the hall from you at La Victoire.”

Now it was Ursula's turn to stare.

Her neighbors...they were her neighbors?

Only a few feet from her and she'd never noticed them in all the time she'd lived in her apartment.

Was she so wrapped up in her own mind, her own bubble of a world that she hadn't paid them any mind at all?

Yes, she did tend to ignore what didn't directly affect her day to day life.

It should have been impossible to miss, to over look any of them, especially Taryll with that blonde hair.

Yet, she had.

“I...I apologize, I never...” She started and was drowned out by all three of them assuring her there was no harm, no foul.

“It's alright!”

“You were probably busy!”

“Sure!”

Hands waving at her vehemently.

“Still...I should have noticed...”

“If you aren't an actress...” TJ plucked the fresh apricot slice garnishing his glass and tossed it in his mouth chewing on it, “...what do you do, Ursula?”

Sprinkling salt from a crystal shaker onto her salad, she replied brightly,

“I'm a film restoration specialist and historian.”

Prodded on by the shared expressions of surprise, she explained,

“Most of my days are spent with my nose in a book, researching lost and extant films—mostly silents, some early sound—and staring at a screen, color and shade correcting film stock. A lot of the time, if a film is rediscovered, it hasn't seen the light of day in many decades, much less been stored or looked after properly. My job is to try to get the film stock as close to back in the shape it was in when said film first premiered.”

A forkful of grated broccoli, cabbage, red onion and aged cheddar went into her mouth, and was chewed thoughtfully with Ursula adding,

“Occasionally I give speeches, and appear at film festivals. But usually I'm in a cramped projection room or scanning the shelves at libraries for days on end. I dress up like this to liven up an otherwise pretty boring job. But I'm passionate about it, so I guess that's a good thing.” She tittered and was met with nods of understanding.

From the side Taryll was patting at her hand and wrist for her attention.

“We'd like to see something you've restored, whenever its ready, right fellas?” He intoned and his siblings nodded eagerly, Taj piping up,

“We grew up watching The Little Rascals, and The Three Stooges and Charlie Chaplin with our father and uncles.”

“Our Uncle Michael loves Charlie Chaplin. Has all his movies.” Not wanting to be left out, TJ spoke through a mouth of half-macerated ham and pesto.

It wasn't lost on them that the black, penciled on brows went up at their enthusiasm.

Ursula was more accustomed to her work being appreciated by senior citizens who were reliving their youth through her efforts in celluloid.

It was unusual to see anyone of her age bracket, other than the sparse handful of her coworkers, show any interest in classic film.

Although, judging by the bashful way she kept being scrutinized, her appearance might have had a little something to do with garnering said interest.

She was basking in their attention and having a time of it, that was for sure.

“Would you be interested in seeing a collection of early Harold Lloyd and Charley Chase shorts? Next weekend I'll be speaking at silent film expo in Torrance, I can get you passes--”

“We'd love to.” Taj spoke as he dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin.

Amused by his forwardness, Ursula had to ask,

“Do you even know who Lloyd or Chase are?”

Plump lips twisted in thought for a short interval.

“Lloyd's the guy that hung off that clock tower, right?”

Red lips parted in an approving smile, as he had referenced Harold Lloyd's most iconic film.

“Yes. Safety Last!, 1923. Now what about Chase?”

Taj had been cheesing it up at his small victory of knowledge.

The smile faltered.

“I don't know about him...” Taj admitted and touched at the cleft in his chin.

“But I can learn.”

“We can learn.” TJ corrected him, picking up a fork for his salad.

Taryll bobbed his head in agreement.

“We've discovered what I do for a living...” Though she wiped her mouth, Ursula's well placed lipstick didn't budge. “What do you gentlemen do? Are you working stiffs or men of leisure?”

“Somewhere in the middle.” Taryll chortled,resting a cheek on his fist. “We're realtors—that's our family's building across the street: Jackson Realty and Holdings.”

The blue eyes widened and shot to the windows looking out onto the street, and stared at the office building across from them.

“You're...one of those Jacksons?” She whispered, recognition crossing her face when she was met with heads wagging in the affirmative.

“One of your relatives sold me my apartment...Marlon Jackson?”

Recalling the handsome man, in his early forties as she had ballparked his age with a thick mustache and never-ending smile.

“That's our uncle.” They replied in unison.

Ursula squinted, and yes, she could see features on each of them that she had noticed in the Mr. Jackson whom had helped her find her home.

Chiseled bone structure, light eyes, well-groomed brows, full lips...

They were telling the truth.

And she, Ursula M. Buchanan, was impressed.

Again the waiter materialized, clearing plates that now sat empty.

“Would you care for dessert?”

Eyes drifting between the three looking back at her intensely, she shook her head,

“No...”

“Will this be all together or sep--”

“I've got it.” Taj interrupted producing a wallet, leather, and emblazoned with a “T”.

The check quickly tallied by hand was given to Taj.

“You don't have to...” Ursula started and was given a harmonious response,

“Our treat. Pretty ladies shouldn't have to pay for minor things like meals--”

“Only ugly ladies, then?” Ursula teased and was met by looks of confusion that broke into toothy grins at her joking, table rocking with laughter.

“That's something you'll never have to worry about.” Taryll winked at her, as paper crinkled in Taj's wallet.

“You're too kind, thank you.”

“Thank you for the company.” TJ was up, and behind her, pulling out her chair for her, the other two climbing to their feet.

A crisp, hundred dollar bill went down for a ninety dollar check, along with an extra twenty as a tip.

“Do...”Taj elbowed his way between her and TJ, with TJ swearing under his breath in what sounded like Spanish to Ursula, the quartet moving towards the door.

“Do you have anything else to do today or are you free?”

They were all looking at her with yearning, question marks in all their eyes.

It hurt her bitterly to disappoint them, though she'd only known them for an hour and a half.

Taryll nearly tripped over his own feet to open the door for her.

“I'm sorry. I have research to do ahead of the expo.”

The book she carried was indicated, it's title reading The Full Filmography of Charley Chase.

The men visibly deflated around her, as they reached the valet podium and she handed over a ticket to have her car retrieved.

“Don't despair fellows...” She lifted a slim finger at them. “...now that I know I have friends in La Victoire, I'm sure we'll run into each other again. We...are friends, correct?”

“YES!”

The blue coupe pulled up to the curb, the valet disbanding and holding the door open for her.

Pulling the lace on her hat down into place, her red lips coiled.

“I'm glad to know you. All three of you.” She hesitated a moment, then went to each of the Teez, hugging them in turn.

While the squeezes from the younger two had been brief, Taj held onto her a bit longer than what was comfortable, whispering off into her little seashell ear,

“I'm glad to know you too, Ursula!”

Face suddenly matching her lips and nails , Ursula stammered an incoherent good bye, and scampered to her vehicle, Taryll and Taj waving, while TJ flashed a peace sign.

She tooted her horn, merged into traffic and was gone.

And the three Jacksons hooted and slapped high fives in glee.

The joy, however was short lived, as they caught sight of their father, lumbering across the road towards them, with more chores for them clearly on his mind.

And all three ran, each in different directions: Taj whizzing past his father to the parking lot behind the realty firm for his car, Taryll sprinting down the block and around the corner, and TJ, showing his physical prowess once more, was scampering up the rickety iron fire escape that went along the side of Delish and was leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

Faintly all three could hear their names being shouted but were too far gone to take heed.

Fate had given them a wonderful turn.

Never would they have imagined meeting Ursula, let alone sitting and taking lunch with her.

Talking and getting to know her.

Not only had they met the dream living in Apartment 3486, she considered them her friends.

Friends.

They were friends.

And it was only a matter of time before friends became lovers.

* * *

In the weeks following their fated meeting at Delish, it seemed not a day went by where Ursula M. Buchanan didn't find herself in the company of the three Jackson brothers.

Each morning they met in the hall, rode the elevators down to the lobby and walked out to the underground parking lot to retrieve their cars, before departing for work, Ursula to her film lab in neighboring Fontana, while the Teez went else downtown or wherever they were slated to show homes/properties that particular day.

Every day before they split up, sometime during the walk to the garage, it was decided where they would meet for dinner.

Ursula was always treated. If they even thought she was to reach for her purse to help, one of the brothers would pull her bag off the table into their lap, making it clear she had nothing to worry about other than making pleasant conversation and not drink too many cocktails.

She did feel so special, walking in the company of such attractive men, who looked even more so when dressed up in their business suits, ties, pocket squares and cuff-links.

She was taken to the best places, several times running into their father and stepmother, which made Ursula feel even more included.

If the Teez, as engaging and humorous and outgoing as they became around her, had any other friends or colleagues, they were severely neglected in favor of her company.

Adding icing onto the proverbial cake, for Ursula, was what seemed their genuine interest in her work.

Every day she was met with questions about what films she was working on, how the progress was going, whom starred in the films and if they didn't know who the actor or actress were, would open up a dialogue to allow her to inform them so they had a better understanding and could talk more in-depth with her on the subject of obscure film. Many a night they closed out places, sipping nightcaps and chatting.

Not to mention their unbridled enthusiasm when it had come to the Silent Film Expo in Torrance.

Though she had stressed many times that the Expo was incredibly casual, like a Comic-Con for the silent film set, she had been surprised to see the Teez turn up each wearing 20's-era tweed suits, with round, tortoise shell glasses and straw boaters, obviously copying the style of comedian Harold Lloyd.

The surprise was mutual as Taj, Taryll and TJ had been shocked to watch Ursula step from her apartment, dressed like an authentic Flapper, in a dress of grey velvet studded with crystals all over and silver marabou feathers about the shoulder, matching the plume in the headband obscuring her forehead and making her eyes go close to clear, the silver and pewter tones were accentuated so much.

The Teez had hung back, watching her, drinking in this little nymph whom floated around effortlessly in her own element the moment they set foot into the packed Torrance Conference Hall.

A greyscale butterfly she was, moving from booth to booth, chatting about the different films being shown, close to two dozen in all, most from names whom the Teez had never heard but were eager just the same, when they saw how much joy, life and light it brought to Ursula's face.

Several times they were stopped to have their photos taken, one appearing in the Torrance Tattler newspaper, as seeing a flapper and three (ethnic) Harold Lloyd's was quite the head turner.

When the time came for Ursula to make her speech about the films she'd had a hand in personally restoring, the group of trustees over the event, and several high-ranking members of the Charley Chase International Fan Club had whisked her away.

Taj, Taryll and TJ, seated front row center, had been further impressed by Ursula's ease and comfortableness onstage, before a crowd of at least three thousand from all over the world whom had turned up to see four restored Lonesome Luke (the character preceding Lloyd's more iconic glasses character that the Teez, and a few dozen others were emulating) from 1915 and five restored Chase films, ranging from 1917 to 1926.

The small movie house next to the event center had been standing room only it was so very crowded with people lining the walls once the seats were all taken.

The atmosphere had been more akin to a concert than a film viewing.

Ursula had spoken mellifluously, without a hitch to be heard, as if born to it.

(The Teez were far too shy and usually performed public speaking only when deemed absolutely necessary.)

Then she had sat, alternately holding the hands of each of the three as the films played, accompanied by a live orchestra—further compromising the limited space.

After the films ended and the lights came back on—and TJ, whom had fallen asleep at some point during the last Charley Chase film, Bromo and Juliet, was awakened by a slap to the back of the head from Taryll, knocking his hat off, joined in the applause that lasted over five minutes.

It was a moment that Ursula had returned to in her mind's eye time and again when she was alone in her apartment, buried beneath her covers in the middle of the night.

How spoiled she was, how very spoiled she was.

Until then, Ursula assumed situations such at her own only happened in the sepia tones that flickered across the screen in the films she worked so tirelessly to preserve.

Where a lady had multiple suitors at her beck and call.

And she did feel like a lady in their company. There was always a door being held open for her, a chair pulled out, and they were careful not to swear in front of her. (There were a few slips with the latter, but nothing to take the snap out of her garters!)

Yet, over the last few weeks she'd enjoyed as such with Taj, Taryll and TJ Jackson.

Further keeping her up until all hours, was, no matter how she pondered the subject to the point of her head throbbing with migraines, she couldn't figure whom of the three she liked the most.

Quiet Taj, the one whom had first spoken to her, was sweet and the most gentlemanly of them all. Always finding a way to be beside her, to touch her arm or hand, not groping or pawing, but displaying his interest in her politely. Always the first to ask about her work and more than once, she'd spied him with books about film stars, reading up just so he could converse more deeply with her.

Shy Taryll didn't speak as much as his brothers, but it was clear he listened to, nay hung onto her every word whenever her mouth opened. There were plenty of times she'd found herself talking for a while and when she paused, stating she must be boring them talking about people whom had lived and died before any of them were ever a twinkle in their father's eyes he was the first to tell her no, keep on. If its important to her, its important to them. Every so often she could find his hand grasping hers, giving it the gentlest of squeezes. Also, there was no hiding the way his hazel eyes lit each time he saw her; he wore his emotions as plainly as the blonde on his head.

Playful TJ was a character. Always joking, he could make her laugh and smile and when he couldn't make a sound, he would manage to poke her in just the right spot in her ribs to force out giggles. He was perhaps the most touchy of the three, tickling her ribs, arms and the back of her neck, until his hand was swatted away, or she was crying tears of amusement. He was fun to talk to and Ursula was never bored by his company.

She was never bored by any of them.

It was a nice change from the life she'd led prior to meeting them.

How quiet, lackluster and monotonous it had been.

Had she really even been alive before the Teez had come into her life?

She had to have; but God it sure didn't feel like it in hindsight.

Even in the middle of mundane work, she could look forward to quitting time and sitting for a gourmet meal somewhere in perfect company.

Celebrate the brother's closing on properties and making commissions, listening to them talk about their family, most notably how they avoided doing chores for their father like The Plague, The Flu and Pneumonia rolled all into one.

It was all such a wonderful, peaceable, social experience.

As time progressed, Ursula felt a special bond, a kinship with Taj, Taryll and TJ and felt, truly, if she ever needed them, they would go the extra mile to be there for her.

It was a lovely, warm feeling...that she was no longer alone in this world.

Although, her needing them came a whole lot quicker than Ursula had ever anticipated.

* * *

“...ain't she nice...look her over once or twice... I ask you very confidentially...ain't she nice...

With the sounds of a jaunty, upbeat ragtime tune accompanying the fine, high tenor of Twenties crooner Gene Austin filling her kitchen, Ursula Mildred Buchanan was going through the motions of her usual morning routine.

Skin still glowing pink from her morning bath, Ursula, her voluptuous form draped in a brilliant vermilion silk peignoir, with a half-dozen rows of tulle trimming the sleeves and neckline, heels of her dyed to match slippers clacking on the linoleum, she nursed her second cup of coffee, reaching to turn the knob on her little Bakelite radio, increasing the volume of the “Grand Oldies” station.

Back and forth she moved, getting ready for her usual breakfast of onion scrambled eggs and toast.

Seasonings, the Spanish onion, finely chopped, two eggs...

Blue-grey eyes widened in disbelief.

Two eggs?

Ursula paused with the door to her icebox open, a small frown causing the fair flesh of her brow to wrinkle.

How in the Hell did she get down to two eggs? She usually had three left...

For the life of her, she couldn't recall what could have happened to the third egg that was supposed to be there. Ready for the eating.

Well this wouldn't do, not at all. Absolutely not.

Ursula had too many things to do ahead of her now, usual dinner date with the Teez, but dinner was a good twelve hours away, as it was only seven that morning and they weren't set to eat out until that evening!

Those oddly painted nails tapped at the top of the door for a second, her mind racing.

Reaching up, she tightened the red, grosgrain ribbon in her black waves and she tossed said waves commenting to herself, saucily,

“Well, there has to be an egg to spare between the three of those men!”

That thought in her mind, and with Mr. Austin steadily warbling after her, Ursula was cutting a beeline through her home for the front door, letting herself out into the wide, yet vacant hall.

She stood a moment, looking between the three doors, first, Taj's, then Taryll's and finally TJ's.

It took a bit of squinting but she could make out that Taj's door was the only one showing a light was on behind it as evidenced by the strip of pale yellow illuminating the marble flooring.

At his door, Ursula lingered yet again, hoping she wasn't waking him up or disturbing him in any way.

Though she had been friends with all three brothers, she'd never personally gone past the doorway of either of their apartments, and neither had they entered hers.

There was something of an unspoken pact among them, that when the foursome broke off to their perspective homes, the fellas stood and watched Ursula to make sure she was in her apartment safely first, then retreated to all of theirs.

Ursula shook her head at her silliness.

All she wanted was one little, white egg. It wouldn't take but a second for Taj to go get her one and bring it back.

Almost laughing at herself, it took her three tries before she appropriately hit the doorbell and heard it chime inside.

Hands clasped in front of her as she waited, Ursula began to turn from the door, looking at nothing in particular down the hall.

The metal latticework of the elevator doors could stand a polishing...

“It's barely seven in the damn morning, somebody better be dead—Oh Christ!”

A drowsy voice lamented, then gasped.

Turning back, Ursula found herself face to face, not with Taj Jackson, but his youngest sibling, TJ.

While he had audibly drawn a breath, Ursula took hers silently.

Over the course of her knowing him, Ursula had seen TJ Jackson dressed two ways:

During the work week, he wore somber, bespoke suits with fine details, a Piaget, Rolex or Baume et Mercier watch, silk ties, pocket squares and wing-tips of the finest Italian leather, all befitting a young, highly-sought realtor.

Or his leisure wear, typically an oversized tee or sweatshirt and equally air-conditioned jeans or pajama bottoms. Khakis if he was feeling fancy that day.

Never before had she seen TJ in his sleepwear.

But there he was, leaning against the door frame of his sibling's apartment, a half eaten bagel, loaded with veggie cream cheese in one hand.

He stood wearing only a pair of black watch plaid pajama bottoms, that dipped low enough so that the gold, interlocking Greek key Versace logo on the waistband of his underwear was visible.

Aside from that, he stood topless.

It had been abundantly clear to Ursula from day one that TJ was an exceedingly fit young man, as often conversations had drifted to his work out routine and the handful of sports he liked to play when he wasn't busy with selling properties or escorting her about town.

But it wasn't until that morning, that Ursula had been so directly confronted with the results of such a lifestyle.

The rich, deep skin, shining with cocoa butter, showing off a slim, yet extremely toned upper body that seemed crafted from imported marble.

TJ was his own creation.

The pecs, the abs, his little 'innie' bellybutton, all defined, all on display.

Ursula stole another peek at his sleek, taut face.

His curls were rumpled as if he'd just rolled from bed, and he was still chewing on that crusty little circlet of bread.

But his eyes...his eyes were moving.

Roving about the figure in red, narrowing to figure what had been masked, but dancing as he was having fun trying to decipher her exact measurements.

She should have been unnerved, maybe even offended by such outright ogling; instead Ursula was rather flattered.

“Um...” Her lashes fluttered as she lowered her eyes. “I was hoping to borrow--”

“TJ!” Came Taj's scream from far off in the apartment. “How you want your bacon?”

Eyes never leaving her, TJ called over his shoulder simply,

“Burn it!”

She glanced through her lashes, past TJ to see that the apartment had a small foyer like her own.

Albeit, from what she could tell had been decorated with modern, abstract art in bronze and gold, a few touches of pewter.

“I..” Ursula started again, trailing off as TJ came nearer, the fresh, spicy scent of his cologne tickling her nose. She was familiar with the fragrance, but when she usually met up with him, it was a whisper.

It was fairly screaming off of his bare, moist skin.

And it was getting stronger by the second.

He was leaning forward, inspecting her face, as he helped himself to another bite of bagel, a blob of the cheese clinging to his lower lip.

She kept trying to look at him, a difficult feat. “I wanted to borrow...”

“...wanted to borrow what?” A sliver of pink tongue swiped the cheese away, TJ breaking off a piece of bagel and popping it into his mouth.

With his free hand, he began playing with the ruffles at her neckline.

“Ahem...an egg. I'm trying to cook breakfast and I'm short one--”

“You know, you're pretty...even without the makeup.” TJ remarked, putting more bread in his mouth.

“T..thank you...”

Fully flustered, Ursula took a step back, only to be jerked back as he refused to relinquish his grip on her.

Brown-gold eyes glittered, a playful half-smile on his lips.

Tilting his head back, he all but yelled,

“Somebody bring me a raw egg! Ursula needs one!”

Out of sight there was brief scuffling, what sounded like glass shattering, and someone loudly whispering a hail of swear words.

Moments later, Taryll, in full black and white striped pajamas, and Taj, in a tee featuring Darth Vader and shorts covered with armed Storm Troopers (and showing off strong, yet hairy legs) brushed past their younger sibling and out into the hallway.

Each holding a Styrofoam egg carton.

Simultaneously, both were opened, revealing that Taryll held a carton of brown eggs, while Taj held white.

Both smiling at her sheepishly.

Timidly, Ursula raised a hand, and plucked an egg from Taj's carton.

“Thank you--” She tried to pull away only to be kept on the spot by TJ's hand in her ruffles.

“Will you please let me--”

“What...” TJ interrupted her, cocking his head to one side, eyes sweeping his siblings then returning to her, “....what exactly do you have on underneath that robe?”

“Tito Joe!” His brothers hissed at him, using his full given name, growing red with consternation and shame.

“You can't just ask a lady that!” Taryll added, teeth gritting.

“Don't act like you don't want to know too.” He mocked them with an arrogant wag of his head, “You're just too chicken shit to ask her.”

Murder flashed through Tarylls eyes and shaking his head, stared down at his feet, teeth grinding audibly.

Taj just glared.

Egg in hand, Ursula contemplated smashing it in the middle of TJ's smug little face for asking such a question, but shook off the feeling.

Wouldn't be right to break the nose of one of the only friends she had.

Lightly twirling the egg in her hand and studying it purposefully to keep her eyes down, she answered,

“A 'tap set' .”

“A what?” came the bewildered, harmonized reply.

It was her turn to be smug.

Finally getting free of TJ's grip, she handed him the egg and proceeded to untie the braided belt of her robe.

“W-wait a minute--” Taj stammered but went ignored, as the silk was pulled back, revealing Ursula's undergarments.

Eyes, golden, smokey, and hazel-flecked widened at the almost unnaturally white skin contrasting with the pale grey satin of a delicate brassiere embroidered with roses in ecru threading, matching the pair of step-ins.

Her body was soft, rounded in the best places, flat in others, the epitome of what a feminine figure should have been.

Around the mid-thigh of each shapely leg was a garter of grey lace, a bow in the center of each.

As quickly, the robe was closed and fastened back into place.

Snatching the egg from TJ, she questioned,

“Satisfied?”

While she had tried to keep her face as stoic and stern as possible, at the last second, she broke and smile parted her pink lips.

Her smile was met with three more and some of the tension that had gathered around them dissipated.

They lingered quietly a moment, Taryll breaking the ice,

“Walk you to your car at eight-thirty?”

“Don't you always?” Ursula winked at the threesome and with more confidence flowing through her veins than sultry Mae West at her finest, she turned, sashaying back to her apartment.

Once the door shut, though, Ursula fell back against it, a cold sweat breaking out all over her dermis, bosom rising and falling with abandon.

This was so out of character for Ursula.

She'd never been the flirty, teasing type, much less the type to flash not one but three men at the same time!

Sure, they didn't see all of her bits and pieces but they'd seen enough to likely fill in the blanks.

Yet, she wasn't ashamed.

No...it had felt right. Though unintended and spontaneous, it had felt right.

Deep down, Ursula had been teasing the Teez, and further more she had enjoyed teasing them.

Even further, the Teez seemed to like being teased by her.

Which spurred her on all the more.

What the end game may have been, she didn't know.

At that point in time she was still riding the fence like Seabiscuit over whom she liked the most.

That was a mystery left to be cracked at another time.

Right then, she had an egg to crack, and scramble, and oh, so many more things to do...

Ninety minutes later, Ursula Mildred Buchanan, stood preening before the gilt framed mirror mounted to the wall inside her foyer, beside the door leading out to the main hallway.

Back and forth she turned, admiring herself, as she wore a light wool frock of the most charming shade of emerald green.

Trimmed unusually by a strip of green, white and grey plaid that started on her left lapel, winding around over her shoulders and ended in a large bow just above her right bosom, it set off her so white skin and so black hair to perfection.

The look was topped off by a green beret, featuring a matching plaid bow, a green hand bag and pumps.

Scarlet lips curled mischievously, her mind replaying her impromptu striptease.

How the men had stared; how she had reveled in it.

She couldn't' recall ever being quite so...provocative, but the thrill it provided was unlike anything she'd ever had the pleasure of feeling.

Giving another twirl, Ursula suddenly stopped mid-spin and sprinted back to her boudoir, to her vanity where a low, round bottle full of eau de parfum, set and began liberally using the atomizer to douse herself, going so far as to spray a few puffs down her throat.

Now she was ready to face her three gentlemen.

Slowly, she cracked her door, and peeked across the hall.

As she had expected, Taj, Taryll and TJ were already outside of their apartments, awaiting her arrival.

Taj and TJ, wearing sweatshirts with insignia of the Los Angeles Lakers and the San Antonio Spurs respectively, were playing a quiet game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, while Taryll, in a red, black and white FUBU jacket was hunched over his phone, again trying to beat his high score at Snake, all paired with jeans and sneakers.

As she stepped out, juggling her ring of keys, four cinema-related books and her handbag, she found three pairs of hands coming to her aid automatically.

Taj closing and locking her door, TJ taking the books, and Taryll holding her purse out for her.

“Thank you.” At once she was shy, all the temptress bravado she had been basking in fleeing her, Taj taking one hand TJ taking the other, both giving light, affectionate squeezes.

Taryll, left with no hands to hold, improvised by placing his hands on her shoulders, after giving TJ a solid punch to his shoulder blade, out of spite.

TJ took the hit well, buckling only slightly, and casting his sibling a glare of unfiltered hatred, but said nothing as that green beret bobbed only inches under his chin.

(Had she not been there, Taryll would have been taking a brown fist to his tanned jaw)

The four took their time, shuffling to the elevators where Taj, pressing the button to hail one of those swaying rectangles that dangled so precariously by a cord, leaned in, whispering, minty breath warming her lightly rouged cheek,

“Did you enjoy your egg?”

White teeth flashed as Ursula beamed up at him.

“Yes... it was delicious.”

TJ was swinging her arm, changing the position of his hand so they no longer cupped palms; instead, his fingers interlaced with hers.

Again, not to be outdone, Taryll's hands fell from her shoulders to her slim waist, pressing just enough so that she noticed the difference.

Which was acknowledged by a knowing smirk, as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, turquoise eyes running the length of him like grey-mottled spotlight.

Her smirk was met with a cunning wink.

Oh, he was a little devil.

There was a soft ping and the doors to elevator opened, revealing it to be, thankfully, empty.

Stepping on, rather than directly mashing the button for the lobby, Taj slid his hand along the placard of buttons, hitting them all, thus prolonging their descent as the elevator would pause at each of the thirty-three floors below them.

The walls of the elevator were mirrored and Ursula's heart skipped as she noted just how good she looked in the company of the Jackson Brothers.

The way her appearance and dress contrasted so with theirs.

How did that saying go?

“Opposites Do Attract”.

Silence permeated the cubicle as they slipped down three floors, halting each time, and finally, mildly annoyed by it, Ursula piped up,questioning,

“So...what will My Three Teez do with themselves while I'm away today?”

She desperately hoped she'd sounded clever and devil-may-care, and judging by the ways eyes widened at her calling them “My Three Teez” she had hit her target squarely. Letting them know, ever so calmly, that they belonged to her, and conversely, she to them.

“Nothing much.” Taryll was now resting his chin on her shoulder, nostrils flapping as he inhaled her perfume. “Go to the zoo, set some animals free, and while they stampede around maybe knock over a few candy stores...steal a rocket ship--”

Ducking her head, as his lips bumped her earlobe, Ursula tittered, his arms starting to fully encircle her waist so she was being hugged from behind.

“Seriously?”

“Nah, we'll mostly be ducking Pops so we don't have to do chores.”

If Taryll didn't stop winking at her...

“And while we're raising the Disney-version of Hell...” TJ interjected, giving her hand another delightful squeeze, “...what will you be doing?”

“Oh lots...” Her attention went to Taj, holding her hand and using his thumb to flick the thin, diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist so that it moved and threw teeny prismatic rainbows under the fluorescent lighting. “...I have to return these books to the Central Library, and perhaps pick up some more to continue my research.”

As she spoke, TJ, whom had been holding her tomes on his hip lifted them, and a quick perusing of the spines showed they were all dedicated to lost silent and early sound films.

Did she ever read any books not of that topic?

“What film are you restoring now?”

Those blue-grey eyes couldn't have gotten any larger had Ed McMahon dropped out the ceiling and told her she'd won millions in Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.

Finally, after many, many halts and jerks, the door to the elevator opened to the cavernous lobby and they stepped out, with Ursula remarking so cheerfully to the point of her body bouncing was back against Taryll's,

“I'm so excited; this is the kind of discovery I've looked forward to since I started restoring films when I was sixteen.” She gushed merrily, with her squeezing hands now.

“Never in my life did I ever think I'd have the opportunity to restore a Nazimova--”

Ursula's shoes made a clear screech noise on the marble as all three men stopped abruptly, traded wary expressions between them over her head, before inquiring in unison, again their voices doing a musical harmonization that echoed past the crystal chandeliers and Italianate frescoes above them,

“Nazis? You're restoring a film made by Nazis?”

The only other occupant in the lobby that morning, a maid mopping a few yards away near a potted plant, had also stopped her work and was staring on, repugnance lighting her much creased face, white hair standing on end.

Yes, it must have looked so out of place for a woman dressed of a bygone era to be speaking of such treacherous things...particularly in the company of men of Color.

Seeing the error in her words, Ursula quickly pulled free of the testosterone trio and turned to face them, hands up in her defense.

“Not Nazis! Nazimova—Alla Nazimova. She was a Russian actress. It's her name. Her stage name anyway. Her real name was Marem-Ides Leventon. She usually just went by Nazimova, you know like Cher, or Prince, before he became The Artist Formerly Known as Prince!”

“Phew—you had us going for a second!” Taj laughed, pretending to wipe sweat from his plaited brow, and relaxing they moved through the lobby and out into the crisp sunshine, Ursula continuing to prattle on, happy as a magpie about her latest project.

“...I'll never know what kind of flaming hoops Mr. Blythe—that's my boss—had to jump through, but he managed to get his hands on an rare version of Camille from 1921 that has about fifteen minutes of never before seen footage. Mr. Blythe wants me to give a speech about it whenever we get it ready to premiere! It's going to be huge, as it appeals not only silent fans, and Nazimova fans, but also Rudolph Valentino fans--”

“I know who that is!” TJ boasted proudly. “He was in that picture called “The Sheik--”

The grin on TJ's face became a puckered scowl, Taryll speaking over him snidely.

“And you only know that because I saw you on Taj's desktop reading all about it so you can keep up with everything Ursula mentions about the movies she's working on!”

As they rounded the corner of the building, headed for the underground garage, TJ dropped the small white hand he'd been caressing absently, and spinning on his heels, pulled himself erect, a pose that spoke volumes to anyone whom could see him that he was looking for a fight.

That carefree look of arrogance.

“Taryll don't act like I'm the only one doing it! Before you met Ursula the only silent star you knew of was Chaplin and you still probably wouldn't have known him from a goddamn hole in the ground if it wasn't for Uncle Michael screening Chaplin's films in his theatre!”

“Oh yeah?” Arms unlooping from her hips, Taryll stepped around Ursula, squinting up at TJ, while both pairs of their hands were clenching and unclenching into fists.

“Yeah!”

“At least I'm not the one gallivanting around thinking I'm an expert in shit I'm barely scraping the surface of. You get a few web forums under your belt and think you can teach a college course! Ursula's the real expert! Every time we see her she's got some books or a notepad or something on her work. Studying shit—taking notes! And in the neatest, prettiest handwriting I ever saw! The girl just said she was going to give a speech about it. Stays giving speeches! You're standing there like the hipster doofus you are, holding books you've never opened a day in your pitiful life!” Taryll huffed and stood so closely to his sibling their chests collided.

“We saw her give that speech at that Harold Lloyd shindig. I'd love to see your dumb ass get up on a microphone and try to educate people. You'd get laughed straight out of California and over the border into Mexico! By the time you'd get done spinning you'd be somewhere in Argentina!”

Ursula hid her face in Taj's shoulder, so they wouldn't witness her amusement.

“Me?” TJ's eyes were bulging and his brows were disappearing past his hairline they'd raised so incredulously,

“You can't even handle public speaking! Look like who did it and why when all eyes are on you! I remember how you froze up when you had to give a speech at Grandpa's sixtieth birthday. Fumbled and mumbled, then you started crying!”

“That was different and you know it, you bastard!” Taryll shook a fist. “I didn't know I had to talk until ten minutes before the cake came out and Uncle Marlon said all the grandkids had to say something. I didn't prepare how Ursula prepares!”

“Sure...” TJ was snorting, doubling over, riling Taryll up all the more.

“I wouldn't haul my yellow ass up there in the first place, TJ! You'd go down in flames kicking and screaming just to impress Ursula!”

Aggressive voices were escalating in decibels rapidly,

“Like you wouldn't you fucking hypocrite!”

“Not if it meant I'd wind up looking like a clown!”

“You've looked like a clown since August 8, 1975, when the doctor slapped your ass and told Mother and Pops 'congrats, it's a boy!'

“You must really want me to knock your teeth down your throat and out your Tweety Bird ass!

“I'd love to see you try, Blondie!”

Warm hand gripping the back of her neck, index and thumb massaging at her semitransparent flesh, Taj tugged at Ursula, not caring if his siblings devolved into a brawl or worse, so long as he could steal a few minutes alone for himself with their little bonne vivant, leading her past TJ and Taryll, whom, curiously began arguing more ferociously not in English, but Spanish, their voices dwindling the further Taj got her away.

Near the end of the first sub-level of garage, all parked neatly in a row, were Ursula's blue coupe and three, impeccable Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolets—gleaming black for Taj, cherry red for Taryll and a glittery silver for TJ.

While Ursula opened her purse, to root around for her key, Taj stepped up onto the running board of her car, leaning against it idly, watching the shadows of his brothers boxing in the distance.

“You know...” Taj started, running a hand through his braids, “...I've always wanted to ask: just how did you manage to come to own a classic car like this? A near-mint 1937 Ford Cabriolet convertible!”

Still digging, Ursula replied, almost dreamily,

“You certainly know your cars, Mr. Jackson. It was left to me by my grandmother. It used to be her car. After she...died... I just couldn't make myself part with it, like I had the house and put whatever I couldn't sell into storage. But I've wanted the car since I was a child. Spent my whole childhood riding around in it with Gam-Gam and Pop-Pop.”

“What about your parents?” Taj asked and immediately regretted it the way sadness came into those bluish eyes. “You...don't have to answer. I can tell. I'm sorry.”

“It's quite alright. I was two when it happened: yachts just don't belong out on the water in the middle of hurricanes.”

The key appearing in her hand was passed off to him, indicating he had the prized duty of driving her around today. Boy, wouldn't his brothers be steamed.

The shadows now showed the pair rolling about on the ground, swinging.

“Do you want to go to the library first, then go for lunch?”

Those lovely eyes shimmered as Ursula came closer, beaming up at him,

“Why don't you decide? You've always let me decide.”

“I was always taught 'ladies first'.” Taj chuckled, dark eyes going over her face as he began to lean down towards her.

“But...it must get so boring taking your marching orders from a dame all the time?”

As Taj advanced, Ursula slowly bent back, keeping herself just out his reach.

“Doesn't bother me.” Taj came down off the running board, plump pink lips clearly aiming for her painted ones. “Especially when it comes from a dame like you.”

“Not, yet.” She declared, hand on one of his prominent ears pulling him away.

A kiss wasn't a mere want, but a possibility at this stage.

Straightening and wiggling his head to free his appendage, Taj hissed at her through smiling teeth.

“Prick tease!”

“Oh?” Not really offended, Ursula had her hands on her hips, squaring her shoulders. “So that's what you think of me?”

Snickering, Taj challenged,

“After your little display this morning—how can I not?”

“You certainly were looking hard enough--”

“You're not hard to look at, Sugar.”

“I hate you!”

“I hate you too, TJ!”

“Kiss my freckled ass!”

“I bet I kicked it though!”

“You got lucky.”

“Bullshit!”

Staggering towards Taj and Ursula, a bit rumpled and dusty were Taryll and TJ.

Taryll was rubbing at his jaw, where a punch must have landed, and the neckline of TJ's sweatshirt appeared stretched as though he'd been dragged or pulled by it.

Blades of grass was visible in the hair of both.

Opening the driver's side door to the coupe, Taj rolled his eyes,

“Come on fellas! We're taking Ursula to the lib--”

Taj was interrupted by a muffled polyphonic rendition of the theme from the Karloff version of Frankenstein.

In a strange clashing of times and eras, Ursula reached into her bag, producing a small, metallic pink flip phone.

(The fellas had seen the phone on several occasions, but this was the first time it had ever rang in their presence.)

Opening it and carefully mashing it to her ear, so as not to muss her waves, Ursula answered,

“Hello? Oh, hi Ainsley!”

Practically feeling eyes on her, as all three of the Teez were on the running board of her car, she mouthed,

“My female coworker.” And watched them visibly loosening up.

Hot tempered lads.

“No, I wasn't coming in today, it's my off day...Mr. Blythe doesn't need me, does he?”

A pump went up onto the board, three hands out to help her up into the cab.

And against their hands, the lithe figure went stiff.

“WHAT?”

At the sound of her voice breaking shrilly, TJ made quick work of pulling her back to the ground, where all saw Ursula appeared to be in a state of shock.

Her face ashen, eyes staring at nothing, mouth agape.

“Ursula? Ursula? What the hell?” TJ was snapping his fingers to no avail.

“Snap out of it! Ursula! It's Taryll! Say something!” Taryll was lightly shaking her, hoping he wouldn't have to slap her like people did in the old movies.

Faintly, Ainsley was heard shouting her name on the other end.

Snatching the phone, Taj spoke into it,

“Hey, I'm Taj, a friend of Ursula's—what's wrong? What did you tell her? Did she lose her job or...OH SHIT! What's the address? What's the address! We'll drive her right over! Fourteen Eighty-Seven Durante Way? Yeah, that's in Fontana, right? Yeah! We'll be there!”

Slamming the phone shut, Taj pointed at the car.

“Someone get Ursula into the passenger seat! Her coworker says the film lab is on fire!”

“Fire?”

“Holy Hell!”

“I'll be damned!”

Bodies sprang into action; Taryll rushing a jelly-legged Ursula around to the passenger side and squeezing in beside her pulling her close, TJ hopping into the backseat to pat at her back.

Coming out of her catatonic state, Ursula removed a lace edged handkerchief from her bag and covered her face, weeping quietly into it.

“It's okay! It's going to be okay! Please don't cry!”

The men were intoning over and over, unsure if they truly believed it themselves.

Taryll hugging her, TJ rubbing at her back and Taj steering with one hand, the other patting at the white knee covered in a sheer stocking.

On a typical day, the drive from Los Angeles to Fontana took about an hour.

With Taj Jackson, worried and with a foot of pure lead the city limits came into view in about twenty minutes.

(How they didn't crash or incur a multitude of fines was a miracle.)

Finding a map in the glove compartment and throwing it at TJ, Taj commanded he direct him on to the John Barrymore Film Preservation Laboratories.

Long before they reached the lab, a plume of black, acrid smoke was visible on the horizon.

Faces were long and solemn, now with Taryll actively covering Ursula's face with large hands to spare her the sight.

Moments later the blue coupe pulled up to a scene of utter mayhem.

A squat, square, five story building was in the process of being hosed down by two separate fire engines, a crowd of about a dozen people were at a lone ambulance being tended too and administered oxygen.

Back and forth through the open front doors, a man, White, perhaps in his early fifties, dressed in a tweed suit, plaid scarf looped around his neck was rushing with arm loads of silver film tins, depositing them into the grass just off the sidewalk and slipping past larger, beefier firemen who were doing their damndest to keep him from constantly reentering the inferno.

“Ursula!”

The Teez screeched, horrified as Ursula, seeing she was at the lab, all but kicked the car door open, stepped on Taryll like a welcome mat, and made a beeline to the man as he put down more tins.

The Teez were falling all over each other trying to catch her.

If she ran into that building, she'd be dead!

She stopped at the pile, dropping to her knees and began tearing through it, the man making several more trips, the Teez sprinting to her aid.

“It's not here! It's not here!” She was crying to herself, working herself to near hysteria, reading some of the smoke damaged labels on the tins and tossing them aside.

A few pelting her companions.

“Metropolis, Sunrise, The Godless Girl, It, Black Oxen...”

As the man returned yet again, his longish, grey streaked hair all over his head,

Taj called to him,

“Are you Mr. Blythe?”

The man, appearing bewildered by such a remark nodded and with what sounded the male equivalent of Ursula's Transatlantic Accent replied,

“Yes, I am Mr. Blythe.”

“...The Ten Commandments, Greed, Intolerance, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse...”

Never mind he bore a striking, unnerving and uncanny resemblance to the towering inferno's namesake, John Barrymore.

(Drew Barrymore's grandfather for those who don't know.)

Before Taj could speak again, Mr. Blythe's attention was drawn to the pale hand tugging relentlessly at his pant leg.

“What is it, child?”

Teary eyes up at him, Ursula could only manage one word,

“Nazimova?”

“I'm still looking, Ursula! I'm still looking, child. Have faith!”

His eyes, robin's egg blue showed craziness.

His hands were on her shoulders, caressing them.

That quickly he was gone again into the building.

“Do be careful!” She called after him, wringing her hands to near bleeding.

“Someone catch that crazy old coot, please!” A distressed fireman yelled from his perch on a ladder, “I don't wanna have to do a damn body retrieval!”

“Good God! The roof!” One of the women at the ambulance pointed and shrieked, everyone jumping back a good three feet as part of the roof over the fifth floor proceeded to collapse.

“MR. BLYTHE!!!”

Ursula shrieked, hands going to her face.

“You damn fool, don't let me catch you going in there again! It's not safe! I'll whip your ass myself.”

Across the grass, a singularly huge fireman was toting Mr. Blythe over his shoulder as easily as a feather. and dumped him in a heap at Ursula's feet.

As the firefighter stomped away, Mr. Blythe rose t his feet yelling after him,

“Barbarian! Ruffian! Heathen! How dare you manhandle me?”

The hand was shaking his wrist now.

“Calm down, child. Calm down Ursula, look.”

Reaching into his jacket, he produced a silver tin and held it at eye level for her.

“Camille, 1921. A. Nazimova. R. Valentino. Extra Footage.”

“It's okay?” Ursula whimperedshaking hands to her mouth as she blinked unable to believe the film negatives had come out unscathed.

“Oh thank God!” She cried rushing into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You saved it! All our hard work—you saved it!”

“Yes.” Mr. Blythe petted at her cheek, an action which irked the Jacksons, such a display of familiarity, but a fire was not the place to cut up.

Overwhelmed, she rose on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“There, there, it's quite alri—Ursula!”

That quickly, that easily, Ursula was out cold , falling backwards and out of Mr. Blythe's arms.

And she would have likely whacked her brains out if it weren't for Taj sliding bodily with his arms outstretched and catching her limp form, picking her up and cradling her like an infant in his arms.

Her hat blew off, leaving Taryll and TJ to race after it.

“It's okay....it's okay...” Taj cooed, cradling her, and once his brothers were out of site, kissed her smooth, hot brow.

As his lips met her forehead, he made certain to catch the eye of Mr. Blythe, hovering nearby, looking on.

The first time any of the Jacksons had kissed her, and Ursula wasn't even conscious to enjoy it!

Lying there being rocked, Ursula had no idea gears were already in motion in the mind of the man with the braids.

Ideas which were agreed upon by his two siblings.

Ideas which were to be fast-tracked in the face of this Mr. Blythe.

An idea which had been quietly brewing for weeks; awaiting the proper chance to be orchestrated, and By Golly is this hadn't been the perfect chance!

What is this grand scheme that's been percolating for oh so long?

What will happen? Will Ursula be a willing participant or otherwise?

Find out in Part Two and the shocking conclusion of “Not So Old Fashioned”

COMING SOON!