A/N: The first in a series of tales that provide a little extra backstory for Leslie. This and the next half-dozen stories all take place between the stories Trial by Fire and Homecoming/Stowaway which were posted under the "MagicSwede1965" pen name. (Incidentally, after Trial by Fire was posted, I began printing the assorted stories and turning them into my own private books; and because I wanted to transcribe my favorite episodes—and some of them had aired before Leslie supposedly came to the island—I moved the date of her arrival back a year. So if you reread Trial by Fire, just pretend the date says 1979 instead of 1980…!)
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§ § § -- February 16, 1979
Tattoo was a kindhearted man; and when he noticed Leslie's pensive expression as she and Roarke came in the door, he stopped what he was doing to offer her an ear. "Something on your mind?" he asked Leslie, while Roarke was diverted by the ringing telephone.
Leslie paused and eyed him, looking undecided, as if she wasn't sure whether she felt comfortable enough to confide in him. Finally she asked a little plaintively, "Do I have to start school right away? Like tomorrow? I don't know if I'm ready."
Tattoo studied her in surprise. "Well, the boss might let you wait a couple of days, since you've just arrived here and spent the whole weekend trying to break that curse on your family. And you really haven't had any time to move in here yet."
"I hope so," Leslie admitted. "I don't have any clothes that would really be suitable for school anyway. And that reminds me…my duffel is still in that bungalow." She bit her lip in sudden anxiety. "I'll have to find a way to pay for all the damage that fire caused, won't I?"
Tattoo actually laughed, evoking a shocked look from Leslie. "I think you're worrying too much, Leslie. It's not the first time a bungalow's caught fire because of a fantasy, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Think about it—would you rather live with a curse the rest of your life just because some fire damage was done to a bungalow?" She reddened sheepishly, and he grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Pretty silly, right?"
Leslie shrugged self-consciously. "I guess it is. Do you think Mr. Roarke'll see it that way though?" Doubt gleamed out of her eyes, and Tattoo regarded her in silence for a minute or two, wondering what lay behind her fear and uncertainty beyond the still-recent loss of her family and her transition to Fantasy Island.
"Don't worry, Leslie," he finally said, certain the words were lame and clichéd but having no better reassurance for her. It would take time for her to settle in and learn to trust him and Roarke enough to open up and let them help her. "The boss won't be mad at you, because it wasn't your fault. You've broken your family's curse, and that's what really matters, you know. Go on back and get your bag before it gets too dark, okay?"
She nodded and turned away, leaving the house with her head hanging, plainly in doubt of his words. Tattoo watched her go and shook his head to himself, then grew aware that Roarke had been discoursing on the phone at some length by now. He shifted his attention to the conversation, wondering who could have managed to trap his boss on the line for so long.
"Oh, I understand that you mean well," Roarke said presently, "but I suspect she isn't quite ready yet. She has barely arrived here and just gone through a harrowing weekend, and hasn't even chosen a room for herself. Incidentally, how exactly did you find out about all this?" Roarke listened for a moment, then smiled wryly. "Ah, I see." That was when he noticed Tattoo watching. "One moment, please. Do you need something, Tattoo?"
"Who's been bending your ear all this time?" Tattoo inquired.
Roarke's mouth quirked again with a half-smile. "The newspaper," he said, taking care to cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with one hand before he spoke. "It appears that we have an extremely efficient grapevine on the island. They have heard that Leslie is to live with me, and want to run a story about it."
"Zut alors," said Tattoo, rolling his eyes. "She's in no shape to withstand some nosy reporter asking stupid questions. She's already dealing with too much as it is."
Interest leaped to life in Roarke's gaze. "Indeed?" he prompted.
Tattoo nodded firmly. "She'd probably…" Then he hesitated as an idea occurred to him, and he reconsidered. "Wait a minute. If we let the newspaper tell her story, she might not have people all over the island asking her questions…not to mention kids in school. How many times would you want to tell people you watched your family die in a horrible fire and couldn't do anything about it? It might not really be anyone's business, but you know human nature. People like to ask questions about things they have no real right to know about. You and I can be there to make sure the reporter doesn't pry too much, and try to control how he tells the story. You know, not let him make it too sensational."
Roarke mulled this over briefly, then smiled a little. "You have a very good point, my friend," he said warmly. "Perhaps it's not as ill-advised as I was inclined to believe. Very well, as long as Leslie doesn't mind, we'll go through with it." He got back on the line and made the arrangements, stressing that the whole thing was predicated on Leslie's agreement to be interviewed. "I will notify you as soon as she decides," he said, and with that made his farewells and hung up.
"I sure hope she won't mind," Tattoo remarked.
The door opened just as he started to speak, and Leslie came in with her duffel bag. "Who won't mind what?" she asked.
Roarke smiled once more. "The Fantasy Island Chronicle, our sole newspaper, has requested an interview with you. Somehow they heard that I have managed to acquire a ward, and they think it would make a good story. I told them they might do so, pending your agreement."
Leslie blinked in amazement. "Why on earth would anyone be interested in what happened to me? Or is it just because it involves you?" She directed this last at Roarke.
"One thing I am afraid you will have to learn to live with," Roarke said with a sigh, "is the fact that, being owner and chief magistrate of Fantasy Island—not to mention island lord mayor and final authority—I bear a particular notoriety among the islanders. A certain amount of that will transfer to you, since I am your guardian and you will be living here with me. Tattoo suffers the same kind of attention, since he is my assistant and essentially second in command here." He caught Tattoo's puzzled look and turned to him curiously. "What's wrong, my friend?"
"Who said I suffer from attention like that?" Tattoo asked in genuine surprise. "I kinda like it myself."
Leslie giggled, attracting both Roarke's and Tattoo's attention and evoking warm smiles from them simultaneously. Playing along, Roarke gave an exaggerated sigh, directed his gaze to the ceiling and said, "All right, then, perhaps Tattoo doesn't necessarily suffer the attention. Come to think of it, I believe he takes all possible advantage of it…not that it is necessarily beneficial." Tattoo made a disgruntled face and Leslie laughed; Roarke, smiling broadly, steered the conversation back on course. "At any rate, it's Tattoo's belief that, having once told your story to the newspaper, you may be spared constant questioning each time you meet someone new. As Tattoo has noted, people have a way of prying into affairs that don't concern them, generally out of curiosity. An interview would satisfy said curiosity and perhaps allow you to go about the business of making a place for yourself here, both at home and at school."
Leslie winced when he said the word "school"; Roarke and Tattoo both noticed and looked at each other, but no one pursued the topic. She stood giving careful consideration to the idea of talking to the newspaper, and finally looked up with a slight frown. "I guess it'd be okay…except maybe…" Roarke waited, his expression encouraging her to continue, but she ultimately shied away from the subject. "All right, I guess so. When do they want to have the interview?"
"Undoubtedly as soon as we allow it," Roarke said dryly. "Let me call them back and set it up, and then it's time for you to choose a room for yourself."
The interview was set for about two the next afternoon, to Leslie's surprise. When Roarke hung up, he turned to her and said, "I realize you have just had quite an exhausting weekend, and you have been through enough upheaval for the moment. I see no harm in putting off enrolling you in school until a week from tomorrow, especially since we will need a chance to take you shopping for suitable school clothing."
Leslie was so relieved that in spite of her best intentions, it showed on her face, and Roarke chuckled softly. "Come along and see the rooms upstairs, child."
To the right of the study as one faced it from the foyer, there was a set of dark, highly polished wooden stairs leading to the second floor, and a closed door stood just at the foot of the steps. "What's that room?" Leslie asked, pointing at the door.
"The boss uses it sometimes to start off fantasies," Tattoo told her as the three started to climb the steps. "Especially when it's a time-travel fantasy."
Leslie gasped and turned so sharply to stare at Roarke that she nearly missed one step, and Roarke had to catch her arm to prevent a tumble. "You can send people back in time, Mr. Roarke? Do you do it a lot?"
"It's not uncommon," Roarke said indulgently. "Perhaps once or twice a month, someone wishes to see the past. There will be time later for you to ask questions, young lady. The first order of business is giving you a room of your own."
At the top of the steps they paused in a short hallway. To the right was another closed door, which Roarke informed Leslie was his own room; directly across from the top of the stairway was a bathroom, with a linen closet to the immediate right of its doorway. At the other end of the hall from Roarke's room, and at their left, were the two vacant rooms from which Leslie was to choose. "This one first, perhaps," Roarke said, opening the door to the room at their left. Leslie tentatively poked her head inside and stared in wonder.
This room was the one housed inside the dormer that was visible from the lane that ran past the house. It gave Leslie a sense of her native New England, with its sloping ceiling and cozy feel. It was painted sunshine yellow and boasted wall-to-wall carpeting built-in bookshelves in the back right corner, a spacious closet and a window seat in the dormer. Beneath the seat were built-in drawers. The only furniture was a full-size canopy bed that needed making up. "This one's really pretty," Leslie said appreciatively.
"It's not very large," Tattoo said. "You might want the other room instead."
They moved down to the room at the left end of the hallway; this one had a fairly high ceiling, but was actually a little smaller than the dormer room. On the far end was a glass door that led to a screened-in porch, from which Leslie could just see a set of stairs descending into the clearing at the side of the house. Along with this door, there was a tiny round window fitted with stained glass. There was no furniture in here at all, although there were a few boxes stacked along one wall. Leslie looked around, bit her lip thoughtfully and turned back to Roarke. "I like the first room," she said decisively.
"Then it's yours," Roarke told her and squeezed her shoulder. "It's nearly dinnertime, and Mariki should still be here. I'll see to it that she prepares the bed for you."
"Mariki's the housemaid," Tattoo explained to Leslie. "The boss is thinking of taking her on as the cook, too, after our current one retires. She's a little touchy sometimes, but she's a very good worker. She'll like you."
Leslie dropped her duffel bag just inside the doorway of her new bedroom and followed Roarke and Tattoo down the stairs again; this time they continued out onto the veranda, where a table had been set up. It was full dark outside, but there was enough moonlight to lend the scene an enchanted aura. The table was situated at a corner of the porch that was rounded off gazebo-style underneath a slightly elevated ceiling; over their heads a fan rotated lazily, and three attached lights with ornate etched-glass globes case a cheery glow on their repast. The three took seats and the cook brought out a cart that bore a number of covered trays.
Most of the conversation throughout supper consisted of business talk from Roarke and Tattoo; Leslie, too new to be able to follow any of it just yet, simply listened while she ate and tried to remember as much as possible of what her new guardian and his assistant spoke of. Knowing what she did about her new home, she wanted to be part of the wonderful, fascinating business of making dreams come to life; but she was so uncertain, felt so out of place, that she dared not broach the subject. Roarke still intimidated her, even though she was growing to like him; Tattoo, while more approachable, made her feel much the same. Eventually Leslie tuned out the conversation without realizing it, losing herself in self-doubt, a little fear, and a lot of apprehension about the immediate future.
"Dessert, anyone?" inquired a voice, and Leslie was jolted out of her uneasy reverie by the sight of the cook with her cart. She saw several tempting choices, but held back all the same, waiting for Roarke or Tattoo to speak first.
"Sorry, not this evening," Tattoo said. "I guess I've eaten enough. Boss, do you want me to start the wheels rolling on getting that bungalow repaired, or wait till tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is soon enough," Roarke said. "The damage isn't overwhelming, so we may be able to use it as soon as next weekend." To the cook he added, "Would there be any flan this evening?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Roarke," the cook replied and produced a bowl from the cart, setting it in front of Roarke.
"Thank you," said Roarke, turning to Leslie. "And what about you, then?"
Leslie sat up as straight as she could in her chair, trying to see everything on the cart. "Is that cheesecake on the end?" she asked hopefully, in a small voice.
"It certainly is!" the cook said. "Is that your choice?" Leslie nodded, and the cook cheerfully presented her with a plate.
"By the way, this is our cook, Mana'olana," Roarke told her. "Mana'olana, my new ward, Leslie Hamilton. She arrived just yesterday morning."
"Welcome to the island, Leslie," the cook said with a broad smile. She was older, Leslie saw now, and considerably overweight; she looked like someone's beloved grandmother. She smiled shyly back.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Tattoo excused himself and left the table while Mana'olana wheeled her cart back to the kitchen, leaving Leslie alone at the table with her guardian. A nervous lump popped into life in her stomach, but she ate the delicious cheesecake anyway, not wanting to waste it.
Unable to stand it, she finally slanted a cautious glance at Roarke. "Are you sure that bungalow can be fixed?" she asked in a tiny voice.
Roarke gave her a glance of sudden surprise. "Of course it can, Leslie," he said. "Why do you ask?"
"I…I'll help if I can," she said, pushing the words out through her growing timidity. "I know I can't do very much, but at least I could paint or something."
Roarke stopped eating and turned in his chair enough to face her. His face was full of amused incredulity, and his dark eyes twinkled. "Don't tell me that you have been worrying about that bungalow all evening!"
Her face grew hot and she hunched her shoulders, barely able to meet his gaze now. "Well, I…" she mumbled and finally hung her head, feeling thoroughly stupid.
Roarke carefully stifled a laugh and lay a hand over hers. "There is absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself over it," he said, kindly but firmly. "The damage was not your fault; indeed, if it hadn't been for that fire, you would still be under the weight of that curse. We have had bungalow fires before in the course of granting fantasies, and I dare say there are many more such fires in the future. We have an excellent repair crew who know exactly what to do and how to get it done in the shortest time possible. And if it's money you're worried about, let me assure you that expenses are carefully calculated to cover precisely this sort of contingency." He slipped two fingers under her chin and lifted her head so that she was forced to look up at him. "Your concerns lie in other directions, my child, and I suggest you turn your mind to those. After all, you need to think about what sort of clothes you would like for school; and you must be ready to learn some of the fundamentals of this business if you're truly interested in helping Tattoo and me."
Her face was full of such shock that he stopped trying to reassure her and simply stared, all levity fading from his features. "It…doesn't matter?" she finally whispered, clearly stunned. "All that damage, and you're not mad?"
"Of course not," Roarke said. "As I have already told you, it wasn't your fault."
Leslie blinked at him in disbelief. "Wow," she said without thinking, partly to him and partly to herself, "you sure aren't like my stupid father…" She caught herself short, flashed him one horrified glance and sprang to her feet fast enough that her chair would have overturned if the porch railing hadn't been there to stop it. "Excuse me," she gasped and fled the veranda in a panic.
Roarke let her go, amazement and concern fighting for precedence within him. The memory of Shannon Hamilton's fantasy returned once more, reminding him of the final vision during which he had realized the girl was afraid of her father. But there was more to it than fear, he understood now. He knew Leslie didn't yet feel comfortable enough to talk freely with him; but one day soon, she would have to open up if she was to heal completely from her emotional wounds.