§ § § -- December 12, 1992
Roarke and Leslie had just finished breakfast when they heard running footsteps, and looked around in time to see one of the Ichino quadruplets skid to a stop in the lane at the edge of the grassy strip in front of the main house. "Miss Leslie, you're not going to use that post to ring the bell, are you?" Jonathan Ichino asked breathlessly.
Leslie and Roarke looked at each other in surprise. "I always do that, Jonathan, why?" she asked.
"Could I do it?" he pleaded unexpectedly.
"Don't tell me," Leslie said, resigned and amused at the same time. "You and the other quads are still looking for ways to earn Christmas money."
"Yeah, and since the girls and Jeremy didn't think of it, I didn't want to let 'em get ahead of me," Jonathan explained. "I won't charge much. Five bucks a Saturday…and I get to climb into the bell tower."
"Well, I don't know if that's very wise," Roarke said. "No one has been in the tower for a very long time, and I am not sure what sort of condition it's in." Jonathan looked crestfallen, and he smiled. "We do appreciate the thought, however."
Leslie grinned. "But since you're standing there, go ahead and push the button on the post. I'll still give you five dollars." Jonathan brightened a bit, went to the post and pressed the button, setting off the familiar clanging from the bell tower. Within seconds employees began streaming along the lane, heading for the plane dock.
"That's really cool," Jonathan remarked, watching them go. "But I still wish I could go into the tower and ring the bell from there."
Leslie laughed. "Tattoo used to do that—Camille's probably told you, since I know you guys are a little young to remember when he was here. Would you be willing to shout that the plane's on its way if you went up there?"
"Oh yeah, for sure!" Jonathan said enthusiastically.
Roarke joined in Leslie's laughter this time. "We'll see, Jonathan. In the meantime, I think you'd better get back home before your family realizes you're gone and sends out a search party. Leslie and I must get to the plane dock ourselves."
"Okay, but please let me know if I can ring it again next weekend from the tower," the boy said, grinning and finally running off across the lawn and down a trail. Roarke and Leslie, still chuckling, made their way to the end of the veranda and down to meet the car that pulled up in front of them.
Their first fantasy that weekend was one of the stock-in-trade varieties, namely a college student who wanted to be a rock star; and as it happened, this was fortunate, for the second fantasy turned out to be something else again. "If that guy isn't a lumberjack, I'll eat my metaphorical hat," Leslie said, watching the towering, brawny brown-haired man stride down the landing dock with a huge grin on his face.
"You're actually not very far off the mark," Roarke observed. "That's Mr. Timothy Ashcroft, who hails from Talkeetna, Alaska. He works on the oil pipeline there."
"Alaska!" said Leslie, impressed. "We don't get many from there—and you'd think we would, on account of the climate and all. So what's his fantasy, besides having a couple of days to thaw out?"
Roarke smiled. "Oh, weather is quite unimportant to him," he said, "and you'll understand why when I tell you that his fantasy is to be a woman."
His smile grew into a grin when Leslie turned slowly and stared at him as if he'd uttered something in Hindu. "Would you mind repeating that?"
"Only for the weekend, of course—but you heard me correctly," Roarke said, enjoying her reaction. "You see, Mr. Ashcroft has been in love with a particular woman for several years now, and has asked her twice to marry him; but she has turned him down on both occasions. According to him, she told him that he will never understand just what it is a woman really wants. The very few women he knows through his occupation, needless to say, have not cooperated with him in his quest to find the answer to his girlfriend's charge. So he has come to the conclusion that the only way to gain the knowledge he seeks is by being a woman—and therefore, he has come to us."
"Oh," Leslie murmured, still a little stunned by the whole concept. "Well, I guess I have to give him points for trying, but he's in for an awful lot of embarrassment."
Roarke gave her a quizzical look, then realized what she meant. "Ah, Leslie, my child, you misunderstand. Mr. Ashcroft does not want to assume the guise of a woman; he wishes to actually become one."
Leslie stared at him, staggered anew. "Oh my God. I can't wait to see how you're going to pull this one off."
Roarke favored her with that mysterious smile of his that never failed to mildly exasperate her, then turned to accept his drink and lifted it in salute. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" he proclaimed cordially. Leslie peered at Timothy Ashcroft, who raised a tall glass full of bright-green beverage in return toast. Did he look excited, or just terrified?
‡ ‡ ‡
About ten o'clock, the door opened and Timothy Ashcroft—now clad in shorts, sandals and a bright yellow T-shirt that read Talkeetna Pipeliners—ventured into the foyer, looking curiously around the room. Roarke and Leslie, at the desk, saw him at the same time, and Roarke spoke up. "Please come in, Mr. Ashcroft."
"Oh…thanks, Mr. Roarke." Ashcroft had to be something like six feet five inches tall; his voice, deep and resonant, suited his height. Leslie watched him step into the study and fold himself into one of the club chairs, looking a little uncomfortable. "This place is something else again. The travel agency had some brochures, but pictures don't do it justice."
"I am very pleased," Roarke said with appreciative warmth. "Well, Mr. Ashcroft, perhaps you would be willing to fill me in on just how you decided upon requesting this fantasy of us. To say the least, it's quite unusual, and I admit to curiosity."
Ashcroft grinned sheepishly. "I can't blame you there, Mr. Roarke. Well, I guess I'm what you might call a real man's man. Born and raised in Talkeetna, four brothers, played high-school and college sports, went right to work for the pipeline once I got my degree…the usual drill, I suppose. Men still outnumber women in Alaska, so I guess I was pretty lucky to find Heather—my girlfriend. I'm trying to make her my fiancée, but she keeps turning me down. And I can't quite figure out why, Mr. Roarke. I make decent money and I can provide a good home for her. I know women like mushy romantic stuff and all, so I've tried to win Heather over every way I can think of. Nice restaurants, flowers on Valentine's Day, jewelry on her birthday, gift certificates to her favorite clothing stores on Christmas…well, I guess you get the picture. But she doesn't seem to think that's enough."
"I see," Roarke said, although his tone indicated he didn't. He studied Ashcroft for a moment, then said, "Perhaps there is something you're not telling me."
Ashcroft sat up. "I'm trying to be forthright, Mr. Roarke, really. But I don't know what you're talking about."
Roarke settled back in his chair and glanced at Leslie. "If my daughter doesn't mind, perhaps you would demonstrate a typical date with Heather, using Leslie as a stand-in of sorts, so that I can get a better idea of what you wish to learn."
Leslie shrugged. "Whatever's necessary."
Ashcroft eyed her and grinned in appreciation. "Well, this won't be too hard. Maybe the best thing is to pretend we're going to a nice restaurant."
"That might be easier out on the porch," Leslie suggested. "We have a table out there where we eat most of our meals. Is that all right, Father?"
Roarke nodded and arose along with Leslie and Ashcroft; he noted that their guest opened the door for Leslie and ushered her through first. On the veranda, Roarke stood aside, watching, while Ashcroft pulled out a chair for Leslie and then sat down himself. Next he pantomimed lifting a menu and pretended to scan his choices, then turned to Roarke and hailed him. "Waiter! I'd like the T-bone, and the lady will have grilled sole." Roarke raised an eyebrow but joined in the impromptu staging, pantomiming placing plates on their table. Leslie sat watching in silence, her expression neutral.
"Wine, sir?" Roarke inquired with all seriousness.
"Chateaubriand," Ashcroft said immediately. Roarke went through the motions of pouring from an imaginary bottle, then stepped back to observe.
"This is a great place, Heather," Ashcroft said enthusiastically to Leslie. "It's my favorite restaurant in the entire city. Their sole's pretty darn good, although I prefer the T-bone myself. Go ahead and try the wine. Good stuff, huh?"
Leslie pretended to lift a wineglass and took a "sip" from it, then nodded. "Not bad," she said, deciding on the spur of the moment to experiment, "but I really would've rather had Riesling."
Ashcroft flapped a hand at her in dismissal. "Naaah, Chateaubriand's better. Hey, y'know what Craig said the other day at work?…" He carried on nearly nonstop for about two straight minutes before Leslie cleared her throat delicately.
"Pretty funny story," she said. "It reminds me of something that happened the other day at the office, when…"
"Oh geez, I forgot—I wanted them to leave the wine bottle," Ashcroft interrupted her. "Where's the waiter?" He looked around as if no one else was in sight, thus missing the look Roarke and Leslie exchanged. Ashcroft, still peering around for the imaginary waiter, began to tell another anecdote at the same time.
This time Roarke interrupted. "Excuse me, Mr. Ashcroft, I believe that is sufficient. Why don't we go back inside?"
Ashcroft blinked in surprise and got out of the chair. "Oh, yeah. I guess I got a little carried away there. How'd I do?"
Leslie grinned. "Are you involved with your local theater group?" she bantered. "That was quite an act you put on."
The tall Alaskan laughed. "Yeah, actually I am. It's kind of a side diversion," he said. "So did you get an idea of what's happening?"
"I daresay I have enough to go on," Roarke said. "Have you ever given the lady a chance to state her preferences before you…take charge?"
Ashcroft stopped short and stared at him. "Huh?"
"You ordered for her without asking what she might like; you chose the wine, and when she suggested she might prefer something else, you waved aside her comment. And you dominated the dinner conversation. When she did manage to get a word in edgewise, you interrupted her, perhaps without really listening to her."
"Do you do that to Heather?" Leslie asked gently. "Maybe she'd rather have a different wine or an entrée of her own choosing."
Ashcroft blinked. "Oh. Well…I never really thought about it. I mean…Heather never complains, anyway. Which is why I thought everything was hunky-dory."
"Does she live in Talkeetna too?" Leslie asked.
"Sure. She's not a native, though—she moved from Albuquerque in high school. She still complains about all the snow, and I can tell she doesn't like the cold too much. She might not be cut out for life in Alaska, but I want her to like it there, so I really try to show her the good side of my home state." Ashcroft trailed Roarke and Leslie inside, discoursing all the while. "And when the weather stinks—which I admit is pretty often, especially this time of year—I try to protect her from it. I got her the warmest parka and boots I could find, made by the Inuit—if anyone knows how to handle Alaska winters, they do. I always walk with her so she doesn't slip on the ice or anything. I'm building a real nice, snug house so she'll be protected from the cold, and I've got all the furniture and décor on order, and…" He went on for some time, with his hosts listening patiently, until Roarke held up one hand and finally silenced him.
"Please forgive me for my interruption," he said kindly, "but I believe you would like to get on with your fantasy, would you not? It would appear we have all the information we need to understand why you feel that actually becoming a woman for a weekend would give you better insight on the feminine gender."
"Oh, good," said Ashcroft, looking a little confused but giving in with good nature. "In that case, what happens next?"