§ § § - November 19, 1983
"Ah, that's a nice young couple," Lawrence commented at sight of the man and woman, perhaps ten years or so Leslie's senior, who stepped out of the seaplane's hatch and onto the dock. They were dressed as if for a wedding or a formal banquet of some kind. "Here for a romantic holiday, I presume?"
Roarke seemed a bit pensive. "That remains to be seen, Lawrence."
"But they look so happy," the butler remarked in surprise.
"And one of them is; Mr. Gary Tucker is a very happy man. His wife, Kathleen, is another story. She's here to try to save their marriage."
"I don't follow you," Lawrence said cautiously.
"Me either," said Leslie. "Save it from what?"
"Well, you see, Mrs. Tucker has recently discovered that her husband has a mistress," Roarke explained.
"A mistress?" Lawrence repeated, and at Roarke's nod, said, "And he doesn't know he's been found out. No wonder he looks happy." Assaulted by Leslie's outraged look and Roarke's disapproving one, he added hastily, "Not that I approve."
"No, neither does Mrs. Tucker," said Roarke, straight-faced. Leslie took care to kill a grin as he went on, "Her fantasy is for her husband to make a choice between his wife and his mistress before they leave the island." Lawrence stared at him in disbelief for some reason; Leslie shook her head, unnoticed, and followed her guardian's attention back to the dock, where now they watched an older couple coming down the ramp, the woman well ahead of the man and both of them looking decidedly grim.
"What a contrast to the Tuckers," Leslie said. "They look...angry."
"Oh dear, she's right," Lawrence said in dismay. "They've come here on vacation together and they're not even speaking to each other. Doesn't bode well, does it, sir?"
Roarke gave them a reproving look. "I'm afraid you're both jumping to conclusions. The lady is Mrs. Joan Mallory, a widow from Coos Bay, Oregon; the gentleman is Mr. Alan Reynolds, a widower from Bangor, Maine. They have never seen each other before today."
"Oh, this should be interesting," Leslie said, waiting for more.
"We stand corrected," Lawrence said with a pointed look at her. "There will be no more jumping to conclusions for me, at least."
She glared at him. "My conclusion was completely different from yours, just in case you weren't sure."
"That will do," said Roarke firmly. "And thank you, Lawrence."
Upon which Lawrence offered, "I assume her fantasy is to recapture her lost youth."
Roarke's look told Leslie that Lawrence had done the very thing he had just said he wouldn't do. "No, Lawrence," he said coolly.
"No?" Lawrence looked abashed.
"No. Her fantasy is to get to know a suitable gentleman of her own age. Object: romance," Roarke said.
"Ah-ha. Then it is safe to conclude that Mrs. Mallory and Mr. Reynolds will not be strangers for very long," Lawrence ventured.
"Especially since they came here together," Leslie put in.
"Yes," Roarke agreed. "But I'm afraid Mrs. Mallory's problem cannot be solved with a mere kiss or two." Before either Leslie or Lawrence could ask for more information, Roarke's drink arrived, and he raised it in the weekly toast, while Leslie took a deep breath or two and told herself that this weekend, she and Lawrence would manage to get along with as little friction as possible...and then doubted it, yet again. Though stranger things have happened... since we've managed it before!
‡ ‡ ‡
Roarke, Leslie had long since learned, was as prone to sending Lawrence on mundane errands as he had been to doing the same to Tattoo, which was something of a relief for her. She accompanied her adoptive father, sans his butler, to a small lagoon near the hotel that had been developed over the summer and included an elegant terrace with a ceiling open to the sky and latticed walls, plus small tables meant for no more than two or three people at the most. He easily picked out the Tuckers at one of the tables, as only one or two others were occupied, and approached them with Leslie in tow as Gary Tucker arose, said something to his wife and popped a kiss on her lips before turning aside and nearly colliding with Roarke. "May I direct you somewhere, Mr. Tucker?" Roarke inquired.
Roarke's voice was cool, though still polite; but after a moment's startlement, Tucker responded with smooth aplomb. "No, thank you, Mr. Roarke." His mustache seemed, to Leslie at least, to lend his smile a slightly fake quality. "I'll find my way around." With that, he stepped around Roarke, gave Leslie a quick, dismissive nod, and left.
Roarke watched him go for a second or two, then turned to Mrs. Tucker. "May we?"
She gestured listlessly to the empty chairs, and both Roarke and Leslie sat down, taking in her dejected mien. "I hope he's not finding his way around to a phone to call her," she muttered gloomily.
Roarke regarded her with sympathy. "Why upset yourself by jumping to conclusions, Mrs. Tucker?"
"Because that's all I seem to do anymore, ever since I found about about them. When he's not with me, I'm sure he's with her, and when he is with me, I'm sure he's thinking about her." She propped her chin on her fist and stared into her drink.
Roarke glanced after the now-vanished Gary Tucker and shifted position in his chair, while Leslie folded her hands uncomfortably on the tabletop, interlacing her fingers. Roarke smiled quickly at her, then addressed their guest. "What are you willing to risk to find out the truth?" he asked with interest.
"Anything," Kathleen Tucker said immediately, with emphasis. "Anything."
"Well, then, would you and Mr. Tucker be good enough to join me in the Renaissance Garden at, uh...noon?"
She nodded. "All right."
Roarke smiled, rising. "Any member of my staff will direct you there. Will you excuse us?" He waited till Leslie had stood, then buttoned his jacket as he led the way off the terrace. She trailed along, giving them a good minute before she dared open her mouth.
"So what happens now?" she asked. "Poor Mrs. Tucker, I really feel for her."
Roarke smiled. "You have a good heart, my child. Come with me and we'll pay a little visit to another guest." More than that he wouldn't say, and she was forced to follow him to the waiting rover, from where he drove to the small lane where most of the bungalows were located and parked in front of one. He entered without knocking, to Leslie's surprise, but the woman sitting in a chair under a hair-drying helmet, with elbows resting on the chair arms and both hands raised, palms out, brightened at sight of him. "Well, Mrs. Mallory, I see your fantasy's well under way."
In response there was silence and a blank, questioning smile; Roarke hesitated, and Leslie prompted, "It's the hair dryer, Mr. Roarke. She can't hear you, it's too loud."
Roarke nodded and leaned over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees and raising his voice. "I see your fantasy has begun!"
"What?" the woman queried, blinking.
"Can you hear me, Mrs. Mallory?" Roarke asked in a near yell.
"What?" she yelled back.
Leslie snorted and looked sharply at the hairdresser, who nodded and raised the helmet back off Mrs. Mallory's head. "Thank you, Leslie," Roarke said and turned back to the guest once more. "How are you doing?"
Mrs. Mallory let out a relieved sigh and replied, "Better now that I know I'm not deaf." Roarke chuckled and straightened up, nodding in pleased approval. "Mr. Roarke, if you have a minute, I'd like to talk to you about something."
"Oh, certainly. Do you mind?" he asked of the manicurist who sat nearby; she shook her head quickly and departed, and Roarke settled himself on the stool she had been using while Leslie lingered nearby, waiting. "Ah...now." He looked at Mrs. Mallory expectantly.
"I'm starting to have second thoughts about my fantasy," she admitted.
"Oh?" Roarke prompted, surprised.
"Back home in Coos Bay, in the middle of a cold drizzle, coming to a tropical island and having a...well, a romance...it seemed like just what the doctor ordered." Roarke nodded encouragement, and Mrs. Mallory stumbled on. "But, well, now that I'm here, I feel, well, maybe...stupid. Which is an understatement."
"Is that really how you feel about it?" probed Roarke, pointed but gentle.
Mrs. Mallory smiled in concession. "I guess I can't fool you, Mr. Roarke. My real problem is, it's still too soon. My husband hasn't been dead that long."
"How long has it been?" Roarke asked, while Leslie shifted her weight uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder on a private conversation.
"Ten years," said Mrs. Mallory, freezing Leslie in place.
Even Roarke reacted to that. "Ten years?" he repeated, eyes wide with incredulity.
"Well, it wasn't exactly yesterday," Mrs. Mallory began in concession, but just then there was a knock on the door and all three of them looked around. The door opened and Lawrence came in, followed by two young men toting a collection of eight or ten dresses on a rolling hanger bar.
"Here are the dresses for Mrs. Mallory's perusal, sir," Lawrence announced, actually rolling the R in dresses. Leslie had to squelch another smile.
"Excellent, Lawrence, excellent," said Roarke. He turned to Mrs. Mallory. "May I suggest that these gowns would be a wonderful addition to your wardrobe." As he spoke, Lawrence removed the first two from the rack and held them up to show them off. "That is, if you decide to go ahead with your fantasy."
Mrs. Mallory got up to stare at the dresses with shocked wonder. "These gowns—they'll be my wardrobe?"
Roarke nodded. "Indeed!"
"Give it a try, Mrs. Mallory," Leslie suggested. "I mean, you've already started getting the makeover. Why stop the fun right in the middle like that?"
Mrs. Mallory studied her in sheer surprise, then giggled, sounding surprisingly girlish. "Well, young Leslie, I think you've just convinced me. Let's go for it, Mr. Roarke—on with the fantasy!"
They all laughed, and Roarke went back to get the hairstylist and the manicurist while Lawrence helped Mrs. Mallory settle back into the chair and even replace the dryer helmet over her head, and Leslie showed the lady each gown individually. It already looked, she thought, as if at least one fantasy would be a success after all.
Roarke came back out with the two salon employees and nodded to Lawrence and Leslie. "I suggest we leave Mrs. Mallory to her makeover, and make a few rounds. Leslie and I have an appointment at lunchtime, and Lawrence, I would appreciate it if you would kindly collect supply inventory from the hotel, the supper club, the restaurant, and the bar at the swimming pool. I also need the weekly report from each of the marinas."
"Consider it done, sir," Lawrence said and departed. Leslie grinned at Mrs. Mallory before following Roarke out of the bungalow.
Not an hour later, she and Roarke were speaking with a couple of vacationers on the lagoon terrace at the hotel, answering a question they had had, when the selfsame Mrs. Mallory arrived at the entrance, looking quite unlike the somewhat drably dressed woman who had stepped off the plane that morning; in fact she appeared to have shed a good ten years. Roarke caught sight of her, excused himself and left Leslie behind to finish answering the question; she did so, a little bit on autopilot, but managed to retain enough presence of mind to ask if they had further questions before obtaining her release and joining Roarke. As she came within earshot, she heard Mrs. Mallory remark, "I don't even feel like me! And this..." She fingered the ruffled placket of her cheerful red blouse. "This is very nice."
"Oh, it's better than nice," Roarke assured her with a smile, and Leslie nodded agreement. On Mrs. Mallory's beam, Roarke offered her an arm and added, "And now, there is someone I would like you to meet. May I?"
Mrs. Mallory slipped her arm through Roarke's and let him lead her to a table, where a man sat alone, facing away from them with his gaze trained across the water. Roarke stopped Mrs. Mallory beside the empty chair and made the introductions: "Mrs. Joan Mallory, Mr. Alan Reynolds."
Reynolds immediately arose and reached out for her hand; they peered at each other in surprise and asked in perfect chorus, "Don't I know you?" With that they both laughed, and Roarke chuckled with them while Leslie grinned.
"Even if you don't, I'm sure you'll both get acquainted in no time," Roarke said warmly. "Will you excuse me?"
"I'll see you later, Mr. Roarke," Reynolds said, and Mrs. Mallory thanked him as he collected Leslie and headed for the terrace entrance. Leslie glanced back once to see the pair take seats, and grinned hopefully.
"They'll probably figure out they were both on the morning plane," she said. "Either way, I really hope it works out for them. They both looked kind of...blue, I guess, coming off the plane. I mean...I know I said angry, but now that I look back, I guess they were just not very happy for some reason. Loneliness, maybe."
"Quite likely," Roarke agreed. "I suggest you take the opportunity to change your clothes before we go to our lunch appointment with Mrs. Tucker; we've been running around a good bit today, and I think you might prefer to freshen up a bit."
‡ ‡ ‡
Leslie decided on an all-white dress with clean lines and a simple cut, rather than the usual somewhat frilly, country-girl look that was fairly popular at the moment and was the style of her usual weekend outfits. Roarke had given her a gold chain necklace for her birthday six months before, and she put this on before emerging into the study and joining him for their walk to the long grassy promenade. As they emerged from a path onto the verdant expanse, they could see the Tuckers just being seated at a table; a moment later Lawrence drew up beside them and followed their gazes. "What a nice-looking couple," he said.
"Yes," Roarke agreed.
"Let's hope they stay that way," said Leslie through a heavy sigh.
Roarke smiled at her, then turned to Lawrence. "And Miss Sinclair...did you extend my invitation?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir—she's on her way now," Lawrence reported.
"Good," said Roarke, while Leslie wondered who Miss Sinclair was.
"If you don't mind, sir, I checked on the lady, and Miss Sinclair does not seem to appear on any of our lists as having put in a request for a fantasy," Lawrence remarked.
"We get just regular vacationers too, you know," Leslie informed him.
"Yes, Lawrence, I know, I know...and Leslie is right," Roarke said.
"That may be, sir, but then why is she here?"
"Because she is Mr. Tucker's mistress," said Roarke, as if it should have been obvious.
Leslie stared at him; Lawrence's eyes popped for a brief half-second before he asked in surprise, "The mistress of that Mr. Tucker?"
This time, to Leslie's amazement, it was Roarke who provided the mildly sarcastic response: "I believe there is only one Mr. Tucker registered with us...isn't that so, Lawrence?"
Lawrence looked a bit chastened, nodding confirmation, and again Leslie had to bite back a grin. Then Roarke glanced past Lawrence, and Leslie looked around to see a pretty woman with hair the color of tarnished gold join them. "Ah, Miss Sinclair."
"You must be Mr. Roarke," she said, smiling brightly and shaking hands.
He gave her a slight bow. "Welcome to Fantasy Island."
"Well, thank you for the intriguing invitation," Miss Sinclair said.
"You are most welcome," Roarke responded.
She studied Roarke with a smile that Leslie couldn't help reading as a bit calculating. "And you still promise me that 'mysteriously unforgettable weekend' you spoke of?"
"Absolutely. It will begin if you will come right this way." Roarke reached for Miss Sinclair's hand and started to escort the woman toward the Tuckers' table, just as Leslie had feared he would do.
Lawrence caught him before he could go. "Uh, but sir...don't you think it's a bit crowded over there?"
"It will be, by at least one," Roarke said, making Lawrence and Leslie look at each other in consternation. "Miss Sinclair..." And off they went, with Leslie and Lawrence trailing behind, neither of them very sanguine about the encroaching situation.
"Mr. Roarke," Miss Sinclair said after a moment, "I love fun and games as much as anyone else...but I do like to know what game I'm playing. What's this about?"
"A marriage, Miss Sinclair. Uh, no...more precisely, a triangle, and the bringing together of the principal players."
She let out an amused grunt. "You sound like you need a social worker, or a stage manager. But not me, Mr. Roarke. I mean, where would I fit in?"
"Unfortunately," said Roarke, "in the middle." And before the woman could ask what he meant by that, they had reached the table they were aiming for, and Roarke performed the introductions: "Mrs. Kathleen Tucker, I would like you to meet Miss Helen Sinclair."
The reactions made Leslie flinch back a step or two: Helen's mouth dropped open; Tucker blurted, "Helen!" and Helen gasped, "Gary..." Kathleen bolted to her feet and exclaimed in indignant disbelief, "Helen!?"
"And now, if you'll excuse us, we must welcome the afternoon plane," said Roarke, in a gracious voice that carried the smallest undertone of satisfaction. "Will you excuse us?" He nodded to Leslie, who was only too happy to leave. Lawrence fell into step behind them without hesitation.
"I do believe you've done it now, sir," he remarked when they were at enough of a distance to reasonably assume they were out of earshot.
"Done what?" asked Roarke.
"Invited a lawsuit, I daresay," said Lawrence direly.
Leslie chanced a peek over one shoulder and noticed that Helen Sinclair had run off and was just now vanishing on the other side of the greensward; Kathleen whipped around and walked away even as she watched. "I think I might be inclined to agree," she admitted, hoping she didn't sound too reluctant.
Roarke gave them each a look that seemed faintly amused but mostly just mysterious. "Do you indeed? Well, we'll see," he said, entirely too serenely for Leslie's comfort, and continued to stroll down the path. Leslie and Lawrence looked at each other, but neither said a word; the walk back to the main house was silent, and so was their subsequent drive to the plane dock.