§ § § - December 6, 1980

"You know," Leslie said at lunch, "I think you really goofed on that potion, Mr. Roarke. Why would you leave it so that you could see the person who took it? It's lucky for you Miss Winkler didn't realize you could see her in the...well, in her birthday suit."

"She should have realized it," Tattoo said with great indignation, which Leslie suspected stemmed from his disappointment at not being able to see Harriet in that state himself, rather than from any outrage on Harriet's behalf. "I can't believe she didn't. She should have known you could see her the second you gave her that handkerchief without having to ask her where she was standing."

"Well, she didn't," Leslie said. "I can't believe it either, but she didn't. I guess she was either too distracted by her mission, or just too cold from the air conditioning. Either way, you really got lucky, Mr. Roarke. But why would you do that?"

Roarke had been watching them with something like resignation in his dark eyes, and released a sigh. "Are you two quite finished?" he inquired, his tone arid.

Tattoo shrugged; Leslie made a face. "Not really—I've got some other questions for you too. But that one's really bugging me. All the time you spent messing with that stuff since Tattoo drank it by accident last spring, and you couldn't have made it work so that clothes would be invisible too? I mean, it did back then."

"Try as I might, no," said Roarke with a touch of sarcastic impatience. "As you have observed, Leslie Susan, I worked on the potion throughout the summer and fall, but nothing I could do would eliminate or change that particular quirk. I simply had to accept that if I didn't want the guest to remain invisible for inconveniently long periods, that little defect must remain. If I'd had more time, I might have found some way to correct it; unfortunately, you scheduled Miss Winkler's fantasy for this weekend, and I ran out of time to experiment with it any further."

Leslie sighed. "Oh, all right. I guess at least it's a good thing you're the only one who can still see the person who takes the potion. But what I really want to know now is, why couldn't you see Tattoo after he took it?"

"Tattoo drank the potion in its earliest experimental stage," Roarke said. "It was too strong in that form. I have good reasons for preferring to see the person who uses the potion, which I trust I need not go into merely to satisfy your overwhelming curiosity. In any case, I have no intentions of tinkering with the formula any further; there are far too many other matters requiring attention to allow me to spend time continually trying to refine it. It will simply have to serve in its present iteration. Now, if the two of you would kindly cease excoriating me for something I cannot alter, I would greatly appreciate it."

Tattoo shrugged and sighed, and Leslie gave in with some reluctance. "It just seemed really intrusive, that's all." She fielded Roarke's warning look and raised both hands in surrender. "Sorry. But you..." She turned to Tattoo. "So are you ashamed yet?"

"Over what?" Roarke asked when Tattoo shot her a dirty look.

"He was mad that he couldn't see Miss Winkler in the altogether too," she said.

Roarke shook his head. "Tattoo," he scolded mildly. "As I'm sure you are well aware, I have equally good reasons for not allowing you to see our guests in that state."

"You know, you never let me have any fun around here," Tattoo groused. "I never get to have a drink with the guests, I don't get to see the ladies who use invisible potions, and I can't have my favorite fantasy about becoming rich. Maybe if I actually paid for a fantasy like that, you might let me do some of that stuff."

"You're disqualified," Leslie said. "You're an employee."

Roarke laughed. "That's quite enough, Leslie. Have you two finished eating? We need to go to the pool and check on things there."

Once there, they settled at a small round table covered with a fire-engine-red cloth, and Roarke ordered a drink which he pointedly made nonalcoholic when he noticed Tattoo gearing up to protest again about being forbidden to imbibe. However, before Roarke could take the first sip, Harriet Winkler herself accosted them, calling his name; he arose and greeted her before taking in her distraught expression. "You look unhappy! Please sit down, won't you?" He gestured at the nearest empty chair, which Harriet took, and inquired with concern, "Isn't your fantasy going well?"

"Oh...to tell the truth, Mr. Roarke, I feel like such a sneak." On Roarke's quizzical look, she groaned, "My fantasy was selfish and self-centered...and I deserve what I got." She looked over at a nearby umbrella-shaded table, where an agitated Denny Palumbo was knocking back a fresh drink. "Denny doesn't deserve what I gave him. I've gotta make it right somehow!"

"Make what right, Miss Winkler?" Roarke asked, confused.

"Please, Mr. Roarke—let Denny play the Fantasy Island Playhouse as a solo act!"

Tattoo spoke up then, reminding Roarke, "Boss, the contracts call for an ensemble act." Roarke nodded confirmation.

"That's right, Tattoo. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do for you, Miss Winkler, I'm terribly sorry." He paused, noting that Harriet looked as though she were about to cry. "Of course, Mr. Morty Green might be able to arrange a last-minute substitution for the, uh, Dynamite Dolls; otherwise..." He trailed off and shook his head regretfully.

"What happened to the Dynamite Dolls, anyway?" Leslie asked.

Harriet cleared her throat. "Well, I caught them trying to put the make on Denny while they were rehearsing. So I smacked Rose's rear end with a cane, and she blamed Denny and quit. Then Denny had to throw out Roseanna when she tried to seduce him, and she quit too. So I know he's loyal at least, but now he doesn't have an act."

"Oh." Leslie bit her lip. "Well, maybe he's better off without them."

"That may be, but where can Morty possibly get a substitution for those two?" asked Harriet in despair.

Leslie shrugged, then noticed that Tattoo's attention was trained somewhere else. Roarke saw it too, just as Tattoo leaned forward and murmured, "Boss, isn't that Trish—Denny's ex-wife—with Mr. Green?"

Roarke twisted in his chair to look that way, with a sidelong glance at Harriet, and remarked as if in great surprise, "Why, yes!" Leslie watched Morty Green, accompanied by an annoyed-looking woman in a green dress and a white hat, rounding the pool's perimeter. "And if I am not mistaken, the gentleman with them is her new fiancé." It was then that Leslie noticed the staid-looking man in a powder-blue suit right behind Morty and Trish; he struck her as an accountant or a lawyer.

Harriet stared at the approaching trio in horror. "Oh no! Why would she come here? She and Denny hate each other!" As she spoke, Morty, Trish and the suit stopped beside Denny's table, and they heard Morty clear his throat; all three watched the unfolding scene, as if compelled by some unassailable force.

"Now don't yell, but look who's here," Morty said. Denny looked around, spotted Trish and let out a loud squawk, at which Morty reprimanded him, "I told ya not to yell."

Trish pulled off her hat and remarked sarcastically, "Well, my my my...I see you haven't lost your way with words, Denny." Denny just shook his head disgustedly.

"Well, isn't it nice to bring old friends together," Morty said hopefully. "See, I ran into Trish at the bar, and I thought, what the heck—wouldn't it be great if I brought her over here to say howdy?" He took a seat, grinning his toothy grin.

"I wouldn't say howdy to her if I was Gene Autry's son," Denny retorted. Thwarted, Trish looked away, and Denny took in her companion. "Who's the unlucky man?"

Trish glared at him. "This happens to be Kenneth DeJong, of the DeJong, Hendricks and DeKoven investment bankers—my future husband." She gave Denny a smug look.

"How do you do?" DeJong inquired politely.

"Better than you, obviously," said Denny and took another belt from his drink.

Morty still seemed to think there was some chance of salvaging the situation and suggested too heartily, "Well! Let's all act like adults and bury the hatchet!"

As he got to his feet, Trish sniped coolly, "Fine. I know exactly where."

"I mean," Morty said calmly, "let's address ourselves to the problem at hand. Denny needs a new partner here to do the show; it's a very important gig, because some Vegas bookers are coming here to check him out. And I was thinking..." Here he grew expansive and enthusiastic. "Wouldn't it be great if this would mark the return of Denny and Trish!"

Trish scoffed and shot back, "Tell woman-chasing Mr. Palumbo that I wouldn't work with him again if he came crawling to me on his hands and knees, naked, with a flower between his teeth!" She stomped a foot to punctuate this and glared at Denny.

Denny had had enough and got up with a quick glare at Trish before addressing Morty. "And you can tell Bimbo DePlenty here that I wouldn't set one foot on a stage with her until she puts a gag in her big mouth for five minutes—which for her is a physical impossibility!" At that, Trish whipped around and stalked away, with Kenneth DeJong right behind her.

"Trish, at least talk to him!" Morty yelled after her, to no avail.

"Aw, I'm gonna get smashed," grunted Denny and stalked out of the pool area.

"Look, you two need each other whether you know it or not!" Morty shouted, but again his words went in vain.

"Wow," said Leslie, astonished. She didn't think she had ever seen such a blatant display of antagonism before, even between her own parents.

Harriet turned desperately to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke...Denny has to play his date here. Show business is his life! It's Trish's life too—she'd be bored to death without it!"

"But you can see how they feel about each other," Roarke reminded her.

Harriet considered it, then mumbled, "Well, maybe I can change that."

Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo looked at one another, then at her. "You can?"

"I've got to. I love him. And if working with Trish again makes him happy, then that's what'll have to happen." She drew in a breath and groaned, "But how'll I do it?"

Roarke smiled slightly. "Well, they just told us what would make them forgive each other—a gag for her, and a flower in his teeth."

"Naked," added Leslie with a skeptical grin in her guardian's direction; he smiled wryly and took a sip of his drink. Harriet reached down to finger the vial that hung on its chain around her neck; Roarke noticed, winked at Leslie and Tattoo, and settled back in his chair with a faint smile.

§ § § - December 7, 1980

It was the first chance Roarke had taken to check on Ned Pringle's fantasy, and with Tattoo supervising the final setup of the stage area for the Vegas bookers, Roarke took Leslie with him to the practice grounds where the Ferrini family was training. They watched, unnoticed, for some time, till Mario Ferrini set about making an announcement for several reporters from both print and broadcast media. It wasn't till Velda Ferrini bailed out and landed in the safety net, however, that the noise of swinging trapezes and rattling support poles ceased enough for them to hear him. "Ladies and gentlemen, here on the island, we do not have to conform to United States regulations...so the Flying Ferrinis will work without the safety net."

Leslie stared at her guardian. "Mr. Roarke, are you gonna let him get away with that? I mean...it said in this morning's paper that he wants Mr. Pringle to do a quadruple somersault in mid-air! That's practically impossible, not to mention dangerous!"

"Now, young lady, where is your faith?" Roarke admonished her. "I daresay you've been here long enough by now that you should have learned to trust in what I do and why I do it. The success or failure of Ned Pringle's fantasy is altogether out of my hands, as you well know. The decisions in regard to this fantasy are not mine to make."

She sighed to herself and stared apprehensively on as several islanders hired by the Ferrini family set about detaching the safety net from its hooks and let it fall to the ground; the reporters reacted audibly, and to one side, Velda Ferrini stared on anxiously, biting her lip, looking around as if trying to find someone who might help stop the whole thing. On the platform above, Ned Pringle waved to her, and she waved hesitantly back.

Leslie and Roarke watched Pringle pull the pouch Roarke had given him from the belt of his leotard—and then drop it. He stared at the ground with sudden horror as Mario Ferrini announced, "For the first time ever, anywhere, the Flying Ferrinis present the quadruple somersault!" He gestured at Pringle on the platform, and now all eyes were on the popcorn vendor, standing there gaping at the pouch on the ground far below.

"Mr. Roarke, what'll you—" began Leslie, only to turn to him and discover she was standing there alone. She could do no more than blink a couple of times before she heard the clacking of a trapeze above her, and looked up in time to see a performer clad in a white leotard swing himself onto the platform beside Pringle. She clapped both hands over her mouth and stared. Geez, Mr. Roarke, really! she thought, shaking her head, but unable to keep from smiling for all that.

Faintly she heard him say, "The press is waiting, Mr. Pringle. What seems to be the problem?"

"I can't make it, Mr. Roarke!" Pringle gasped. "I dropped the pouch!" He pointed at the gold packet lying on the grass.

Roarke looked down at it and mused, "I see. Most unfortunate."

"What'm I doing up here?" groaned Pringle, staring desperately at him. "I must be out of my mind..."

"Well, it's a little late for self-analysis, Mr. Pringle, don't you think?"

"Velda was right...this is all a crazy dream. A groundling in love with a snow bird."

Roarke shook his head, smiling. "Every man has been in love with a snow bird somewhere, sometime in his life, Mr. Pringle."

"You gotta get me out of this, Mr. Roarke—"

"Oh, I'm afraid that's out of the question," Roarke said immediately. "Your fantasy must run to its natural conclusion. However, that need not be an unhappy one." He nodded at Pringle a couple of times, as if waiting for him to figure it out.

Just then a movement caught Leslie's eye and she noticed Mario Ferrini stride around the group of reporters and other spectators to find out what the delay was. Leslie watched with wide eyes; she distinctly recalled that Ferrini had suffered an accident a couple or three years before, one that had left him seriously injured. Since then he had walked with a cane and a noticeable limp. Yet here he was, walking perfectly! She scowled at him, hearing Roarke's voice from above: "Observe, Mr. Pringle." She looked up in time to see him gesture at Ferrini.

"What is he waiting for?" Ferrini demanded aloud.

"Isn't that strange?" Roarke commented. "He doesn't seem to be having trouble with his leg anymore." Sure enough, Ferrini stalked determinedly onto the grass, where the safety net had lain moments before, and grabbed the golden pouch, clearly intending to climb up to the platform and make Pringle go through with the stunt. Roarke smiled and reached for the swinging trapeze as it arced toward him. "Perhaps it was all in his mind." He paused long enough to watch Pringle stare thoughtfully at Ferrini, then said, "Good luck, Mr. Pringle," and grasped the trapeze swing, launching himself off the platform and sailing to the other side—only to vanish into nothing on the way.

"Mr. Roarke!" yelled Pringle, but there was no reply.

Beside her, Leslie sensed a presence, and stumbled back a step when she looked around and saw Roarke there, dressed in his usual white suit rather than the leotard he'd had on a few seconds ago. "You really have to tell me someday how you change clothes and appear and disappear like some kind of...of really advanced magician," she said.

Roarke grinned at her. "Perhaps I'll let you in on the secret one day. For now, let's find out what Mr. Pringle decides to do."

At that point they heard Ferrini's voice from overhead and both looked up. "What is wrong with you?" he growled.

"I changed my mind," Pringle informed him, calmly but firmly. "I'm not going through with this."

"You lost your nerve," Ferrini accused.

Pringle shot back, "Like you lost yours, Mario, after your fall? You came up the ladder just now like a monkey climbing a banana tree. Suddenly there's nothing wrong with your leg anymore. Maybe there never was, except in your mind."

"That's a lie!" Ferrini blustered.

"Is it, Mario? You used your accident to cop out! To avoid doing the quadruple again—just like you used me!"

Ferrini glared at him, breathing hard. "I oughta throw you offa here..."

"How about throwing yourself off, into the quadruple?" Pringle returned. He released the swing and folded Ferrini's hand around the golden powder bag. "Use this pouch. It's special." Roarke and Leslie watched him dust Ferrini's hands with the pouch. "You can do it," Pringle assured him.

They waited, looking on as Ferrini stared at his hands, then at Pringle, and then into the distance for a moment, as if reliving the fateful fall. "You can make it!" Pringle insisted.

Ferrini gave in at last and removed his cape, draping it over a rung of the ladder, while Pringle set up a platform for him to launch himself from. Those on the ground saw the change and stared as if spellbound; the senior Ferrini, father to Velda, Mario and three other sons, appeared from one of the tents and paused to stare in astonishment at Mario, who reached out a hand to catch the swing as it lifted toward him. Ferrini leaped off the platform, swung in a couple of huge arcs, then let go the trapeze and rolled through the air: once, twice, three and finally four full somersaults, before successfully grasping the hands of one of his brothers. Cheers and applause welled up; the elder Ferrini gaped in astonishment, Velda in sheer relief. Leslie stared in wonder at Roarke, who smiled broadly at her.

Pringle descended the ladder and was met at the bottom by Velda, who rushed up to him and kissed him hard before hugging him. Her father had seen her go, and now he came after her with long angry strides, his face a mask of outrage. "Velda!"

Velda and Pringle broke their kiss and stared at him; then Velda drew in a breath and announced, "Papa, Ned and I love each other, and you're just gonna have to get used to that."

"No!" hissed Ferrini. "You get out of my sight, before I break your neck!"

Mario clambered down the last few rungs of the ladder and hit the ground. "Papa, no," he urged, going to the older man and grasping his arm. "Papa—Papa, you can't keep Velda caged up forever. And Ned—he's gonna work with us. Papa, face it, you're not getting any younger; one day you're gonna want to retire. Somebody has to take over the act, manage it...Ned knows the circus; I had him checked out when he first came to us. Papa, it's...it's time for this family to have some...some new blood."

"Papa, please," Velda begged softly.

Ferrini stared at them, his face still full of denial, but beginning to soften a bit in the wake of Mario's unexpected support of Pringle. At last he nodded. "Okay," he whispered, seemed to gather himself and added, "Maybe we start a new generation of Ferrinis, eh?"

Thrilled, Velda ran to him and hugged him; Mario went to Pringle and said, "Welcome to the family." Leslie grinned at that; Roarke smiled, then ushered her away before anyone caught them watching.

When they got back to the main house, Tattoo had returned and was just hanging up the phone as they walked in. "Oh, boss—good, you're back. I just finished talking to Miss Winkler. She says she's leaving right away. I think maybe you better go see her."

Roarke agreed, and Leslie hurried out with him before he decided to tell her to stay; but he seemed to be preoccupied with Harriet's fantasy and didn't object. In fact, his concern turned out to be justified, for when they let themselves into the bungalow, they could see Harriet already packing her bags. "Miss Winkler," Roarke called, crossing the main room to the bedroom. "Tattoo told me you called, but I had no idea you were leaving so soon!"

"Well, thanks to my fantasy, I found out more than I bargained for," Harriet said in a high voice that sounded too close to breaking down. "Denny can be trusted all right...but not to love me, because...he never stopped loving Trish in the first place." She managed a self-deprecating smile.

Roarke said with sympathy, "Then it means he never was right for you, doesn't it?"

Harriet turned to stare at him; when he prompted her, she admitted, "Yes, it does." Roarke nodded, and she finally said, "And I really hope they'll both be happy."

"You are an exceptional young lady, Miss Winkler," Roarke said quietly. Leslie had to admit to being impressed; she wasn't sure she could be that generous in a similar situation, and hoped she never had to face such a thing. "I shall try to arrange an early flight to the mainland for you. Will you excuse me? Come, Leslie." They turned to leave the bungalow, only to see Morty Green coming through the room. "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Green," Roarke said warmly, paused long enough to glance back at Harriet, and then ushered Leslie out with a quick gesture.

"I guess you saw it too, Mr. Roarke," Leslie remarked when they were well away from the bungalow.

"Saw what?" Roarke asked, without slowing at all, though he did spare her a questioning look.

"That Morty Green's got it bad for Calpurnia...I mean, Harriet Winkler," Leslie said, grinning sheepishly at her slip. "I could tell right from the start when I saw him staring after her yesterday morning, after we met him the first time."

"Indeed!" said Roarke, sounding impressed. "Then you're becoming quite an observant young lady, Leslie! Very good!" He smiled, and she beamed back, feeling quite pleased with herself. "You may yet turn out to be a better judge of human emotion than you realize. Perhaps this evening we'll go to see the reunited Denny and Trish—and if neither of us is mistaken, we're likely to see Mr. Green and Miss Winkler there together, too."

"Let's hope so. I'd hate to see this island's record for happy endings get spoiled," said Leslie teasingly, and he laughed and took her hand to guide her along.