§ § § - March 20, 1982

The two-bedroom bungalow where Martin and Laura Jensen were staying had a small patio in the back, shaded by the trees that grew behind the little building. Martin was already sitting out there; he arose when he saw Julie and Leslie, nodded to them and shook hands with Roarke before the men sat down and Julie, at Roarke's nod, began to pour from a teapot. Leslie stood behind Roarke's chair, glancing into the bungalow now and then; Julie put voice to her question. "Isn't Laura going to join us?"

"She, uh…doesn't feel comfortable mixing with people she doesn't know very well," Martin explained as Julie finished pouring and took one of the two empty chairs that surrounded the white, frosted-glass-topped table.

"Oh," said Julie, trying to sound as if she understood, when she obviously didn't.

"As I understand it," Roarke said, "Miss Jensen's difficulties began when she was only thirteen, after her parents died in an apartment-building fire."

"Yes," Martin agreed, but stopped there when he saw Leslie's face. Roarke turned in his chair to regard her; Julie's face became a mask of sympathy. Martin asked, "Are you all right, young lady?"

She nodded quickly, but her throat had closed off all of a sudden. She stared openly into the bungalow this time, listening absently to Roarke explaining Leslie's own history and how she had come to the island.

"I see," Martin said.

"The fire," Roarke went on, "left her face terribly scarred for life."

"It also took away what she loved most in the world—her parents," Martin said.

"And then," Roarke took up the tale, "one foster home after another, a desperate child in search of love."

"Mr. Roarke, I don't believe Laura got one decent break in her whole life. And then growing up with that scar—you know how cruel children can be."

"Oh yes. And people who believe they are ugly sometimes choose to lead ugly lives. And then there are always the predators of our society, waiting to take advantage of their misfortune."

"You're right. Whenever Laura would apply for work, they'd take one look at her face and tell her that the job had already been filled."

"How humiliating," said Julie in disbelief.

"Don't waste your sympathy on me," snapped a cold voice, and they all looked around to see Laura Jensen in the patio doorway, hands on hips, face filled with defiance. Her right cheek was covered with bumpy scar tissue, mostly hidden by makeup and artful hairstyling, but still partially visible. "I don't need it or want it."

Leslie stepped back as Roarke arose; she found herself searching Laura Jensen's face for some sign that she might be willing to talk, but she saw nothing. Laura shot a glance over Roarke and then, hesitating maybe a second or so, on Leslie, before she shut down and sneered, "So what…who cares." She began to turn back inside.

"Laura," Martin began, getting up in his turn. "Laura, take it easy. We care, that's why we're here." He drew in a breath. "Mr. Roarke, there's something I didn't tell you: Laura didn't come here of her own free will. She came because I forced her to, as her parole officer. So if you have any spare miracles hanging around, please…make us believe."

Roarke spoke thoughtfully. "A wise man once said, miracles sometimes occur, but one has to work terribly hard for them." He trained a deliberately stern look on Laura and asked, "Just how hard are you willing to work for your miracle, Miss Jensen?"

Laura only looked at him; Martin spoke for her. "She'll cooperate, Mr. Roarke…won't you, Laura?"

He said this directly to her; Laura only looked at the ground sullenly, then lifted her gaze and peered at Martin, then at Roarke, and once again at Leslie before tossing her head and replying sarcastically, "Sure. Cooperation's my middle name. Everybody knows that. That's why I spent the last three years in prison." She started back into the bungalow, as if to dismiss them all; but she betrayed that careless mien by casting one last searching look back at them before disappearing altogether.

"I wonder how long she was standing there," Leslie murmured.

Roarke knew what she meant, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Long enough, my child," he assured her. "Long enough." He looked up at Martin. "We have another appointment, but I would like to see Miss Jensen within two hours."

Martin nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. And uh…listen, could you have Leslie there with you? Sometimes…well, maybe she can find a little common ground for Laura to feel more secure with."

"I could try," Leslie said doubtfully. "But there's a lot of difference between me and her once you finish comparing how and when we lost our parents."

"You have to start somewhere," Julie said optimistically.

Roarke and Martin both smiled at that. "Quite so," Roarke agreed. "Please excuse us, Mr. Martin. Let's go, ladies."

Back at the main house, Celeste Vallon was already there waiting for them, standing near the Gauguin painting that sat on an easel in the middle of the study. She smiled as they walked in, shaking hands with them all, including Leslie. Julie eyed the painting in sheer amazement. "Wow…that painting really does look like you."

Celeste nodded agreement and said, "It's amazing, Mr. Roarke. Even though Gauguin painted it in 1896, I almost feel it's a picture of me." The silence began to stretch, making her finally tear her eyes from the portrait and turn to Roarke.

"Now that you have seen the portrait, are you still determined to go through with your fantasy?" he asked.

She sighed and smiled a little. "Oh yes, Mr. Roarke. I'm more determined than ever."

"Very well," he said, nodding. "But first, there is something you should know about the lady in the portrait. She was both Gauguin's model and his mistress. Her father disapproved of Mr. Gauguin, and she was engaged to a very jealous young officer, whom she didn't love." He came out from behind the desk, while Julie and Leslie stood in silence, both looking on intently. "Oh, and one more thing. Not only will you encounter personal danger, but there may also come a time in your fantasy when you will be faced with a most difficult decision…one that could very well alter destiny."

"You make it sound so ominous," Celeste said questioningly.

"With good reason, I assure you."

"I don't care." Celeste shook her head. "I accept the responsibility."

Roarke nodded once or twice and said quietly, "Very well. Then…please turn and face the portrait." He had lifted a hand as he spoke, and now drew it down in the direction of the painting, while Celeste's eyes followed as if hypnotized. Before either Julie or Leslie could grasp what was going to happen, the entire room filled with a soundless burst of multicolored lights, and when they blinked to clear away the glare, Celeste Vallon was gone.

"Where'd she go?" Julie asked.

"Back in time, to Tahiti in the final decade of the nineteenth century," Roarke told her. He frowned at the painting that still reposed in the middle of the room. "Let us hope that she can return when the time comes."

The phone rang and he picked it up. "Yes?" He frowned, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Thank you for letting me know." He hung up. "That was Mr. Martin. Apparently Miss Jensen has gone exploring around town, but hasn't returned, and it will soon be time for them to come here. Julie, please, do me a favor and see if you can find her."

"Right away," Julie said and promptly left. Though she searched all over the town square, it took her almost half an hour to spot the brunette, walking aimlessly alone, her hand raised protectively to her face as it always was. Relieved, Julie ran up to her. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you. Mr. Roarke would like to see you right away."

"Is that supposed to turn me on or something?" Laura muttered. Julie's smile faded, but she took Laura's elbow anyway and led her along down a path. Neither woman said a word, and when they got back to the main house they found Leslie sitting in her usual chair and Roarke peering at a ring through a jeweler's loup.

Julie cleared her throat, and Roarke looked up; Leslie put aside the letter she had been reading. Rising, Roarke said in greeting, "Ah, Miss Jensen. Please have a seat, won't you? Thank you, Julie." Julie nodded and promptly left.

Laura eyed Roarke without speaking; he paused, then queried, "I trust you are enjoying your stay with us?"

That finally got a response. "No, I'm not. Look, let me just be up front with you, okay?" At Roarke's nod, she went on with a bright, scornful smile: "I don't believe in Santa Claus, or the tooth fairy…" Her smile vanished and a hard look replaced it. "…or miracles."

"Are you saying you wish to withdraw from Mr. Martin's fantasy?" he asked calmly.

"That's right," Laura said coldly. "I want out."

That was too much for an indignant Leslie. "Wait a minute! Mr. Roarke has done things a lot harder than make scars go away. At least see what happens! What've you got to lose?" Laura didn't quite meet her eyes, but she did subside, her gaze dropping to the floor, but skepticism still radiating from her whole body.

Roarke glanced at his ward with a small smile; then he moved around the desk to confront Laura directly. Picking up a square container from the desk, he explained without further ado, "The lotion in this bottle is derived from a very rare plant, which grows only on Fantasy Island."

"And that's gonna take away my scars?" she retorted.

"Only the ones on your face, Miss Jensen," he said gravely. "The ones inside can be removed only by yourself."

Laura stood staring at him as though she still needed convincing; Leslie was moved to get up and face the woman head-on. "Please, at least try it."

Laura finally looked right at Leslie, and both she and Roarke recognized some minor softening in Laura's eyes. Roarke took advantage of the moment and unstoppered the jar, offering it to her. "Apply it to the scarred area of your face, Miss Jensen. Please."

Slowly Laura did as bidden, casting Roarke a glance filled with at least half a dozen emotions—hope, fear, the lingering skepticism, a deep-seated need, an old longing. She hesitantly smoothed the lotion over her scarred skin with a precision that told Leslie she knew exactly how much of her face the scar tissue covered; then she asked almost timidly, "So what's supposed to happen now?"

Roarke handed her a small mirror. "Look into the mirror, Miss Jensen, and see for yourself." He smiled kindly.

Still moving with slow uncertainty, Laura took the mirror and reluctantly faced her reflection, even more reluctantly moved her hand away from the scar. Roarke and Leslie watched almost as closely as she did, while the lotion did its magic in mere seconds and Laura found herself staring in wonder at an unmarred visage. She gasped, her eyes lighting and her face breaking into a wide smile. "I can't believe it!" she breathed.

Roarke and Leslie were smiling too. "Go show Mr. Martin what the true Laura Jensen looks like," he urged. "After all, it's his fantasy."

She took one last look in the mirror, then said firmly, "Yes. Yes, I will." Beaming, she sidled around Leslie, gazing at the grinning younger girl, then pausing. "Say, Leslie…I, uh…you want to come with me? We could talk."

"Sure," Leslie agreed, tossing her guardian a fast questioning look. He nodded, and she started after Laura, then paused. "I'll be right there." Laura nodded and left, and she sidled up to Roarke, frowning. "Mr. Roarke…you forgot to tell her that the potion lasts only twenty-four hours."

He smiled slightly. "Oh no, Leslie, I didn't forget. Some dreams are best fulfilled without knowing their limitations. Especially this one." Something in his dark eyes grew deeply worried, unnerving Leslie enough to decide not to pursue it.

"Okay," she murmured, a little doubtful but taking his word for it in the end. "Be back in a while."

"Don't feel any need to rush," he said, smiling again.

Leslie caught up with Laura beside the fountain; she was standing there gazing into the mirror with pure amazement on her face. Laura looked around as she heard Leslie come down the steps and grinned at her. "I just can't believe it."

"It's business as usual here," Leslie said with a deprecatory shrug, falling into step beside Laura. "I guess I've gotten used to it."

"You had to get used to it? How did you end up here?" Laura asked.

"My parents were killed in a house fire," Leslie said, watching Laura as she said this. "I was thirteen when it happened."

Laura stopped short, momentarily forgetting her new face. "Oh, my God." Something flitted across her features, then disappeared so fast Leslie couldn't name it. After a moment Laura leaned forward a little and squinted at her. "Truth?"

"Truth," said Leslie. "But in my case, it was no accident." She summarized the facts and events about the fire, then explained briefly about her mother's fantasy and how she had provided that Roarke would become Leslie's guardian.

"Huh," Laura mused, slowly moving forward again. "That's a shame. Well, at least you got out of the fire without any scars."

"I wasn't really even in the fire," Leslie said, "but that doesn't mean I don't have scars. I hate that man, Miss Jensen. I'll always hate him."

Laura let out a short laugh. "I bet. Does Mr. Roarke know that?"

"Yup." Leslie sauntered along beside her, affecting an I don't care mien, but pretty certain Laura could see through it anyway. "I know you don't have that problem. You loved both your mom and your dad, right?…and they both loved you."

Laura nodded, mind partially in the past. "We were all so happy together. After they were gone, I was the loneliest kid on earth. But I didn't have Mr. Roarke to fall back on as a guardian. I just got shunted around the foster system. This scar—" Out of habit she lifted a hand to her face, then brightened a little as she remembered it was gone. "Well, anyway, it scared people. It looked a lot worse than it does…I mean, did. It took a long time to heal completely, but even with makeup on the thing spooked people. I couldn't get a decent break from anybody, so…"

Leslie nodded. "I can see where I could've had that fate too. How long did you spend crying, after the fire?"

"Couple of years," Laura said with a diffident shrug. "Then I made up my mind I wasn't going to let anyone see any more tears, and I stopped."

"I still cry," Leslie said baldly, throwing it out there just to see what kind of reaction it would get. "And not just inside. I mean, I do it in private, but sometimes I still have nightmares about the fire, and I usually wake up crying. And it was more than three years ago."

Laura stopped again and propped the hand holding the mirror against her hip, regarding Leslie with a touch of condescension that made the younger girl bristle. "Hey, honey, in my world, you gotta be tough. It's the only way to survive."

"Oh sure," Leslie shot back, stung. "And look where it got you."

As fast as she'd flared up, Laura deflated. She turned away and began to walk again, a little faster this time. "Yeah, okay," she said finally, "I'll give you points for that."

"I'm just saying, it's not like you're alone," Leslie said. "Look, I didn't cry either. That man forbade it. He said tears were, and I quote, 'a stupid female weakness'. You want to know something? I had to be taught how to cry all over again. And I'm glad Mr. Roarke did it. Sometimes crying's the only way to get it all out. I know—" She held up a hand when Laura threw a disgusted expression over her shoulder and opened her mouth to comment. "I know what you're about to say. It doesn't solve anything. No, not in itself it doesn't, but I realized that once I get over a crying jag, I can think better and I'm not as upset, so I don't go in circles coming up with useless ideas."

Laura didn't respond to that, and Leslie shrugged to herself and stopped in the path. "Well, just keep going and you'll find your bungalow. I have to go back."

"Hey, Leslie…" She didn't look back, but waited, and after a moment Laura said softly, "Tell Mr. Roarke thanks. And thanks for pushing me into using that lotion."

"You're welcome," Leslie replied over her own shoulder and smiled a little. "See you later. Tell Mr. Martin I said hi." Laura nodded, and Leslie headed back in the direction of the main house, trying not to feel as if she had just demoted herself to the status of a first-grader in the woman's eyes. She's had a hard life, that's all, she reminded herself. Don't let it get to you so much. She deals with her stuff her way, you deal with your stuff your way, and that's all there is to it. At any rate, it beat all heck out of turning to crime. She shook her head to herself and broke into a trot, already hungry for lunch.

‡ ‡ ‡

Julie had gone home for the evening, and Roarke had left Leslie and Tattoo puzzling over some geometry homework she had. He affected a quick change of clothing and stepped into the hallway of a rather grand French-style mansion; the somewhat cloying heat told him he was in Tahiti, exactly as planned. No one else was in sight, but there was a loaded silver tray sitting on a small table beside a closed door. He knocked, heard a feminine "Come in" from inside, and picked up the tray before letting himself quietly in.

The woman at the small dressing table barely looked up. "Oh, just put it over there," she said, and Roarke did so, placing the tray on another table near the massive bed before turning to regard her. She seemed absorbed, so he spoke.

"Well, Miss Vallon, has your fantasy been progressing satisfactorily?"

Startled, she got up and breathed, "Mr. Roarke!"

"Yes. Tell me, have you discovered the identity of the woman in the portrait?"

"Well…" Celeste Vallon shook her head once or twice, her face filled with confusion and some disbelief. "I don't know how it's possible, but I think I am!"

"Really?" said Roarke with interest. "Since you've traced your family tree back to the province in France where the portrait was discovered, isn't it just possible that you might closely resemble a member of your family who lived generations ago?"

"Well…I suppose that's the only explanation there could be," Celeste admitted.

"Yes," he agreed, waiting.

She paused behind an ornate loveseat and looked up at him with a new light in her eyes. "Now I know what you meant, when you said I could alter destiny. Paul has to finish the portrait, or it will never exist. That's it, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Roarke said. "And if that happens, neither will any of his other paintings that followed."

Alarmed, Celeste came out from behind the loveseat and stared pleadingly at him. "But…but what about André? He's like ice!" She was referring to the man whom Gauguin's Celeste's father had engaged her to. "If he finds out the truth, Mr. Roarke, he'll kill Paul. What should I do?" This last, she only whispered.

"That is the decision I said might confront you, remember?" he reminded her gently. "A decision you must make out of your own heart and mind, Miss Vallon."

"Oh…oh dear…" Distraught, she sank into the nearest chair. "It was all so wonderful at first. Now…" There was a long pause while she eyed the ceiling, and he took the opportunity to ease back into the time corridor, so silently she didn't notice he was gone till she found herself alone in the room. Her voice echoed along the temporal tunnel: "Mr. Roarke?…"

He smiled a little and let himself into the study. He hadn't been gone very long; Leslie and Tattoo were still squinting in perplexity at her homework. "Haven't you deciphered that yet, my friend?" he asked in surprise.

Tattoo scowled. "I was never any good at this stuff in school. Once I got past fourth-grade multiplication and division, everything else might as well have been in Russian for all the sense it made to me. And I think Leslie's having the same problem."

"No, no, wait—I see it," Leslie burst out suddenly. "That's an isosceles triangle, not a regular one!" She scribbled something on her paper. Tattoo stared at her in disgruntlement, and Roarke laughed softly.

"I thought you would have finished that at school yesterday," he said.

She looked up and scrunched her features into a gargoyle's mask of intense dislike. "I finished everything else, but this stuff is almost impenetrable. I'm so glad I finish my math requirements at the end of this semester. I can add, subtract, multiply and divide, and I know enough fractions to deal with measuring ingredients for recipes and enough decimals to deal with money in a whole load of different countries. But I have absolutely no clue what I'd do with all the rest of this arcane stuff. It's not like I'm going to become an astrophysicist or anything like that."

"Perhaps not," Roarke said, smiling. "But you do need to at least keep this information handy in your immediate memory long enough to pass the end-of-year examinations in two months, I'm afraid, so you must bend to necessity a little longer."

"Yeah, I guess," she muttered grudgingly, blowing her bangs away from her eyes. "At least there's only one more question to go. Tattoo—"

But Tattoo backed off, hands raised. "No thanks, I think you better ask the boss. I'm going home to do something simple…like dig for diamonds." With that, he left, leaving Leslie staring after him and Roarke chuckling heartily.

"So how's Miss Vallon doing?" she asked, clearly looking for a distraction.

"She's troubled," Roarke admitted, sitting at the desk. "She has reached that point at which she must make a decision that would affect Paul Gauguin's very career. She's facing an irate father and a ruthless fiancé, and I am afraid she is under a good bit of pressure; but I have no doubt she will do what is best for all involved."

She nodded, absorbing this, and then frowned. "I talked to Michiko today. She said she heard her father tell her mother at supper this evening that some really nasty guy with a gigantic criminal record is on the island. She said he was feeling trapped because the police can't do anything to him as long as he obeys island law."

"Marty Downs," Roarke said, his voice low and grim.

"You know?" she exclaimed, even as she found herself thinking she really shouldn't be surprised that he did.

Roarke nodded. "News travels quickly in any circle, including the criminal element. Marty Downs is a career crook who has been responsible for a great many of the crimes for which Miss Jensen has been imprisoned." He raised his head from the date book and gazed unseeingly across the room. "He is on the island to try to tempt Miss Jensen back into the life she fell into after her parents' deaths. It will be a great measure of her inner strength as to whether she can resist him."