§ § § -- November 27, 1982

"Look, Mr. Roarke, I've seen two planeloads of passengers come and go already, and my ex-wife hasn't been on either one of them. Maybe you can't handle my fantasy." The words came from a nearly bald guest with a fringe of dark hair and an unprepossessing face, sitting hunched dejectedly in one of the club chairs.

"Patience, Mr. Thomas, patience, please," Roarke advised. "So you were divorced after twenty years of marriage, and now you feel you made a mistake, huh?"

Frank Thomas sat wringing his hands, looking restless. "I'd do anything to get Connie back. Trouble is, she moved away the day the divorce was final. I don't know where she is or how she'd feel about reconciliation."

"Yours is not an easy fantasy, Mr. Thomas," Roarke commented.

"Look," Thomas said, standing up, "if you can't get my ex-wife and me back together again, why don't you just give me back my money and we'll forget the whole thing."

Roarke smiled patiently and held up a finger. "I said it would be difficult—not impossible," he clarified. "Go back to your bungalow, Mr. Thomas, and try to relax." He escorted the rather distraught man to the door and looked him straight in the eye. "Your fantasy will be granted…I promise you." Thomas finally smiled faintly and left, at which point Tattoo turned to Roarke while Leslie watched from the desk, where she'd taken up the mail again.

"Boss, I'm worried," Tattoo admitted. "What if we can't make his fantasy work?"

Roarke studied him thoughtfully. "We do seem to be having our difficulties, don't we, Tattoo?" he observed in a soft voice.

"Yes," Tattoo noted, "and we also have that woman snooping around the island, waiting for us to fail. We've got to do something."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, my friend, I quite agree," he said. "I quite agree." And from the desk, Leslie could see his expression of contemplation.

"You don't think it's just a coincidence, that we're having all this trouble just when Christine Connolly's hanging around, do you?" she asked. Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her and then at each other; Roarke smiled slightly.

"If I were you, Leslie," he said, "I'd remember that little conversation about faith we had last year." Leslie sighed softly; every time she had doubts, he had a habit of bringing up that last business with Mephistopheles, at which time they had spoken for some thirty minutes about their level of trust in each other. It was getting old, but it still worked; so she could hardly protest his use of it.

"Okay, okay. But I don't know how you can blame me, when you yourself seem to be a little worried, and Tattoo's having doubts too," she pointed out.

Roarke shot Tattoo a look; the Frenchman just shrugged sheepishly, and Leslie ducked her head to hide her smile. "I suggest that the two of you need some sort of distraction," Roarke said. "Tattoo, perhaps you should make some routine rounds; and Leslie, you might go to your friend Maureen's mother's catering company and check in on their preparations for tonight's luau." Tomai's Catering was replacing the usual group of native islanders who did the food preparation and serving; the latter people had come down with some sort of bug, which Tattoo had surmised with mild annoyance had probably been imported by some passing vacationer.

Leslie wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but at least it gave her something to do; so she went. On her way back, though, she got a distraction that served to cheer her up enormously. As she was approaching the lane where most of the older bungalows were located, she started hearing voices—both male, from the sound of it. One seemed angry, the other panicked. A moment later she rounded a bend in the path and stopped short, gaping in disbelief, then ducking back behind a tree before either of the men there saw her. Truck Sheehy, the muscleman at the weight-lifting contest, was hoisting poor Jay Michaels off the ground with only a minimum of effort. Jay's eyes bulged with fear and his feet dangled in the air.

"There's no way a lousy little dirtball like you could've beat me in that contest," Sheehy was growling as he lifted Michaels. "No way!! You know it and I know it, and very soon those judges better know it! Catch on??" He shook Jay a little.

Leslie was still trying to figure out what to do when Christine Connolly appeared from around the last bungalow on the lane. "Hey!" Christine burst out and broke into a run. "Hey, you, stop that! Come on, now, put him down." Sheehy stared at her, then grinned and obligingly, if slowly, lowered Michaels back to the grass. Christine glared back at him; finally the muscleman turned and sauntered off, looking far too cheerful. Christine loosed a loud, annoyed breath and turned to Michaels, while Leslie tried to shrink behind a tree trunk. "You all right?" Christine asked.

"Yeah," said Michaels, sounding a bit winded. "You know, he thinks I cheated. He thinks I rigged the contest!"

"He doesn't think anything," Christine retorted. "He does exactly what Roarke tells him to do at all times." Leslie scowled at her but remained hidden.

"Yeah?" Jay inquired skeptically, looking at some point past her. Leslie looked too; one of the station wagons was approaching, with two people in the front seats.

"Yeah," Christine asserted firmly.

"You sure about that?" Michaels asked dubiously.

"I'm positive about that," she said.

"Then, uh…what about her?" Finally Christine turned to follow his gaze, while Leslie wondered what was going on. A moment later she had her answer.

"Wait a minute," Christine gasped. "That can't be! That—that's Connie…Frank's ex-wife!"

Aha!! thought Leslie triumphantly and grinned, then backed slowly down the path the way she had come, waiting for Christine and her production assistant to clear out of the area before she continued on her way home. Score one for our side! She watched Michaels and Christine walking away, talking earnestly and with Christine making all sorts of furious hand motions, before at last venturing out of hiding and heading for the main house at a very fast walk.

When she got back Roarke had stepped out to see to the Oberstar fantasy; Tattoo was there, though, just finishing up a phone call. "What took you so long?" he asked when she came in through the French shutters.

"I saw something that looks really encouraging," she said and outlined to him what she'd just seen near the bungalows. Tattoo chuckled, then lost his brief cheer and stared towards the foyer. "As if we haven't got enough troubles…the boss had to go back to World War II. Back to Anzio."

"What about Anzio?" Leslie asked. "I never heard of it."

"It's a town in Italy," Tattoo told her, "the site of one of the very worst battles in the war, on the European front anyway. The casualties were terrible. I'm just hoping the boss has enough sense not to let himself get caught in the crossfire when he goes back." He shook his head. "I'm starting to wish this weekend were over."

"For once, so am I," Leslie murmured reluctantly. "I wish I could figure out why that Christine Connolly has it in for Mr. Roarke. I mean, what's he ever done to her?"

Tattoo shrugged. "Nothing, of course. She's just doing her job, and her job is to dig up dirt on people. And with the boss being who he is, she probably thought she could get a real coup out of exposing him. Except…there's nothing to expose."

"We know that," Leslie said, "but she could really get ratings out of a fantasy that goes wrong, and that's more than enough to worry about."

‡ ‡ ‡

On a tiny boarded-up street in a little town in Italy, almost forty years before, Jack Oberstar—now much younger than he had been upon arriving on Fantasy Island, and determined to keep his brother safe somehow—made a run for it across the street, despite Ken Oberstar's express orders to the contrary. From a covered second-floor balcony of a house at the far end of the street, machine guns blasted at him, and he threw himself to the ground behind an overturned Army jeep, trying to present less of a target. Someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him to his feet, swinging him around. When he got a good look at the other man, he realized it was Roarke, decked out in authentic Army fatigues, boots and helmet. They stared at each other for a moment; then Roarke said, "I warned you it would be a most dangerous fantasy, Mr. Oberstar."

Jack's startled stare grew belligerent. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Let me just say that I had a feeling my presence would be useful," Roarke said. "Besides, I believe there is a…shall we say, secret part of your fantasy that you neglected to mention to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about—" Oberstar began.

Roarke cut him off. "Mr. Oberstar, you cannot change the past. If indeed your brother did commit an act of cowardice, you cannot change that fact—any more than you can change the fact that those men are going to die." He gestured to the abandoned wine shop behind Oberstar, where his guest's brother and his small platoon were holed up.

"But Ken is my brother!" Oberstar cried. "And he's right over there—" He turned and pointed at the shop for emphasis. "And he is alive. And there's got to be something that—" Spinning back to face Roarke, he found himself confronting empty air. "Mr. Roarke? Mr. Roarke!" He hissed a quiet curse to himself before impatiently dismissing the encounter and trying to figure out what move he was going to make next.

Roarke returned through the foyer, impeccable as always in his white suit, and was greeted with an emphatic "Good!" from Tattoo. Roarke grinned at him, amused.

"Worried, were you? I appreciate the sentiment, my friend." He went to his desk and checked the day planner that lay beneath the daybook he used for scheduling fantasies, and ran his finger down a list of events. "Ah, yes. Perhaps another olive branch to extend to Ms. Connolly," he murmured, as if to himself.

"What for?" demanded Leslie, incredulous, once more distracted from the mail she was having so little success at sorting. "She thinks you're a fraud, Mr. Roarke, remember? And she's frothing at the mouth trying to prove it."

"She wouldn't be the first to believe that," Roarke told her. "As a matter of fact, I recall that your mother told me that Michael Hamilton believed it as well."

"Oh, what a surprise," Leslie said sarcastically, and Roarke chuckled. "But even he wasn't out there actively trying to find a major flaw and expose it to the whole world."

"She's got a point, boss," Tattoo observed. "This one's different."

"Just bear with me, both of you, please," Roarke requested with a little smile. "I have a plan, but I would be glad of your faith." He gave Leslie that particular look again, and she hastily turned her attention to the stacks of envelopes before her in an attempt to avoid yet another reminder, making him laugh silently and wink at a grinning Tattoo.

With that, he went to Christine's bungalow, where he also found Connie Thomas. The two women studied him curiously, and he explained, "I dropped by to see if you would like to come to the party I'm having for my guests tonight."

"Oh, the party," Christine said. "Sounds wonderful. Would you like to sit down?" Roarke thanked her and took a chair while Christine and Connie sat on the sofa, and Christine added, "Can I get anybody anything?" They both declined, and Christine turned to Connie and patted her hand in welcome. "I hear you're getting married in two weeks."

"Yes," Connie said, as if reluctant to talk about it. "Two weeks from today, in fact."

"Hm," said Christine and gave Roarke a meaningful look. He eyed her with little expression, and she remarked to Connie, "Well, frankly, I never could quite understand why you and Frank decided to quit. You seemed to be so happy together…but if this is working out for you, I want you to know I'm very happy for you."

Connie nodded and replied coolly, "Thank you."

"Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Thomas," Roarke said then, drawing both women's attention, "and please don't feel you have to answer, of course…but why did you get divorced?"

Connie replied, "Frank was seeing another woman."

"Frank?" Christine said blankly, staring skeptically at Connie. "He was?"

"Oh, he tried to tell me it was strictly a business relationship, but I knew better," Connie said, nodding.

"Did you know the other woman?" Christine queried.

Connie hesitated, then lifted her hands. "Look, I'd really rather not talk about this. In fact, Mr. Roarke, I think that my coming to your party is not a very good idea."

"No, wait a minute," Christine protested gently, getting a faintly indignant look from Connie. "If you're worried about running into Frank, don't be. Why don't you just think about the wedding coming up in two weeks and come on. Have a good time." Connie let out a soft sigh of exasperation, staring very oddly at Christine, who smiled and added, "I know I'm going to have a good time, because I love farewell parties." With that, she looked at Roarke with a pointed little smile, and he smiled back, nodding as if to say, So that's how you think it will be. Christine Connolly looked too pleased with herself by far, and it was past time something was done about it.

‡ ‡ ‡

Some little time later, with Tattoo supervising the final setup for Roarke's party, Roarke and Leslie were waylaid on their way to the luau clearing by Christine's cameraman, a fellow with the improbable name of Frosty, who invited them to take a little break with them. Roarke allowed that they could stay for a little while, and steered Leslie over to a table where Christine was sitting with a decidedly unwilling-looking Connie Thomas, in the thick of relating some anecdote. Connie huffed a polite laugh, then gave Roarke a curiously begging look when he and Leslie joined them.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Roarke," she said. "And who's this?"

"My young ward, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke explained. "Leslie, this is Mrs. Connie Thomas." Leslie smiled and shook hands with Connie, and a waiter paused just then to ask what Roarke and Leslie would like to drink. They both opted for ginger ale, and the waiter filled the request within a couple of minutes, by which time Christine had launched into another silly work-related story.

"…Well, I had his microphone open, you see, and he didn't know I had it open, so you can imagine—" They never learned what they were supposed to imagine, for at that moment Jay Michaels ran up to their table.

"Uh, excuse me for interrupting," he said. They all looked up and traded greetings, and then Jay informed Christine urgently, "Walter Moreland is here."

"Oh…all right," said Christine, and added to Roarke, "Walter Moreland—that's my boss. Oh, you don't mind if he comes to the party tonight, do you?"

"Oh, I would be delighted," Roarke said warmly.

"Good. Then he can watch me wrap up my story on you in person," Christine said cheerfully, raising her glass to Roarke. "Jay, grab a chair, sit down."

Jay turned to snag a chair from another table, but had gotten no more than halfway there before Truck Sheehy intercepted him. He grabbed the hapless Jay by the shoulders and, without so much as an insult of greeting, whipped him around and shoved him right into the table where Roarke, Leslie, Christine and Connie were sitting. They barely saved their glasses in time.

"He's going to kill me," Jay blurted frantically, panting and trying to pick himself up. "He knows I didn't tell the judges."

"Well, why didn't you?" Christine exclaimed.

"Because it's the only contest I ever won," Jay told her before appealing to Roarke. "And I won that contest fair and square!"

Roarke opened the small black box he had brought with him. "I was going to give this to you later as a souvenir," he said, withdrawing the pouch inside, "but perhaps you'd better use it now instead." He handed it to Jay, and for a moment or two the thing sparkled silver in his palm.

Sheehy grabbed Jay then and threw him into another table, clearly bent on doing the latter man some serious bodily harm. Jay, all but panicking, scrubbed his hands with the pouch and lifted his fists; and when the enraged Sheehy rushed him again, Jay threw one wild punch that managed to connect, sending Sheehy reeling backwards into still another table. Christine hoisted her drink into the air and yelled, "All right, Jay!" Roarke glanced halfway toward her with the tiniest ghost of an amused smile, and Leslie shook her head to herself, wondering how many tables in all they'd have to replace before these two got through.

Foolhardily Sheehy clambered back to his feet and rushed Jay again; this time, Jay's punch sent him careening into the buffet table, across which he slid from one end to the other, taking the tablecloth and everything on it along with him. It was clear that Sheehy had had enough, and everyone there broke into applause, even Roarke and a still-dubious Leslie. "I did it!" yelled Jay, as if he'd won the weight-lifting contest all over again. Christine toasted him with her glass, beaming, as he shouted gleefully, "I beat him up with a couple lousy punches! I got my fantasy—I'm the world's strongest man!"

Christine's congratulatory grin morphed into an expression of shock and dismay, and she completely missed seeing Jay surrounded by several female admirers. She sank back in her chair in disbelief, only to see Roarke lift his own glass to her and smile benignly. All Christine could do was give him another dirty look, which decided Leslie on carefully hiding her own smug little smirk.