§ § § - September 7, 1981

Leslie drove back from the MacNabbs' home to the main house, wondering just what Roarke intended to do with Frida. She knew that Frida's fate depended partly on what kind of story she had to tell; but she'd be very sorry if Frida couldn't stay. For Leslie, the newcomer was like a link, however tenuous, to the beloved grandmother who had died so many years before.

Frida reacted to her first sight of the main house much as Leslie had. "You live here?" she breathed when Leslie stopped the car beside the fountain in front.

"Yes, that's my room," Leslie told her, pointing to the front-facing dormer. She and Tattoo got out of the car and started for the porch; Frida followed their lead but hung behind, a nervous look on her features. She had the kind of expressive face that was utterly incapable of hiding emotions; her apprehension even seemed to gleam out of her dark-blue eyes. Leslie glanced back to be sure Frida was still with them and smiled in understanding. "Don't worry, it'll be okay, really. I was just as nervous as you when I first came here, but now this feels more like home than any other place I've ever lived."

Frida tried a return smile, which failed miserably, and wordlessly trailed Leslie and Tattoo across the porch and through the door. In Roarke's office, the décor clearly made an impression on her even through her fear, and for a moment her face was suffused with wonder as she took in her new surroundings. Roarke half rose when he saw them.

"It's just us, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said unnecessarily.

"Indeed," Roarke replied. He turned his attention on Frida, whose fascination with his study had worn off enough that her worried expression had returned in full force. "You must be Frida Olsson. I am Mr. Roarke." His voice grew crisp and businesslike, scaring Frida more than ever so that she completely forgot every word of English she had ever learned.

Tattoo's mouth dropped open when Frida bobbed a quick curtsy and squeaked, "Angenämt, min herre, goddag." The phrase, however, brought an answering smile from Roarke, and Leslie wondered in amazement if he could actually speak Swedish.

Before she could ask, Roarke gestured at the chairs. "Do sit down, please, Frida. Is there anything we can get for you before we begin?"

Frida swallowed audibly and managed this time to speak in English, albeit somewhat broken. "If it is not trouble, I wish something to drink."

"Of course. Leslie, would you please go to the kitchen and bring back some lemonade? You might bring enough for all of us." Leslie, who had wanted very much to hear Frida's story, bit back a disappointed sigh and went out to fill her guardian's request.

Roarke might have waited for her to return, but he realized that this would merely intimidate Frida all the more. It was better to start now. "So, young lady, where do you come from?"

Frida shifted uneasily in her chair. "I come from Västerås, Sweden," she began slowly. "When I were...was a baby, some people adopted me. I have never had brothers or sisters. My adopting parents were not kind people. When I did something wrong, they would hurt me." She was no longer focusing directly on Roarke, concentrating instead on finding the right English words to express herself. "They wanted me to feel lucky that they adopted me, but I never felt so. I wished for so long to find my real parents, but this is very difficult...and someone said that they are dead, so I could never find them. But I wished still." She cast Roarke a plaintive glance. "No one would help me to do this, and if they are dead I suppose it does not really matter."

"I see," said Roarke. At that point Leslie returned with a tray bearing four glasses of lemonade. As soon as each of them had taken a glass and Leslie had settled down in the other chair, Roarke nodded at Frida to continue.

"Tusen tack, Leslie," Frida said, and Leslie smiled back. This was a phrase she remembered her grandmother using quite frequently. Frida took a long gulp of lemonade before resuming her story. "I think perhaps my adopting parents were sorry that they took me. Strange things happened sometimes, things I cannot control."

Roarke leaned forward, his expression intense. "What sort of things?"

Frida hesitated long enough that Roarke opened his mouth to prompt her; but she saw him and blurted in a panic, "I make people think things." Both Tattoo and Leslie looked puzzled; Roarke frowned, and Frida blundered on. "I look at a person and think something that I wish that person to think, and then the person thinks that thing. If it is something I wish the person to do, then he does it."

"But how..." Tattoo began, then let the question trail off, as if unsure how he wanted to ask it.

"Tell us exactly how you made your journey here, Frida," Roarke requested gently.

"My adopting parents died," Frida said softly. "They left some money, and I got more when I sold our furniture and other things. I took only some clothes and a few things I loved. So first I buy a train ticket to Stockholm. Then I buy an airplane ticket that fly to New York City and next to Los Angeles." Her voice grew increasingly shaky and her English deteriorated as she went on. "But I knew not that it cost so much, and when I am in Los Angeles I see that all the money is gone. I went to the place where they put suitcases on the plane and go inside that place. And so here I am going to Honolulu."

"What happened after you got there?" Tattoo asked.

"I saw signs to show me how to go to the Fantasy Island airplane. There is a lady there and she types a list when people give her small green papers. And I have no small green paper...so I look at a man at a counter, who has many of them, and I think, 'give me a ticket.' Just so. And then I walk to him and he give me a ticket. I give this lady the ticket, and she type my name on the list...and just so, I come to Fantasy Island."

"Boss!" Tattoo burst out. "She's a con artist!"

Frida put down her lemonade glass and broke down into sobs. "Nu kommer jag till fängelsen..." she wailed.

Tattoo, the sudden recipient of a reproachful stare from Roarke, compressed his lips, cleared his throat noisily and looked at his shiny white shoes. Leslie leaned forward and tentatively patted Frida's shoulder, trying awkwardly to offer some comfort. To Roarke she said, "Frida's afraid she's going to jail, Mr. Roarke. She's been saying that practically ever since we found her at the MacNabbs' house. I think that's what she just said now. Can't we try to do something for her? She had no place to go, and she didn't know what else to do."

"Do you want to try to find your real parents, Frida?" Tattoo asked.

Frida shook her head, still sobbing. "Nej, nej..." She coughed, tried to get some control over herself. "No, they will not have me when I am born, so I know they will not have me now."

Leslie looked doubtful. "Mr. Roarke, isn't there a law about finding birth parents? Don't you have to be a certain age before you can start going around looking for them? I mean, I don't know what the law says, but I never heard of anyone looking for their birth parents before they were at least eighteen. And even if they do start sooner than that, it always takes years to find them, if they ever do."

Roarke nodded. "Well stated, Leslie," he said, making her feel about twelve feet tall for a moment. "But you must understand that the choice is entirely Frida's. If she has no desire to seek out the people who gave her life, then we must respect that decision."

"I do understand that," Leslie said. "My point is, even if she did start searching for them now, she'd still have to have some place to stay till she found them. And since she doesn't want to look, then she needs it even more. She went through so much to get here. Can't she stay?"

Roarke studied her. "My dear Leslie, do you realize what you are asking of me? We have no vacancies on the island: no empty hotel rooms, no available bungalows. What do you propose?"

"She could stay in my room, at least for a couple of nights anyway, till the weekend guests leave. There'll be vacancies then."

Roarke looked at her, then at Tattoo, who shrugged, and then back at Leslie. "You have a generous heart," he said warmly. "Very well then, Frida may stay in your room at least for tonight. We will find a cot for her to sleep on. Tomorrow will be soon enough to decide what to do from here."