§ § § - April 28, 1984
Leslie was so used to sunny Saturday mornings on Fantasy Island by now that she expected them, although she remained rather suspicious. Not once in the five years she had lived here had she seen a rainy Saturday on this island, and she knew the law of averages had to catch up with the weather sometime. The more sunny Saturdays she saw, the more convinced she became that Roarke had some method of climate control.
For the moment, the string of bright Saturdays was intact, and nothing seemed much out of the ordinary as she joined Roarke and Lawrence on the front porch to wait for their ride to the plane dock. Roarke and Leslie greeted each other and then turned to Lawrence, only to find him rather pale-faced.
"Are you all right, Lawrence?" Roarke asked.
Lawrence laid a hand across his stomach and winced. "Not as well as could be expected," he admitted. "Perhaps it's a stomach virus, but I'm not quite sure. The probable culprit would be that mahimahi that Mariki served last Tuesday evening. Apparently it didn't agree with me."
"Apparently," Roarke agreed dryly. "It might be wise for you to take the day off."
"Oh no, sir, I couldn't do that," Lawrence said firmly, drew himself erect with some effort, and cleared his throat. "What would you do without me? No, I shall carry on. Here comes the car now." With that, he stepped down to meet the brown convertible as it pulled up in front of the house. Roarke eyed him with some suspicion.
"Well, that proves he's British," Leslie remarked, and when Roarke gave her a quizzical look, she clarified, "Stiff upper lip."
"It would seem so," Roarke said and glanced heavenward. "After all, what would I do without him?" Leslie snickered loudly, and Roarke indulged in an answering chuckle before placing a hand on her back and guiding her to the waiting vehicle.
At the plane dock, Lawrence stood as always at Roarke's left, Leslie at his right; and Roarke issued his usual reminder about happy expressions just as a scowling native girl stomped past Lawrence, brushing his shoulder. He gave her a glare in return, and she blinked at him.
Leslie broke in, "Hey, Malana...remember?" She stuck a finger at each corner of her mouth and stretched her lips into a caricature of a smile. The native girl sighed, rearranged her features and managed a fair approximation of a cheery look.
"That's better," Roarke said in approval. "Hurry to your place." He gave the band the signal to start playing while the native girl ran to join her companions on the docking ramp.
"A pity that this weekend has started so badly," Lawrence said.
"I would hardly say that," Roarke said. He gestured toward the dock to redirect Lawrence's and Leslie's attention thereto. "This is Mr. Andrew Doren, who comes from Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada."
Lawrence groaned a little theatrically. "Medicine Hat, indeed. If only there truly were such a thing."
Leslie shot him a strange look, and Roarke carefully stifled a smile before continuing. "Be that as it may...Mr. Doren's fantasy is to meet Nero, the emperor who supposedly played a violin during the conflagration of Rome."
Leslie scoffed, "Everybody knows that's a myth. How are you going to pull that off?"
"My dear Leslie," Roarke said patiently, "I said only that Mr. Doren wishes to meet Nero...I said nothing about watching him fiddle." Leslie blushed sheepishly and shifted her weight.
"You mean to say that Nero didn't fiddle while Rome burned?" Lawrence demanded in genuine amazement, causing Roarke to roll his eyes. Leslie immediately felt a little better.
At this point a young blonde woman with a moderately attractive face emerged from the plane and picked her way down the dock, and Roarke directed Leslie's and Lawrence's attention thereto. "This is Miss Janine Andrulaitis, who comes from International Falls, Minnesota. All her life she has been making up stories and writing them down; and it's my understanding that she has three completed manuscripts to her credit. Unfortunately, not so much as one of her words has been put into print. So Miss Andrulaitis' fantasy is not only to have a published book to her credit, but for it to be a bestseller."
"Ah," said Lawrence. "How on earth could anything possibly go wrong with such a straightforward fantasy?"
"All too easily," Roarke replied ominously. And with impeccable timing, one of the native girls materialized in front of him with his beverage, neatly cutting off the question Lawrence had just opened his mouth to ask. "My dear guests...I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" Roarke declaimed. With that he took a sip, and Lawrence clutched his stomach.
§ § §
Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence drove their Canadian guest to a wooden covered bridge not far outside the island's largest town, and everyone got out of the car and approached the bridge. "This is where your fantasy begins, Mr. Doren," Roarke told him.
"Where?" Doren asked. "I don't see..." He stopped and stared at the bridge, whose interior had filled with an opaque fog in no time at all. "You mean I cross that bridge? Through that pea soup in there?"
"That's all there is to it," Roarke said with a touch of amusement. "On the other side you will find ancient Rome, just as it was in the time of Nero."
"You might want to take these," Leslie said, handing Doren a stack of folded white linen. He accepted it with a puzzled look.
"What're these?" he asked.
"Togas," Roarke said.
Doren nodded, stood and stared at the fog while his hosts waited. Finally Lawrence asked, "Wasn't this your fantasy, sir?" At Doren's nod, Lawrence swept an arm out to indicate the bridge. "Then what are you waiting for? The great Roman Empire awaits you!"
"I guess you're right," Doren mumbled sheepishly, turned and took a step, hesitated and turned right back again. "Mr. Roarke—are you positive I'm gonna find Nero in there?"
"Mr. Doren, I must warn you that the window of opportunity is limited, and if you fail to cross the bridge with alacrity, you will lose your chance to visit ancient Rome and be granted an audience with Nero. Unless, of course, you have changed your mind...?"
These words finally galvanized Doren into action. "No, heck no," he blurted. "See you later." He turned and pelted into the bridge, where the swirling fog promptly swallowed him whole.
"About time," Leslie muttered, and Lawrence sighed.
"I must admit, I was certain he would never cross that bridge," he agreed. "I hope we're not too late for our other guest."
"We should make it just in time if we hurry," Roarke said, and with that they got back into the car and proceeded with all due haste back to the main house. Pulling up near the fountain, they all spotted their second guest just climbing the steps to the porch of the main house.
Everyone met on the steps and exchanged greetings. "I hope you found your accommodations satisfactory, Miss Andrulaitis," Roarke said.
"Oh, absolutely," she said with a quick nod and a wide smile. "In fact, I was particularly struck by the beautiful painting of the Pyrenees on the wall of my bungalow. Who's the artist?"
Roarke and Leslie exchanged secretive smiles: the painting in question was one of the two Tattoo had given Leslie just before leaving the island with Solange the previous year. "He's a very dear friend of mine," Roarke said with a smile. "If you'll come inside, we can discuss your fantasy."
Once inside, Roarke moved behind the desk; Leslie, as usual, stood beside it; and Lawrence took up a post next to a sideboard which bore a tray that held a cut-glass decanter and a crystal goblet. "Please sit down, Miss Andrulaitis, and tell us a little about yourself," Roarke suggested.
Janine sat down, and Lawrence poured some water from the decanter into the goblet and handed it to her. "Thank you. Well, I've been writing ever since not long after I learned to read. The first story I ever wrote was something called Monkey, Turkey and Donkey Find a Skeleton Key." Her hosts chuckled. "I have everything I ever wrote in a file cabinet at home, and my mother even used to date the stuff I wrote when I was a kid. I just wish something could see the light of publication, if you know what I mean. It's not easy getting one rejection slip after another. So I thought it might help bolster my will to keep trying if I got a taste of what it's like to have a book on the New York Times bestseller list, even just for a weekend."
"Understandable," Roarke said smilingly. "The fact that you included a manuscript with your original letter was extremely helpful."
"It was very good, madam," Lawrence offered. "I was awake till two A.M. trying to finish it; I just couldn't put it down." Roarke shot him a startled look, and then swung around to stare at Leslie when she spoke.
"I guess we all read the manuscript," she said and glanced sheepishly at her adoptive father. "Lawrence is right—it was great. You're a really good writer. I can't understand why nobody wants to publish your stuff."
"Thanks for the encouragement," Janine said with a wistful little smile. "All writers thrive on praise, and every little positive remark is more than welcome...especially to us unpublished authors."
"Ah," said Roarke, "but as of now, you are no longer in that category, Miss Andrulaitis. As soon as you step out the door, you will be among the ranks of bestselling authors." He lifted a gold pocket watch from his vest, checked the time and replaced it. "In twenty minutes, you are due for a book-signing appearance at a store not too far from here. Leslie will take you there." He handed his daughter a set of keys. "Are you ready?"
"I've been ready for years," Janine said and grinned at them all. "Lead the way, Leslie!"