I'm baaaaa-aaacckkk: ) I had some writing projects to catch up on and have finally done so, so here's the latest in the Fantasy Island saga according to me. Enjoy! (Hi, Harry2!)
§ § § -- April 5, 1991
"It just infuriates me, Leslie," announced Maureen Tomai heatedly, pacing the floor in the study of the main house while Leslie tried to split her attention equally between her and the task Roarke had given her. "That woman thinks she's something special just because she runs the hotel. I mean, Camille's husband has almost as much authority as she does, but she doesn't give him any responsibility and takes credit for everything. She acts like she's the one who owns Fantasy Island, not Mr. Roarke!"
Leslie glanced up at this and smiled distractedly. "Oh, come on, she can't be all that bad," she said, without really thinking about what she was saying.
"Yes she can, and she is," retorted Maureen instantly. "Good Lord, Leslie, you should have seen the way she treated my mother." She stopped suddenly in the midst of her pacing and peered suspiciously at Leslie. "Hey, are you even listening to me?"
"Of course," Leslie mumbled, without looking up.
"Oh no you aren't," Maureen said and approached Roarke's desk, where Leslie sat eyeing some papers in front of her. "What're you doing?"
Leslie heaved a great sigh and looked up, focusing her full attention on Maureen at last. "Trying to make some sense out of these papers," she admitted. "I've never seen so much legalese in all my life. They pertain to one of the fantasies for this weekend."
"Oh," Maureen murmured with heightened interest, leaning over to try to read the pages upside-down. Leslie smiled and neatly scooped the papers off the desk, hiding them from her. Maureen straightened up and affected an overdone pout.
"Hey, I was just curious," she said.
"You know the rules," Leslie said, still smiling. "Same as they've always been: no talking pre-fantasy. Maybe we can get together on Monday and chat the way we used to do at lunch in school. But I can't tell you anything right now."
Maureen shrugged good-naturedly. "That's okay. We don't get together much as a group anymore, and with Frida and Michiko both gone, it feels like something's missing. Do you ever hear from either one of them?"
Leslie shook her head. "I guess Michiko's too busy trying to get her singing career off the ground, and as for Frida, I don't know if she keeps in touch with anyone from the island. I know she had friends in high school besides the six of us, but they weren't people we knew as far as I can remember." She shifted in Roarke's chair and changed the subject. "I don't know what we can do about the hotel manager, but if word gets around, that might help. Jimmy's boss is eventually going to have to answer to Mr. Roarke anyway, so you might take a little comfort from that. And I'm sure someone will talk somewhere down the line."
"You're probably right," Maureen conceded. "It's just that the way she treated my mother was totally uncalled-for. Frankly, I think that woman's even worse for PR than old Jean-Claude. Speaking of whom, is he still there?"
Leslie grinned. "Looking forward to retiring next year when he hits sixty-five, but definitely still there. Still an old grouch, but at least he treats me with respect, ever since I told him off about his driving way back when. And he still makes the best seafood dishes we ever tasted. Mr. Roarke and I sometimes have dinner at the hotel just to give Mariki a break and get a little change of pace. His Alaskan king-crab legs are positively superb. They make you really believe you could live on those."
Maureen laughed. "If I ever scrape together enough money to pay for one of those wondrous meals of his, I just might try them. Well, anyway, thanks for letting me vent, Leslie. I guess I should get home. See you Monday, hopefully."
"I'll call," Leslie promised and watched her friend depart. Once Maureen was gone, that left her with the legal papers, to which she returned with another sigh. They didn't make any more sense to her now than they had when she'd begun.
"How are you doing?" inquired a voice from behind her, and she twisted in the chair to find that Roarke had come in through the open French shutter doors.
"Not very well," she admitted readily and brandished the papers at him. "I still haven't figured out what these papers are for. I can't believe it's necessary to use all these huge, incomprehensible words and phrases just to make a simple statement."
Roarke chuckled. "That, my daughter, is a constant in this world, undoubtedly begun by lawyers merely to show off the fruits of their many years in school."
"Apparently," said Leslie. "And I see from this that Australian lawyers are as windy and wordy as their American counterparts."
Roarke smiled at that and took the papers from her. "As it happens, these are owner-ship forms, as yet unsigned. They are the reason for one of our fantasies this weekend, and once we greet our guests tomorrow morning, you'll know the rest. It's late, so I suggest you retire for the night and get some rest."
"My brain's pretty much fried anyway," Leslie agreed. "Okay then, see you in the morning, Mr. Roarke."
"Good night, Leslie," he replied, and she retreated up the stairs. Roarke regarded the papers for a long moment before taking a key from the gold box on the desk and unlocking the top right drawer, where he filed the papers away in the rearmost folder and then took care to lock the drawer again. There was too much riding on those papers to risk their loss or theft. He cast a cursory glance at the grandfather clock near the foyer steps, then decided he might as well call it a night too.
§ § § --April 6, 1991
By now Leslie was accustomed to her role as assistant to her adoptive father, pushing the button to ring the tower bell and then going to meet Roarke on the other end of the porch. She no longer had the giddy sensation of having achieved some wild and wonderful dream that she'd had when she first started the previous summer; but she truly loved her job, and nothing on earth would ever make her give it up.
"Good morning, Mr. Roarke!" she said cheerfully.
"Good morning, Leslie," he replied warmly and glanced skyward. "Another glorious day, isn't it?"
She grinned. "Is there ever any other kind?" she asked, and they both laughed as the car pulled around and they climbed inside.
Their first fantasy was so run-of-the-mill that Leslie knew it would go without any major hitch: another guest who wanted to be a multi-millionaire. Such fantasies as this and others that included finding the perfect spouse, being royalty for a weekend, being a movie star or rock star, or just being young and/or beautiful were what Roarke had once referred to as the "bread and butter" of his business. These were the bill payers and always the most popular. They were routine enough that Leslie seldom paid much attention to them any-more, always looking for the most interesting fantasies. She no longer selected and scheduled them as she had done during Tattoo's and Lawrence's years on the island; Roarke had appropriated this task after Leslie had married Teppo and left the island with him. So she was now in Tattoo's position of asking curious questions about the weekly fantasies.
She watched now as a gaggle of young adults, all essentially in her age bracket, filed out of the plane one after another, talking earnestly and pointing out one sight or another to each other. "Good heavens, they just keep coming, don't they?" she asked.
Roarke chuckled. "They are actually members of two families," he explained. "The three in front are Linda, Graeme and Melissa Carpenter; the foursome behind them are Angus, Hugh, Dorianne and Colin Markham. The two groups run adjacent horse farms some distance outside Port Augusta, South Australia."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with those blank ownership forms, would it?" Leslie asked.
"Yes, it would. Perhaps you are familiar with the story of the Black Phantom?"
She nodded. "The most famous Australian racehorse on earth, except for Phar Lap. If my memory is working properly, the Black Phantom won every race he ever competed in, around the time of the American Civil War, and then vanished after he'd won his hundred-and-twentieth race. No one ever found out what happened to him, and his disappearance is still a mystery to this day."
"Precisely," Roarke said. "Well, it appears that there is a direct descendant of the Black Phantom here on Fantasy Island; and needless to say, both the Carpenters and the Markhams have shown enormous interest in possessing the horse in question."
"Along with every other horse farm in Australia, I'm sure," Leslie joked.
"Actually, these two families have a special connection to the original Black Phantom. The Carpenter and Markham patriarchs emigrated from England together in the 1850s, and established their farms as separate but cooperative ventures. History tells us that they claimed joint ownership of the Black Phantom and became quite wealthy as a result of his winning record. After the horse disappeared, however, the two families became bitter enemies. Each clan believed the other had stolen the horse and hidden the animal away, and the rivalry has been in force ever since then. The current generation in each family stands firm in their belief that they are rightfully entitled to the alleged descendant of the Phantom. And that is their joint fantasy."
"Of course, someone has to lose," Leslie pointed out.
"Exactly," Roarke said. "And I am afraid the quest may lead to more bad blood between the two families than there already is." Leslie raised her eyebrows, but that was all she had a chance to do, for at that moment Roarke's drink arrived and he raised his glass as always. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"