§ § § -- August 3, 1991
By the time they did arrive at the hotel, they found Camille there with her husband, Jimmy Omamara, the assistant manager; they were having a rather messy lunch with their year-old son, David. Standing over them was the hotel's chef, Jean-Claude, still as irascible and ill-tempered as always, glaring at the oblivious little boy who was playing with slices of banana that Camille had cut for him. Jimmy saw Roarke and Leslie first and shot to his feet, making Jean-Claude snap to attention in his turn. Camille grinned up at them. "Hi, Leslie, Mr. Roarke. Haven't seen you two in a little while."
"Oh, you know us…busy, busy, busy," Leslie said lightly. "Taking a break?"
"Of sorts," Camille said, her grin turning a touch rueful as she regarded her son. "Jean-Claude thinks we're crazy not to start him on gourmet fare."
"Zees boy must be trenned," Jean-Claude growled in his nearly-incomprehensible French accent, which had always struck Leslie as different from, and even thicker than, Tattoo's. "Eef you do not tren 'eem, 'e always eat no more zen common peasant food."
"There's nothing wrong with 'common peasant food'," Leslie said mildly. "In fact, I'd say most people would rather have that than some of the more exotic stuff."
Jimmy snorted with amusement. "If that's your way of asking if the octopus is still on tonight's menu, then the answer is yes. And I refuse to train my son to eat gourmet fare by starting him out with octopus."
"Zere will be someone 'oo wants my spotlight deesh tonight," Jean-Claude said with a haughty stubbornness about him. "Zere eez always someone, no mattair what."
"He's right, you know," Roarke noted with carefully concealed amusement. "And I have received quite a few compliments on some of the most exotic items."
"I steel weesh to sairve fugu," Jean-Claude said, clasping his hands and staring at the ceiling, a look of rapture on his features. "Ah, ze most wondairful seafood deesh zat 'as evair been eenvented! Ze Japanese, zey do such marvelous sings wiz food."
Roarke's amusement vanished, while Camille, Leslie and Jimmy looked at one another blankly. "I'm sorry, Jean-Claude, but while you are chef in this hotel, on my island, you'll serve no fugu dishes," he said implacably. "Perhaps after your retirement, when you are solely responsible for what you serve your diners, you might try it. But I refuse to take any chances whatsoever with that fish."
Jean-Claude sighed deeply. "Ah, m'sieur Roarke, you wound a man's 'eart. Fugu is my dream deesh…"
"I can't possibly imagine why," remarked an amused male voice, and they turned then to see Errico Bartolomé strolling through the breakfast room in their direction. "Fugu is highly toxic, my dear sir. Why, on my last trip to Japan, my host had a most unfortunate encounter with fugu. The chef had too little knowledge of its proper preparation."
"You mean he died?" Camille blurted, looking horrified.
"I'm quite afraid he did, my lady," Bartolomé said sadly, shaking his head. "Mr. Roarke, I commend you for maintaining a ban on fugu here. Without a doubt, that fish is gustatory Russian roulette." He turned to the sulking Jean-Claude. "Pray tell, my good sir, what's on the evening's menu?"
Jean-Claude muttered ungraciously, "Octopus à la Jean-Claude."
"Octopus, you say? One of my very favorite seafood dishes," Bartolomé exclaimed, delighted. "You may look forward to seeing me in your dining room this evening, my good man. I haven't had the occasion to dine on octopus in several years." Jean-Claude stared at him in astonishment, a huge grin blooming on his rotund features, while the Arcolosian turned to Roarke. "If I may presume on your time, Mr. Roarke, I'd like a word with you."
"By all means," Roarke said. "Excuse me." He and Bartolomé moved aside, while Leslie stared after the latter man and shook her head.
"Guess I should have known," she mumbled. Sighing, she turned to the beaming chef. "So, Jean-Claude, what're the chances of there being swordfish on the menu?"
"For you, Meess Leslie, I shall 'ave eet," Jean-Claude promised, Bartolomé's unexpected enthusiasm having put him in a much better mood. "I send to ze feeshing veellage right away. Excusez moi, s'il vous plait." He strode briskly away to the kitchens, and the Omamaras breathed simultaneous sighs of relief.
Leslie giggled at them. "That bad, huh? Well, that takes care of my primary reason for coming over here."
Camille smirked. "I don't blame you. So, who's that good-looking guy talking to Mr. Roarke, or am I banned from asking yet?"
"Oh, just a guest," said Leslie. "He's a widower looking for a new wife."
"Hm." Camille's eyebrows shot up and she peered more carefully at Bartolomé. "So he's available, is he?"
"Too bad you aren't," Jimmy reminded her pointedly.
Camille grinned at him. "Oh, calm down, I'm just yanking your chain. Well, he'll have no trouble at all finding a wife, with his looks."
"I should think not," Leslie agreed, "but as usual, Mr. Roarke's hedging his bets. And also as usual, he probably knows something the rest of us don't."
As it happened, at just about that very moment Roarke found it expedient to inquire about the necessity of keeping Bartolomé's secret from Leslie. "Forgive me for asking, but I find it difficult to apprise my daughter of the pertinent details of your fantasy without her knowing—particularly in light of your plans once you do find a new wife."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, but I just can't take that risk," Bartolomé said. "Oh, not that I'm suggesting your daughter would be so unprofessional as to spread the word if she knew the secret. But women have a way of talking. As you see, even now she is there chatting with that young family. Please, Mr. Roarke, don't tell anyone yet. I will advise you of the right time, but I've barely begun my search."
"Leslie and the wife of my assistant hotel manager have been friends for quite a few years," Roarke said, his tone cooling slightly, "but she has never revealed anything she should not, even to her friends." He hesitated, watching Leslie while she leaned over and tickled little David under the chin, then sighed quietly. "However, if it is your wish that I not tell her, then so be it. She won't know until you advise otherwise."
"Thank you," Bartolomé said wholeheartedly. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, I truly do appreciate your cooperation. As for the other—are you quite sure there will be enough time to make all the arrangements?"
"Of course, Mr. Bartolomé, of course," replied Roarke, once again the warm and gracious host. "You need have no fear; the staff are extremely efficient, and they will handle everything once the word has been given."
"Splendid. Once again, I extend my deepest gratitude. Now I must be off once more; as you said earlier, there are so many lovely women to choose from." Bartolomé returned Roarke's smile and bowed slightly. "Excuse me."
Roarke nodded, watched him leave and frowned just perceptibly. Something didn't sit right with him about Bartolomé's excuse for keeping Leslie in the dark, but he couldn't put his finger on it at the moment. Other than the dismissive "women talk" statement, he had no real reason to wonder about it. He sighed again and went over to rejoin Leslie; he would just have to wait and see what developed as time passed.
At lunch, however, Bartolomé did surprise Roarke somewhat by remarking, "I do hope a week is long enough for me to find what I am seeking."
"A week?" echoed Leslie, halting in the course of lifting a soup spoon.
"Oh, I do apologize, Miss Hamilton," Bartolomé said, looking genuinely contrite. "I did advise Mr. Roarke that I meant to remain here that long, but I inadvertently omitted you. Please, my lady, do accept my humblest apologies. Of course," he said, turning to Roarke, "I admit to having a little trouble believing that you can accomplish in eight days what I haven't achieved in eight years."
Roarke and Leslie looked knowingly at each other, and Roarke produced another of his mysterious smiles. "Have a little faith, Mr. Bartolomé. After all, this is Fantasy Island."
Bartolomé quirked one eyebrow but made no comment otherwise. After a moment his gaze strayed to Leslie, who reached for her glass of sparkling white-grape juice with her left hand and thus put the wedding ring she still wore in plain view. Bartolomé stared at it as if he'd never seen such a thing before.
"I didn't realize you were married," he said, "and here I've been calling you Miss Hamilton. Once again, I beg your forgiveness, my lady."
Leslie froze again and gave him a strangely haunted look, then cleared her throat and looked away. "I…actually I'm widowed, Mr. Bartolomé."
"Oh." Bartolomé looked suddenly intrigued; Roarke glanced at him, then at Leslie, a little concern arising as he noted her struggle to regain her composure. It had been about thirteen months now since Teppo's death, but she could still sometimes be thrown by unexpected reminders at some of the oddest moments.
She took a breath, lifted the glass and sipped from it, her eyes downcast. Roarke could appreciate her need for a stalling tactic, and said only, "It's still a recent tragedy for her, and she hasn't yet fully recovered. Why don't you try some of this pâté, Mr. Bartolomé? It's excellent—our Mariki is an extremely accomplished cook."
Having successfully diverted their guest's attention, Roarke cast Leslie a quick questioning look across the table. She smiled faintly and nodded, in an I'm all right gesture, and he smiled back, looking reassured. She said very little more for the rest of the meal, and was clearly relieved when Roarke sent her to check up on their other fantasy.
After lunch neither of them saw their guest again until the Saturday-night luau, when they were making their rounds. They'd greeted nearly all their guests, fantasizers and vacationers alike, when Leslie's friends waved madly at her from a nearby table, clearly urging her to join them. Roarke looked at her curiously. "They do realize you are working," he said, a slight upswing in his tone that made it half question, half statement.
"Oh, they know," Leslie said and grinned, "but it's been quite a while since we were all together at the same time. But if you need me, Mr. Roarke, I'll make my excuses."
Roarke chuckled. "In fact, I was preparing to check with the buffet tenders, and I don't believe I need any help with that. Stay with your friends for a few minutes, and I'll return shortly." She nodded and went to join her friends at their table while Roarke moved off toward the buffet tables.
"Long time no see," said Myeko Sensei Tokita, the proud and happy wife of four months of Hachiro "Toki" Tokita. "I don't think I've seen you since my wedding."
"You're probably right," Leslie said, taking the extra chair that Myeko had appropriated for her from a nearby table. "I can't stay long, I'm on active duty. But while I'm here, what's going on?"
"Has that guy found a wife yet?" Camille asked.
"What guy?" Maureen said, exchanging blank looks with Lauren.
"One of the guests," Camille said. "He dropped in at the hotel this morning and had grouchy old Jean-Claude purring like a kitten. I suppose he's over there right now, scarfing down that octopus Jean-Claude insisted on serving."
"So he really did find someone who'd eat it," Lauren said, laughing. "I bet Leslie and Mr. Roarke avoided the hotel dining room this evening."
"You lose," Leslie teased her. "We did eat over there. I had swordfish and Mr. Roarke had paella. I take it Jimmy's babysitting tonight."
The girls talked for a few minutes; then someone stopped beside their table. Expecting Roarke, Leslie looked up and rocketed to her feet when she recognized Errico Bartolomé. "Oh, hello," she said. "Are you enjoying your evening?"
Bartolomé flashed snowy-white teeth at her. "I certainly am, my lady," he said. "I've just come from a most delicious meal of octopus à la Jean-Claude at the hotel, and now I find you here at these exotic festivities. And I see you have companions."
"Yes," Leslie said, about to turn to her friends to make her excuses, then thought again and caught herself. "From the left, Maureen Tomai, Lauren McCormick, Myeko Tokita and Camille Omamara. Maureen and Lauren are both single."
"And looking," Lauren spoke up with a big grin. Maureen rolled her eyes and snickered resignedly at the same time.
"Ah," said Bartolomé, perusing Lauren and Maureen at some length. It became clear in just a second or two that Maureen interested him, and after a moment he inquired, "My dear lady, perhaps you'd care to join me for a dance and a drink or two?"
Maureen smiled. "Don't mind if I do," she said amiably. "See you later on, everyone." She arose, slipped her arm through Bartolomé's, and ambled off into the crowd with him while the other girls watched, Leslie with an inexplicable sense of relief.
"She gets all the luck," Lauren complained good-naturedly. "It must be those green eyes of hers. I guess your coffee break's over, Leslie—here comes Mr. Roarke."
Leslie glanced over her shoulder and saw that she was right. "Well, back to the salt mines," she said and grinned. "See you later, guys."
She stepped out from the table to fall in at Roarke's side when he paused to greet her friends briefly, then strolled slowly alongside him. Before she could say anything, Roarke queried, "Wasn't that your friend Maureen I saw with Mr. Bartolomé?"
"Yes, he stopped at our table and I introduced the other girls. I guess he took sort of a shine to Maureen. She doesn't really date much, so I was glad to see her accept his offer of a dance and some drinks." Leslie eyed Roarke curiously. "Why exactly is it going to take him a week to find a wife? Most others manage it in just a weekend."
Roarke cleared his throat. "He has his reasons, Leslie. After all, even here on the island, it's not always easy to ascertain compatibility in only two days. And of course, there are a great many candidates to choose from."
"There's that," Leslie agreed. "Well, who knows, maybe he and Maureen will hit it off. Although if they do, I'd really hate to see her leave the island."
"It's still only his first day," Roarke pointed out. "Why don't you wait and see before you begin worrying about losing another friend."