§ § § -- August 5, 1991

Around lunchtime Bartolomé passed by the main house and saw Roarke and Leslie having their meal on the veranda as they almost always did; about to call out a greeting, he suddenly saw Mariki appear with her serving cart and decided to wait and let her finish serving her employers before he put in an appearance. What he heard, however, gave birth to what he considered a wonderful idea.

"I thought you might like—ah…choo!" Mariki whipped her head to one side and released an explosive sneeze that made both Roarke and Leslie rear back slightly in their chairs and stare at her with wide-eyed concern.

"Are you okay?" Leslie finally asked.

"I don't know," Mariki admitted. "I woke up with a sore throat this morning, and now I've been sneezing all day. My head hurts too. But there's no one else who can—"

"Say no more, Mariki," Roarke said, holding up a hand. "It sounds as though you're coming down with a cold. I insist that you take the rest of the afternoon off and rest at home. You shouldn't make the problem worse by trying to work through the day."

"But who will prepare the evening meal for you?" Mariki fretted anxiously, sounding slightly stuffed up in the wake of her sneeze. "No one else in the kitchen can cook properly, and I don't trust Kalani or Malana to…"

"Oh, cut it out, Mariki," Leslie said with a grin to temper the words. "We won't starve to death, if that's what you're afraid of. We can just have supper at the hotel."

"Are you sure, Miss Leslie?" Mariki asked doubtfully.

"Of course," Leslie and Roarke said in perfect chorus. Roarke added, "Enough is enough, Mariki. You're better off at home if you're not feeling well. Now go on home and take care of yourself, so that you don't intensify the illness."

Finally Mariki acquiesced and wheeled her cart back to the kitchen, and Roarke and Leslie resumed eating. After a bite Roarke said, "As a matter of fact, Leslie, it will be quite a late dinner, I'm afraid. I will need to spend the afternoon making arrangements to open up a castle on the other side of the island for the Van Deventer fantasy next weekend."

"How late do you expect to be?" Leslie asked, not overly concerned.

"Past eight at least," Roarke replied. "You might be wiser to have the evening meal at the usual hour instead of waiting for me to return."

Leslie looked up in surprise. "Really? Just how big is this castle?"

"It's quite a large one," Roarke said. "It's owned by a man who goes solely by the name of Ignatius, who is a relative of one Alphonse…whom you might remember."

"Oh, the Alphonse who kidnapped Tattoo?" Leslie said and grinned. "I remember Tattoo saying that that's one big building. Well, in that case, I guess I'll go ahead and have supper at the hotel, at the usual time. But when you do come home, I think you should have something to eat as well. If it isn't healthy for me to skip a meal, then it's not healthy for you to do it either."

Roarke chuckled. "I will take that under advisement," he said and extracted his gold watch. "It's somewhat later than I expected. We'd better hurry."

Delighted with the plans he had just overheard, Bartolomé turned and jogged away in the direction he'd originally come to pay a visit to his new friend Jean-Claude. It took him a little while to talk the crotchety chef into cooperating with him, but he finally convinced him to go along with the plan. Pleased with himself, he then went to a jeweler in Amberville and gave him three of the rainbow gems he had brought with him, explaining what he wanted done with them and gaining the man's cooperation with a mind-boggling sum that had the jeweler all but kowtowing to him. She can't refuse me now, he thought smugly to himself, strolling back to his bungalow and eagerly anticipating the evening.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie was more than a little astonished when Jean-Claude himself emerged from the kitchen, waving aside her waiter and standing over her with a solicitous look. "Meess Leslie, so good of you to gress my dining room thees evening," he said. "I 'ave ze special deesh waiting for you." He turned to the waiter and snapped, "Go, you fool, an' get ze deesh." The waiter scurried off, clearly intimidated. Leslie didn't think she had seen him before; he was very young and probably new.

"What's this all about?" she asked, perplexed.

Jean-Claude eyed her, looking wounded. "You do not weesh ze special deesh?"

Leslie hesitated, wondering uneasily what peculiar seafood item she was going to be forced to sample. "Well, I…" She got no further, for the waiter appeared at that moment bearing a silver platter. "Wow, that was quick."

"Bon, bon," Jean-Claude said curtly to the waiter, "you move fast for ze chenge. Do not stan' zere, sairve ze deesh!"

"Right away," squeaked the teenage boy and set the platter on the table, lifting the cover to reveal a steaming plate. Leslie caught a whiff and looked at Jean-Claude in surprise; it was definitely a fish dish, but it didn't smell like something unfamiliar.

"Be'old," Jean-Claude said and swept his hand over the plate with a flourish of pride. "For you, Meess Leslie—filets de poisson dugléré."

"Oh," she said, peering at the plate with interest. "I'm sorry, my French is nonexistent. Could you maybe translate that?"

"Poached feesh wiz tomato," Jean-Claude told her, beaming. "An' I know you are born een ze Angleterre-Neuve, so I use cod een ze deesh."

It took her a moment to realize he meant New England, and suddenly she appreciated the trouble he'd gone to. She relaxed and smiled. "Merci beaucoup, Jean-Claude," she said. "I'm sure I'll enjoy this very much." Jean-Claude's face nearly split in two with an enormous grin that clearly flabbergasted the teenage waiter, who watched him leave for about five full seconds before coming to with a start at Leslie's soft giggle and scuttling away.

She had had time to savor only one bite before someone else stopped at her table and inquired with unusual deference, "Might I have this seat, my lady?" She looked up and found herself staring at Errico Bartolomé, whose face was alight with childlike hope.

Warily she said, "I don't know if I should let you."

"Oh, please, my dear Miss Hamilton, I do apologize for my forward manner this morning. I had no idea you felt so. I admit, you took me quite by surprise, but I truly do understand your position, believe me. I should feel so much better if you'd but forgive me and allow me to dine with you." He took in her unchanged expression and added, "As friends, of course. Your assistance would be as valuable to me as Mr. Roarke's, and I should surely hate to continue on knowing that you were upset with me. Are you still so, then?"

His effusive speech confused her a little, and she had to sort out his words before coming to the conclusion that he simply wanted to mend fences between them. Though still a little leery of him, Leslie had to admit to herself that there wasn't any obvious reason to refuse him. So she said with a trace of reluctance, "Well, since you put it that way, then by all means, sit down. You should try some of this." She indicated the plate in front of her.

"Ah, Jean-Claude knows what I like," Bartolomé said dismissively, settling into the chair opposite her. "As a token of my sincerity, I should be very happy if you would accept this." From his blazer pocket he produced a delicate gold chain bracelet set with three small, sparkling rainbow gems. "For you."

Leslie stared, lower jaw sinking slightly and stunned eyes fixed on the bracelet. "Oh, I really shouldn't…" she began.

"My dearest lady, if you turn me down, I should be desperately disappointed," he said earnestly, leaning across the table. "Please, accept this as a token of my apology and my sincerest good wishes to you. I beg you."

Wondering in the back of her brain if Roarke would chastise her for accepting gifts from guests, she slowly reached for the bracelet, then stopped herself. "I don't think I'm supposed to…" she began, a little wistful despite herself.

"I shall clear it with Mr. Roarke myself," Bartolomé promised her, as if reading her mind. "Never fear. As I said, a token of apology, as well as friendship."

She loosed a sigh of defeat and finally accepted the proffered bracelet. "Thank you," she said, feeling that the words were inadequate. "Thank you very much."

Jean-Claude appeared once more, bearing a plate for Bartolomé and setting it in front of him with another flourish. "As you request before," he said, "boeuf à la bourguignon."

Leslie looked up sharply at that, and Bartolomé caught it and laughed self-consciously. "Milla gràcie, my good man, milla gràcie." Jean-Claude beamed again and left them.

"That sounds Italian, what you just said," Leslie remarked, momentarily distracted.

"It means 'a thousand thanks' in the Arcolosian tongue," Bartolomé explained. "Our language, as Mr. Roarke noted when I came here, has evolved from a mixture of the French and Italian that our first settlers from those two countries spoke. We also have any number of words that arose on their own, so that they are distinctly and uniquely Arcolosian." He stopped, noting that Leslie sat and simply watched him. "Is something wrong?"

"Your dish," she said. "It's what my friend Lauren ordered when you ate with her last evening."

He actually turned red. "I could not resist—it looked delectable when I saw her eating it. And besides, Jean-Claude has no more octopus."

She blinked once at him, then suddenly fell back in her chair and burst out laughing. "All right, all right, Mr. Bartolomé, I give up. All your apologies are hereby accepted. And once again, I thank you for the bracelet. Now, for heaven's sake, enjoy your meal, and why don't we talk about more pleasant things."