§ § § -- August 24, 1991
Russell St. Anthony arrived at the tiny Fantasy Island Airport, located on the southwestern edge of the island, by private jet, a good three hours after the other guests had disembarked from the charter. The island limousine service picked him up there and brought him to the main house. It was just before noon; at that point, Leslie and Roarke were in the process of launching the fantasy of one Laurie Gibson, a twenty-five-year-old secretary still living with her parents in a hamlet called Valley Head, Alabama. Laurie's fantasy was to revisit her childhood in her native Sharon, Massachusetts.
"You see, Mr. Roarke," she said, "when I was in fifth grade, my parents decided out of the blue to move to Alabama. I turned out to be a very bad transplant. In some ways it was like moving to another country; the culture is very different from what I grew up with. By the time I realized that, my classmates had pegged me as different—and of course, to a kid, different is bad. So I never really had any friends. I want to go back to the happy part of my childhood. I've been dreaming of that for ages, and it's all I want."
"You do realize that there is no way whatsoever for you to go back permanently," Roarke said, sitting up in his chair and frowning slightly. "Even if you could remain, time inevitably passes, Miss Gibson. And one day you would find yourself reliving the move away and all the memories you have subsequently gathered."
She shrugged uncomfortably. "That wasn't exactly my intention, Mr. Roarke," she protested, though neither he nor Leslie was convinced. She seemed a little too taken aback by Roarke's gentle warning.
"Are you quite sure of that?" he queried softly, regarding her for a moment.
"Well, I know even you can't stop time, Mr. Roarke," Laurie Gibson said, sighing. "I can see your point. But I really do want to revisit those days. I even brought a video camera so I can tape it all. My memories fade a little more every year, and I wanted a way to enhance them." She caught the very surprised glances that Roarke and Leslie exchanged and leaned forward, looking anxious. "Won't it work?"
Roarke smiled faintly. "Miss Gibson, was it your intention to be merely an observer, or an active participant? For you see, I cannot reverse the fact of your chronological aging. If you wish to be an actual part of what you are revisiting, it would be necessary for you to take on another identity and try to find some way to fit into the neighborhood…whereas, if you are an observer, you can move about your surroundings without anyone seeing you." His smile bloomed fully then. "And in the latter case, yes, your video camera will work."
She grinned sheepishly while Leslie chuckled softly. "Gosh, no, it's more than enough just to watch. I don't mind being an observer, just so I can do this."
At that moment the door flew open and Russell St. Anthony strode inside, stopping at the top of the foyer steps and glaring at Roarke. "Well, I'm here. Is my chateau ready?"
Laurie Gibson had turned in her seat and was staring at him; Leslie's gaze had turned arctic. Roarke slowly arose from the chair and spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "If you will please excuse us for five minutes, Leslie and I will be with you shortly."
"Look, Roarke, I paid good money for—" St. Anthony began.
"Out!" Leslie's voice cracked like a whip; she was unable to contain herself. The newcomer gave her a sharp look; but something in her fierce glare seemed to actually make him check himself, and he shrugged and went out.
Roarke paused long enough to study his daughter for a moment. "Effective, if a bit impulsive," he remarked dryly, smiling. "But thank you, Leslie." She shrugged and turned a bit pink, but smiled back.
"Mr. Roarke…was that Russell St. Anthony?" Laurie Gibson asked, amazed.
"The very same," Roarke said, resuming his seat, "but you need not concern yourself with him, Miss Gibson. Are you ready to begin your fantasy? If so, just follow Leslie through that door, and you will be on your way." He gestured at the time-travel room, whose door currently stood about half open.
"Fantastic," blurted their guest, springing to her feet and promptly forgetting about the offensive intruder. "Just show me the way."
"Right over here, Miss Gibson," Leslie said and went with her to the door. She let the other woman precede her inside, casting a speaking look at Roarke before closing the door behind her. Roarke settled back in his chair and shook his head to himself.
Not ten seconds after they had gone, the door popped open again and St. Anthony re-entered the room. "Well?" he demanded.
Roarke simply looked back at him, his dark eyes losing every drop of warmth. After a suitable interval he said, "Well, what?"
"Are you going to grant my fantasy or not?" St. Anthony snapped. "Dammit, Roarke, like I said, I paid good money for all this. Ten grand for my fantasy and another ninety thou to take the old Duncan place off your hands." He began to pace the floor just behind the club chairs. "Hell, I'll probably have to take a wrecking ball to it, since you let it go for a song. Place like that should cost easily ten times that much, so there must be huge problems with it."
"The house is structurally sound, Mr. St. Anthony," Roarke said without inflection, "although you may prefer to redecorate the interior."
"Oh, you can bet on that," St. Anthony said, rolling his eyes. "But I'll still probably have to gut the place."
"It was the only property available at the time," Roarke said.
"Yeah, well, we'll see," St. Anthony retorted. "If I find out I don't like the place, I'll pull out of the whole deal and demand my money back. Savvy?"
"That is, of course, your privilege," said Roarke, "although I dare say you might regret your choice, under the present circumstances. However, I am not one to argue semantics. You may make your decision here and now. If you decide to go through with your fantasy and move into the chateau, we will take you there as soon as my daughter has returned. If not, you may leave immediately."
"You'd cut me a check," St. Anthony said.
"Your money would be refunded," Roarke replied flatly.
Just then Leslie emerged from the time-travel room. "Well, she's on her way."
"Very good," said Roarke. "Mr. St. Anthony?"
The actor threw his hands into the air and complained, "It's about time! Well, then, let's get going. I've invested too much into this whole debacle to back out now. Take me to my chateau, and hurry up." Without waiting for them, he strode out of the house; Leslie growled low in her throat, and Roarke loosed one short voiceless chuckle at her reaction as he arose and accompanied her out in St. Anthony's wake.
St. Anthony saw fit to complain about several things on their way to the Enclave; Roarke did not comment, acting as though he were deaf, and Leslie had to keep reminding herself that, when all was said and done, this insufferable person was still their guest and must be treated accordingly. She dared not open her mouth for fear she'd speak her mind.
When they pulled up in front of St. Anthony's new acquisition, the sight of the place finally silenced him, and he stared at it in disbelief. Roarke and Leslie had joined him at the side of the car before he recovered enough to shake his head. "Holy hell on wheels. I paid ninety grand for a place that looks like Dracula's vacation home."
"There is still time to reconsider your purchase," Roarke said.
St. Anthony let his head hang and shook it, heaving a sigh. "Well, I suppose I can't have my fantasy granted any other way. Aw, hell. I guess it's worth a look."
Their subsequent tour of the inside of the mansion produced a book's worth of sarcastic remarks from St. Anthony, forcing Leslie to restrain herself to a point at which Roarke began to wonder how long it would be before she lost control. Reinforcing that control with a very stern glance of warning, he then guided St. Anthony back to the cavernous entry hall. The chandelier, meticulously cleaned the previous day, lit the entire area with a bright glow.
"What the hell happened in that dungeon?" St. Anthony muttered, glancing back toward the door that led to it. "Looks like that's where the Spanish Inquisition got its start." He didn't notice Leslie's wince. "And these rooms are musty-smelling, and the furniture and décor are the ugliest I've ever seen. The previous owner must've been one amazing wacko to have something this Gothic. That statue in the fountain out front just plain creeps me out, and it's going as soon as I can figure out who'll take it."
"I presume that means you are planning to stay," Roarke said.
St. Anthony clapped his mouth shut in surprise, stared at him, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's what it means. Well, then, what about my fantasy?"
"That's up to you," said Roarke. "I have provided the means and the locale; the rest, you must supply. Enjoy your new home, Mr. St. Anthony. Please excuse us. Leslie?"
St. Anthony stared at them in disbelief as they started out the front door at a brisk walk. "You have to be joking!" he yelled when they didn't stop. "You're just leaving me in this rat trap? Do I have anything to eat? Where the hell are my suitcases?" Neither Roarke nor Leslie broke stride; they seemed to be practicing selective deafness. St. Anthony's ranting died away when the door closed behind them.
"Great," he muttered, staring around him. "Just great. Well, hell, maybe the phone works." Unused to fending for himself, he poked around four rooms before finally discovering a large black rotary-dial telephone in the kitchen, sitting atop the Fantasy Island phone directory. Wondering if it had been a mistake to leave his entourage behind after all, he pulled the phone book out and paged through it in idle curiosity; the entire directory was all of twenty pages thick, counting both business and residential numbers. Shaking his head, he hunted for caterers' listings and found there were only two. If he must eat alone and order his own food, he was at least going to eat well; and there might be leftovers. He chose one of the caterers at random and dialed 396.
On the other end came a voice. "Tomai's Catering, may we help you?"
"Yes, you may," St. Anthony said. "I want something to eat, and I want it delivered." He proceeded to describe exactly what he was looking for. "Do that and there might be a tip in it for you."
Silence on the other end…then, "How many people will this be for?"
"One," he said. "Myself."
More silence. Finally the voice said, "I'm sorry, sir, but we cater for large groups only, not individuals. There are restaurants that will be happy to fill your order, but we're not equipped for that. Have a good afternoon, sir."
"Wait," St. Anthony yelled into the phone. "I'm a paying customer. Are you people catering something tonight, or what?"
A sigh gusted over the line. "No, sir, we're not…but…"
"Then there's nothing stopping you from filling my order. In my experience, caterers usually have better cooking than restaurants; and if you prepare about half what you normally would for a party, then I'll have enough leftovers to last me at least a week and you won't have to deal with me." Nor I with you, he added snidely, without saying it.
"Then you're going to have a long wait for your order, sir," the voice told him.
"How long can I expect it to take?" he demanded.
"If you want quality food, then you'll have to schedule the meal for suppertime. If you're hungry right now, then you'll have to either order from one of the restaurants, or settle for grilled hot dogs."
In spite of himself, St. Anthony cracked out a laugh. "I loathe hot dogs," he admitted through a long sigh. "Oh, all right. Then if that's the way it has to be, bring it here for six, no later. Meantime, maybe you can recommend a half-decent restaurant. And don't make it the hotel restaurant. That snob of a French chef really gets on my nerves."
A reluctant chuckle sounded from the other end. "You wouldn't be the first one. Well, in that case, you'll have to call the only other restaurant on the island. The number's 505. Good luck, sir."
"I might need it," said St. Anthony disparagingly and disconnected the call without either a thank-you or a goodbye. Then he dialed the number he'd been given, muttering at the old rotary dial and how long it seemed to take. "This old thing really has to go… Oh, yeah. Listen, I want you to deliver some lunch…"
‡ ‡ ‡
The phone rang at the main house a little past two. Roarke had gone out to check on one of the fantasies, leaving Leslie sorting out bills and fantasy requests from the day's mail. She picked up the phone and murmured distractedly, "Main house."
"Did you and Roarke mean to strand me here?" demanded a voice on the other end. "I need a car, dammit! I want one right now, and you better get it here within half an hour."
Leslie sat up straight and glared at the wall across from the desk. Several retorts sprang to mind, but she took great care to restrain herself. "You're going to have to allow me time to find one that isn't in use for the weekend. I'll have one brought to you as soon as I'm able to do that."
"Well, hurry up. This place is a total dump, and I want to get out of here and find some people who're willing to whip it into shape for me before I have to sleep here."
"Fine, Mr. St. Anthony," she said tightly and managed to hang up on him before he did it to her first. Slamming a hand onto the desktop in frustration, she grabbed the phone again and made several calls in fairly rapid succession. She had finally managed to line up a jeep for St. Anthony's use and was preparing to leave the house when Roarke came back in and stopped to watch.
"Is there a problem, Leslie?" he asked.
"Our favorite new resident wants a car at his disposal," she told him, removing a key from the gold box on the desk. "I finally tracked down a jeep that was free for awhile, and I'm meeting Mateo out front so I can bring him back when we've delivered the goods."
Roarke chuckled almost inaudibly. "I see," he said. "Well, when you have dropped off the jeep and Mateo, would you please go to the hotel and check with Jean-Claude as to this evening's menu. And while you are at the chateau, remind Mr. St. Anthony about the luau this evening."
"If you insist," she said with a shrug. "I'll be back a little later."
"Try to be patient with him, Leslie," Roarke suggested gently, catching her arm as she started past him toward the foyer. "He has a great deal on his mind."
"It's very difficult, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said. "He doesn't request anything, he demands it. And he never expresses any kind of gratitude. What on earth makes him such a total jerk anyway? Why would he treat people like that?"
"That's a question only Mr. St. Anthony can answer," Roarke told her.
She sighed. "I suppose so. But in the meantime, it'd be nice if he'd act just a little more like the first part of his surname." She left the house, leaving Roarke laughing quietly behind her, and stepped off the veranda just in time to see a Polynesian driver pull around the bend in the lane with the jeep St. Anthony had insisted on.
At the Duncan chateau, Mateo parked behind the station wagon and settled himself into its passenger seat while Leslie went to the gate and unlocked it with the key Roarke still had. Then she went to the double front doors and expended some of her frustration with their recalcitrant guest by giving one of the lion's-head knockers a good, solid, noisy workout. After less than five seconds the door flew open and St. Anthony glared at her. "For crying out loud, you trying to break the door down?"
"Your jeep is here," Leslie said curtly, displaying the keys at him. They looked at each other for a long moment after St. Anthony swiped the keys out of her fingers; then she added sarcastically, "You're welcome. Oh yes, and the luau's tonight." She turned to leave.
"Just a minute, Miss Hamilton," St. Anthony said, and she paused, turning back to give him a wary stare. "Roarke manages to be civil to me. Why can't you?"
"Oh," she said in a tone of light mockery, "I suppose you didn't know. Mr. Roarke and I are well aware of how you treated Michiko Tokita. She filled us in on quite a bit about your womanizing ways and how callously you treat them when you're tired of them. And in case you wonder why I'm reacting so strongly to her revelations, you might as well know—she's been a dear friend of mine for almost half my life. Michiko's no fool and I've never known her to lie. So I freely admit to being highly biased against you, Mr. St. Anthony. If you'll kindly excuse me, I have things to do." Once again Leslie started for the gate; this time St. Anthony let her go, staring after her.
Michiko got around, all right, he thought, scowling, though mainly at himself. I still can't believe she hooked up with a freaking prince, of all things. She was just a little kid from some no-name place when I first met her, and now I find out she's a Fantasy Islander, and about to be a princess and someday a queen. He heaved a deep sigh, closing the door long after Leslie and Mateo had disappeared in the station wagon. I gotta admit, she was a lot sweeter and less demanding than most of the women I've known. She was the one who made me see the— As if in response to the half-finished thought, a blinding pain shot through his head and he cried out sharply, dropping the keys Leslie had given him and clapping his hands to the sides of his head. His vision blurred and brightly-colored stars floated across what remained of his eyesight. His head felt as though it were going to split in two; at the moment that would have come as a relief. Cursing the air blue, he sank to his knees, moaning. For a moment he gritted his teeth, hoping this would help, but this pain was the longest one yet. Desperate, Russell St. Anthony threw his head back and screamed at the ceiling some twenty feet overhead.