§ § § -- July 21, 1992
At the hotel they entered through the lobby, just in time to overhear one of the front-desk clerks blurt out, "And did you see that rock she had on her finger?" Her companion jabbed her and gestured at the entering pair, and both straightened up in a flash. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie!" they chorused, as if rehearsed.
Roarke's return smile was ironic; Leslie grinned and said sweetly, "Having a slow morning, ladies?"
"It's dead around here," admitted the girl who had mentioned the "rock". Her nametag proclaimed her to be Nokua; she was a native of Polynesian descent. "I'm about ready for my lunch break, to tell you the truth."
"Actually," ventured the other girl, whose nametag said Tomiko, "one interesting thing did happen a little while ago. Someone came in with a lot of campaign posters and asked if it was okay to put one up in here. Mr. Omamara told her to go ahead."
"Mr. Omamara did?" Leslie said, flicking a swift glance at Roarke. Technically, he had the authority; Jimmy had been promoted to general manager of the hotel several months before, when his supervisor had quit in a huff over some trivial incident and left to take a job in the states. Still, Leslie was faintly surprised that he'd allowed it.
Nokua, apparently in a mood to gossip, leaned conspiratorially over the counter and confided, "Personally I think it smacks of nepotism, but he is the manager." She gestured at a bright-blue sign, this one decorated with primary-colored poster paint, attached to a support post some feet away from where Roarke and Leslie stood.
"Who put up the poster?" asked Roarke casually. Leslie peered at him, wondering where the curiosity had come from, before wandering over to examine it.
"Very pretty lady," Nokua volunteered eagerly. "She had very light hair, and her eyes were a lovely shade of green. And Mr. Roarke, you should have seen the rock on her finger!"
"Igneous or sedimentary?" was Roarke's dry retort, making Nokua blink in confusion and triggering a vivid blush in Tomiko, before he turned away. Leslie snickered at Roarke's quip, and he winked at her out of the desk clerks' sight. He cast one uninterested glance at the poster, then paused and read it more carefully. Leslie saw where his attention was focused and nodded with a wry grin. The poster proclaimed: A BREATH OF FRESH AIR IN A STAIL GOVERMENT! ELECT CAMILLE OMAMARA FOR ISLAND LORD MAYER AND CHANGE FANTASY ISLAND FOR GOOD!
"But not for the better," said Roarke when he read the last words, and Leslie found herself caught up in merriment again. "Certainly not for better spelling."
"My gosh, Father!" Leslie sputtered, wiping tears from her eyes. "You're really the master of sarcastic quips today! Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine, Leslie, why do you ask?" Roarke inquired, looking genuinely surprised at this query, and then caught a movement from the dining room. "Ah yes…here he comes." Leslie turned and realized he was referring to Jean-Claude, who was making a beeline for them, the usual scowl on his jowly face.
"M'sieur Roarke, why eez ze keetchen not off-leemits to les enfants?" he demanded, in high dudgeon. "No fewair zen four…count zem, four!…come eento ze keetchen and ask me to 'ave some…postair on ze wall. Non, I say, non! Zey do not belong zere!…"
"I understand, Jean-Claude," Roarke broke off his tirade. "We came to find out what you intend to put on this weekend's menu, so if you don't mind…"
His expression made Jean-Claude forcibly calm himself. "Oui, m'sieur. I plan to sairve squeed, eef you please. And for Meess Leslie, of course, zere will be swordfeesh." Leslie, who had turned rather pale at the chef's special request, nodded quickly and even managed a sickly-looking smile.
Even Roarke looked slightly taken aback, but he rallied more smoothly. "Squid…of course. I'll see that notes are made accordingly. Thank you, Jean-Claude…shall we be on our way, Leslie?"
"By all means," she agreed, a little more enthusiastically than she had quite meant to, and followed Roarke out the door. She groaned once they were in the parking lot and asked plaintively, "Exactly when does he retire again?"
Roarke laughed. "Clearly not soon enough for you. Not to change the subject, but it sounds as if your friend Camille already has a campaign staff of sorts."
"Seems so. From Nokua's description, Maureen put up the poster in the lobby, although I don't know what she means by that 'rock' she mentioned on her finger. And Jean-Claude must have meant the quads—who obviously are the masterminds behind those oh-so-professional campaign posters."
Roarke's soft laugh was abruptly silenced when someone called their names, and they paused and looked around. Jimmy Omamara had just popped out the lobby door and was running in their direction. "Excuse me, I don't mean to delay you…but Leslie, Camille asked me to give you a message." He looked embarrassed, and Leslie wondered why.
"Okay, shoot," she said.
Jimmy hesitated, casting a furtive glance at Roarke, and cleared his throat. "Uh, well, Camille says she's waging an all-out campaign to beat out Mr. Roarke for island lord mayor, and…she wants you to help." He rolled his eyes and looked away, speaking volumes about what he thought of this.
Leslie was so amazed she didn't think before she spoke. "Help her beat my own father?" she exclaimed.
Jimmy turned a fascinating shade of red. "It's only that Camille rationalized that since Mr. Roarke always seems to win, he won't need anyone campaigning for him…"
"Whereas Camille needs all the help she can get," Leslie inserted dryly.
"To put it in a nutshell, yes," Jimmy agreed, shuffling his feet uneasily. "And evidently she figures having the opposition's own daughter campaigning against him would help sway the voters in her direction, though I don't see how. She probably supposes that if even Mr. Roarke's daughter thinks it's time for a change—" He caught himself, and his red face seemed to be headed for spontaneous combustion. "Great Scott, I'm really shoving my foot in it. I apologize, Mr. Roarke, but this is my wife's thinking, not mine."
"Don't worry, Jimmy, we're not in the habit of shooting the messenger," Roarke assured him with a slightly strained smile.
"Well," Leslie began, choosing her words carefully, "tell Camille I'm…flattered that she asked, but…uh, as I'm sure she knows very well, I'm always quite busy with my job. You can tell her I said good luck."
Jimmy grinned reluctantly. "Just between you, me and the proverbial lamppost, she's going to need that too." They all laughed, and Jimmy let out a sigh. "Well, thank God that's over. Now I can get back to work and report back to my wife with a clear conscience." He turned and jogged back to the hotel; Roarke and Leslie watched him for a moment, then looked at each other and both shook their heads.
‡ ‡ ‡
Camille was at that moment sitting in her badly cluttered living room, along with her cousin Lauren McCormick, Myeko Tokita (who had her nearly-four-month-old son Alexander in her arms), and Maureen Tomai in accompaniment. The Ichino quadruplets, aged thirteen, were also there, diligently working on more campaign posters. Posterboard in all the colors of the rainbow leaned against the walls; Magic Markers, pots of tempura paint, crayons, colored pencils, jars of paste, and vials of glitter in assorted colors were scattered across the kitchen table; sheets of paper, many of which were crumpled into wads, littered the floor and furniture; and half-completed signs lay on the coffee table, their glue-and-glitter messages slowly drying. They had been plotting all morning, trying to think of new places for the quads to display more signs. All of a sudden the phone rang.
"Maybe that's Jimmy," said Lauren.
"Or it might be Leslie, offering to help," Myeko suggested optimistically.
Maureen looked dubious. "It's probably just your mother checking on the quads."
"Well, we'd find out if I could just find the damn phone," Camille complained, scrabbling frantically through the campaign detritus while her friends tried to help. Finally Camille dug it out from under a mountain of discarded notebook paper, dumped out of the lone trash bucket by David. "Aha! Hello?"
"Hi honey, it's me." Camille shot a grin at her cousin; the voice was Jimmy's. "Uh…I hate to say this, but I've got some bad news."
Camille's grin faded. "What?"
"I saw Leslie, and she said to tell you she can't help with your campaign. She's too busy working. But she did say she wishes you good luck."
"She probably thinks I'll need it," Camille muttered with ill grace, scowling out the window. On the other end, Jimmy coughed.
"Come on, Camille, even if she was just making an excuse, I personally can't blame her. You really put her on the spot, trying to make her choose between her friend and her father like that."
"I don't need any lectures," Camille said in disgust, "but thanks for the message anyway." She hung up and favored everyone in the room with a black glare.
"I take it Leslie's not helping," Myeko said.
"She will if I have anything to say about it," Camille decided and lifted the receiver again, punching out 001—the number at the main house—with more force than necessary. Maureen, Myeko and Lauren looked at one another.
Maureen gave a delicate little cough. "Uh, Camille, I don't think you should try to push her into it—"
"I'm just trying to find out the real reason why she won't do it," Camille interrupted her. "Jimmy said he thought it might be an excuse." She tapped her foot and waited while the line buzzed repeatedly; at last she was forced to hang up. "No one's there. If you ask me, it really is only an excuse. She just doesn't want to get involved in what she thinks is a losing campaign."
"Oh, Camille, for crying out loud, quit being such a spoiled brat," Lauren said, losing her patience. "We've known Leslie long enough to know that her job keeps her really busy, and we also know how much she loves doing it. I think even if it didn't put her in an awkward position, she'd still steer clear. We don't see much of her, you know, so that in itself is testimony that she's busy all the time."
"I think she made the right decision myself," Myeko said thoughtfully. "After all, this little shack of yours holds only so many people, Camille, and between the four of us and the quads, we've already got enough of a crowd." She grinned at the others.
"Camille, can we have some lunch?" asked Jeremy Ichino then from the table. "We're all starved. Besides, we've been painting posters all morning."
"Yeah, I think we've earned a decent meal by now," Julianne Ichino added.
Camille sighed deeply, picking up the phone and setting it within easy reach before going into the kitchen. "Fine, but while you're waiting, find David. After he overturned the wastebasket, he took off for parts unknown."
"He's probably hiding under the bed again," said Jennette Ichino, sliding out of her chair and trotting off to the bedrooms.
Jonathan Ichino nodded. "He loves it under there. You'd think we'd hear him sneezing on account of all the dust bunnies, but we never do."
"Dust bunnies?" Camille echoed, eyeing Jonathan threateningly. Julianne and Jeremy snickered; Jonathan shrugged unrepentantly.
"Like you ever do that much housework, sis," he scoffed, grinning. At that everyone broke into laughter, even Camille. Good spirits restored, she extended the lunch offer to Maureen, Lauren and Myeko, who all accepted.
After lunch, Camille tried the main house again, ignoring the protests of Lauren and Maureen. It took her another two attempts before someone finally picked up on the other end. "Yes?" said a crisp, businesslike voice.
"Hi, Mr. Roarke. Is Leslie around?" Camille asked. "This is Camille."
At the main house, Roarke covered the receiver; Leslie was just climbing the steps into the foyer, preparing to run another errand. "Leslie, one moment. Camille is calling for you." He held out the phone receiver.
Leslie's eyebrows popped up. "Is that so? I guess word got back to her, and I'm about to hear either an impassioned plea or a demand for a better excuse." Roarke grinned as she accepted the receiver from him. "Hi, Camille."
"All right, Leslie Hamilton, what's the real reason you're not helping me with my campaign?" Camille demanded.
She sounded quite belligerent, but Leslie was used to this and tried to lighten the mood a bit. "My warmest felicitations to you too," she said with gentle sarcasm. "Don't I even rate a hello there anymore?"
"Okay, hello, how are you, I'm fine, happy to hear you are too. Now why'd you refuse to help me out?"
Leslie noted Roarke watching her and rolled her eyes theatrically, pointing at the receiver; Roarke laughed softly and returned his primary attention to the ledger that lay in front of him. Into the phone Leslie said, "Didn't Jimmy give you my message? You know I have no time to spare—there's far too much to do."
"Yeah, like organizing Mr. Roarke's campaign, I'm sure," riposted Camille acidly.
"What campaign?" Leslie asked, her own temper beginning to flare in spite of her best intentions. "I have this job, Camille. I'm sure you've heard of those. It's something some people do in order to earn a living."
"Cute," said Camille curtly. "Come off it, Leslie, that's only an excuse and you know it. You just don't want me winning this election out of spite."
Genuinely hurt, Leslie protested, "Camille, stop it!" Her tone made Roarke look up again, this time with mild concern.
"Look, Leslie, either you help me out, or you can forget about being friends," Camille shot at her. Leslie drew in a sharp, startled breath and stood up straight; Roarke frowned, waiting. After a moment she regrouped.
"So that's the way you want it," Leslie said coldly. "Well, fine, then, but just let me give you a little bit of advice. You'd better get some professionally-printed posters made if you expect anyone to take you seriously. Those homemade ones aren't going to do a thing for your credibility." So saying, she hung up.
Roarke eyed her in surprise. "Now tell me," he asked in genuine perplexity, "why did you suggest she do that? I seem to recall that Tattoo had some very nice campaign posters made up, and they didn't help his cause at all."
Leslie returned his gaze with a speaking look of her own and said quite deliberately, "I know." And very slowly, she smiled. Roarke, chuckling, began to shake his head at her, for they both well remembered just what had happened in Tattoo's case.
±±±±±±±±±
Leslie was sitting alone in the study, occupying her usual chair beside Roarke's desk, writing an essay a teacher had requested on that ancient chestnut, "What I Did During Summer Vacation." She had had the most enthralling summer of her entire life and found herself scribbling madly away, trying to record everything that she had experienced in the last three months. She barely noticed when the foyer door opened and Tattoo entered, lugging a collection of large posters along. They were so big that it took quite a bit of effort for him to get them inside, and he had to kick the door shut since both hands were occupied. His foot connected with more force than he really needed, and the noise penetrated Leslie's concentration enough to make her stop writing and look up.
"Hi, Leslie," he said breathlessly when he saw her lift her head.
"Hi, Tattoo," she replied. "What's all that stuff?"
Tattoo beamed. "They're my new campaign posters. Want to take a look?"
"Sure," she agreed amiably and dropped her pen atop the half-written essay, helping Tattoo prop the posters up against the back of one of the club chairs. Then she lifted one of them and peered at it. A black-and-white photo of a smiling Tattoo, dressed to the nines in bowler hat and pinstriped tails, took up the bottom half of the poster; the text repeated the rhetoric on the sandwich boards he'd been wearing that morning, in white block letters on a dark-blue background with a white border.
"Wow, these are really great!" she exclaimed. "They came out perfectly, and that's the best picture I've ever seen of you. You look ready for a night out on the town."
Tattoo grinned. "Nice of you to say so, Leslie. But I don't know if they're all perfect. I need to double-check them in case the printers misspelled anything. Were you working on schoolwork?" At her nod: "Don't let me bother you, then. You go back to what you were doing, and I'll just go through these."
She settled back into her chair and took up her written narrative again, while Tattoo set about examining each individual poster. It wasn't long before each was engrossed to the point that they forgot about the other altogether; so it was a complete surprise to them both when the door opened and admitted Roarke. Leslie blinked in amazement at the sight that greeted her; Tattoo's posters were now spread out all over the room, and he was still in the process of proofreading. Roarke, no less astonished and decidedly annoyed to boot, swept his incredulous gaze around the messy office.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sharply.
Tattoo, just now alerted to Roarke's arrival, turned around and beamed at him. "Oh, hi, boss! How do you like my campaign posters?" He gestured at the nearest one.
Roarke's voice was crisp with displeasure. "I don't like them," he retorted, "or anything else that clutters up my private study!"
Tattoo peered at him in an oddly challenging way that riveted Leslie's attention. "Boss," he said slyly, "you're not unhappy because I'm running against you, are you?"
Roarke contrived amusement, with something short of the results he'd been aiming toward. "Not at all, Tattoo," he said through an ever-so-slightly-forced chuckle, "not at all. I will admit, however, that some people have considered that my various terms in office were without parallel. And I am somewhat at a loss," he concluded, his voice steadily rising, "to understand why, for the first time, I am being challenged at the polls!" He halted, just then becoming aware of Leslie's startled expression and Tattoo's knowing smile, and added dismissively, "Not that it really matters." Leslie had to bite her lip to hide her grin.
"Boss," Tattoo said then, "the job carries power—that's why I want it!"
"Really?" Roarke demanded, arms akimbo.
Tattoo nodded in eager anticipation. "There's thousands of crazy groupies—power-loving chicks—who go ape over a political boss!" he explained with relish, while Roarke rolled his eyes and Leslie shook her head, grinning.
Roarke had clearly had enough. "Tattoo, I hereby order you to gather up all this…all this campaign literature and get it out of my private office, immediately! Do you understand?"
To both his and Leslie's astonishment, Tattoo drew his spine straight and regarded Roarke almost frostily. "Boss, I'm sorry, I cannot do that," he said with cool formality. "You'll have to talk to my campaign manager."
"Really!" Roarke said again, his eyes blazing. "And who, may I ask, might that be?" So saying, he shifted his gaze expectantly to Leslie, who stared blankly back at him.
Before she had time to gather the presence of mind to deny anything, however, Tattoo spoke, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Him."
Since Leslie very obviously wasn't a "him", Roarke let his gaze follow Tattoo's prompt at the same time Leslie did, and they both found themselves staring in disbelief at none other than Chester the Chimp. Chester bared his teeth in a caricature of a grin and grunted at Roarke as if trying to tell him something; at wits' end, Roarke directed a supplicating gaze at the ceiling and sighed loudly. Leslie shook her head and snorted in annoyance, which caught Tattoo's attention. She reacted to his questioning look by making a show of concentrating on her essay. Puzzled, Tattoo stood and stared at her, while Roarke gathered a stack of flyers from the seat of his chair and deliberately handed them over to Chester before shooting Tattoo a sharp look and settling behind the desk.
±±±±±±±±±
"You know," Roarke echoed Leslie's last two words and raised one eyebrow.
"Of course, Father," she said with overdone innocence. "How could you possibly doubt me? I was only trying to help out a friend."
Roarke's faint smile was filled with irony. "Indeed! Or should that be 'ex-friend', perhaps?" he suggested. Leslie simply shrugged and walked out the door, and he shook his head again, once more drawing the ledger toward him.
