§ § § -- October 5, 1993

The following morning, Leslie, Prince Errico and a very handsome young man piled into the palace limousine for the ride to the airport. "A bright morning to you, my dear," Errico greeted Leslie, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to it. She smiled in acknowledgment. "So you are to visit Mr. Tattoo, the esteemed artist and entrepreneur! I don't know how he does it…he has an amazing eye for the very best in art, and he's astoundingly talented in his own right. Little wonder he can command the prices he does for his own work and that of other artists, and that he attracts only the wealthiest clientele. He's a genius, pure and simple—a sheer genius. Oh, yes, and this is my latest employee, Rogan Callaghan, who I might add seems to have a reasonably good artist's sense of his own."

Leslie shook hands with Rogan Callaghan, who smiled impersonally at her. She thought fleetingly that there seemed to be something oddly familiar about Callaghan's features; he was what was known as "Black Irish", with onyx hair and knowing dark eyes. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Hamilton," Callaghan said, dipping his head.

"Likewise, Mr. Callaghan," replied Leslie, smiling back as impersonally as he had at her. "Well, I guess we'd better be on our way."

"Quite so," Errico agreed. They settled into the car and were soon on the way to the airport; what little conversation there was came entirely from Errico and Callaghan in regard to their art excursion. Since they were taking a royal jet directly to Paris, they invited Leslie to come on their flight; but she declined, saying she wanted to get a few souvenirs in Rome before heading on to France.

When she landed at Orly Airport early that afternoon, she was met by a delighted Solange, who greeted her with a big hug. "Bonjour, Leslie! Welcome to France! I thought you would have come with Prince Errico."

"No, I had my flight booked, and anyway, I wanted to have the chance to get a few souvenirs of Rome, even if they were just airport trinkets," Leslie kidded. They both laughed. "Where's Tattoo?"

Solange's sweet girlish features grew shadowed, and Leslie felt her stomach take the familiar plunge that always assaulted her when she got bad news about someone she was close to. "He's not feeling well, Leslie," she said softly, breaking her gaze from Leslie's. "He pushes himself so hard, and I'm afraid he's going to do irreparable damage. For the last month I've made him stay at home and rest."

"I can relate to that," Leslie remarked with some irony. "And I bet he hates it."

"Oh, believe me, you don't know how right you are," Solange said. "Maybe you can get some sense into his head where I can't, and convince him to take better care of himself. I do know he'll be thrilled to see you—he's been looking forward to your visit with such joy and impatience, you just can't imagine. He'll have you talking till you're forty, wanting news of Fantasy Island and Mr. Roarke."

"I'm sure," murmured Leslie, unable to banish images of her honorary uncle sick, weak, incapacitated. "How bad is he, Solange, really? Don't mince words, please."

Solange's eyes filled with tears. "The doctors aren't very optimistic," she said in a low voice. "They say his internal organs are nearly all normal-sized, and his body just isn't big enough to hold them all. They're beginning to malfunction and give him more trouble as time goes by. He has to sleep sitting up just to breathe."

Leslie gasped and grabbed her arm. "My God, Solange…"

"Come on. There's a Métro terminal right here at the airport, and one of the commuter lines has a station just half a kilometer from our house. Let's get your luggage and hurry back." Solange towed Leslie to the baggage carousel.

Less than an hour later they had disembarked at the station Solange had described and were walking briskly down a quiet country lane in the early-fall sunshine. The air was still warm with summer and there was a heavy scent of roses. "How beautiful," Leslie said, gazing around her at the green fields and leafy shade trees. "It reminds me of New England in some ways." The fall foliage was just beginning to come into evidence.

"Good call," Solange told her with a half-smile. "In about three weeks, those trees will be alive with color. Every October, Tattoo spends all his spare time and every moment of his weekends painting those colors. Those are his all-time best-selling works, and there's a frenzy of anticipation around the beginning of October. His autumn paintings are famous across Europe, and they sell out years in advance."

Leslie watched her, feeling that diving sensation again in her abdomen. "But of course, he can never turn out enough to satisfy demand, right?" she said.

"No, he can't. It's not humanly possible. The prices he sets on those paintings are positively astronomical, but they sell instantly." Solange stopped in front of a high stone wall and pushed open an intricately-wrought iron gate in the middle. "This is home." She ushered Leslie in ahead of her so that she could get the full effect; and what Leslie beheld was a small but magnificent chateau. It appeared to be about half again the size of the main house on Fantasy Island, and the grounds were dotted with old-growth trees that dappled the roof and walls with shade. There were bushes all over the lawn, some still blooming; marigolds lined the brick walk to the front door, and low wooden barrels of chrysanthemums stood sentinel at either side of the steps. The mums were a riot of tawny color, threatening to spill over the sides of their containers. The exterior of the house was done English Tudor style with leaded-glass windows in individual diamond panes; the roof was steeply pitched and shingled in gray to help reflect the sun in the warm seasons.

"This is…" Leslie stared in wonder. "Solange, this is just indescribable. What an incredibly beautiful home you and Tattoo have!"

"We looked for a long time before we found this place," Solange said, pride in her voice. "It's our dream home. Come on in—you have a room of your own while you're with us. Tattoo and I have made sure the children learned English right alongside French, so you'll have no trouble talking with them. They're very curious to meet the lady their father keeps referring to as his honorary niece, so they may just start calling you Cousin Leslie."

Leslie giggled. "I'd love it. I never had any real cousins, so it would be fun to consider your kids my cousins. I can't wait to see inside."

"Right this way," Solange said and led her into the front door. The rooms within were furnished in unmistakably French style, warm and inviting; Tattoo's paintings, Leslie saw immediately, were in clear evidence in every room. In the room she was using during her stay, the painting made her gasp. It was of the main house, in such perfect detail that Leslie was initially confused as to whether it was actually a painting at all. The colors were so bright that they seemed to leap off the canvas. She gaped.

"Is that a photo or…" she began, flabbergasted.

Solange grinned. "No, it's a painting. Tattoo insisted I put you in this room," she said. "He'll ask you what you think of it later on, so be warned."

"It's gorgeous," Leslie said, unable to take her gaze off it. "And it's absolutely perfect. He got every detail exactly right. If only Father could see it."

"Your father…?" Solange said, looking confused.

That finally distracted Leslie from the painting and she smiled sheepishly. "If you can stand to wait till I can tell Tattoo about it, you'll get the whole story later. What a lovely place this is. Simply stunning."

Solange smiled. "Merci beaucoup, Leslie," she said. "Tell me, is there anything you want or need?"

"Only one thing—to see Tattoo," Leslie said. "Is he up to having visitors?"

"Even if he weren't, he'd insist on seeing you," Solange said. "The children have their rooms up here, and ours is downstairs. It opens onto a terrace so we can slip outside any time we like. Come on."

Leslie followed Solange down the stairs and toward a back corner of the house, where a large, airy bedroom had been tucked away for added privacy. Leslie found herself gawking again from the doorway: the room was huge, and on the far wall were two French doors, one of which opened onto the terrace Solange had mentioned, the other into what looked like a sunroom whose walls were made entirely of glass. Easels and canvases littered this glass room in what looked like random disarray. As Leslie stood taking in the scene, the French door popped open and a very familiar figure emerged into the bedroom.

"So you finally got here!" Tattoo greeted her teasingly in his familiar gravelly voice with its weighty French accent. "After all these years, you decided to show up!"

"Tattoo!" Leslie cried, and neither of them gave a second thought to her dropping to her knees in the middle of the floor where they shared a long, heartfelt hug. Solange stood nearby watching with a smile, tears standing in her eyes. Tattoo, peering over Leslie's shoulder, noticed and winked at her.

"So what do you think of this dump?" Tattoo inquired, pulling back from her to stare into her face while she settled back on her heels and grinned foolishly at him. "What a mess it is, huh? And all this cheap art all over the walls…"

"Oh, knock it off, you phony, you," Leslie said and burst out laughing. "Tattoo, this is the most beautiful house I've ever seen outside of Fantasy Island. I wish Father could see it. He'd be almost as overwhelmed as I am. And what a perfect setting. I bet you can't stand to leave here and go into Paris every day to run that art gallery, huh?"

"Aw, I manage to tear myself away," Tattoo said with a grin. To Leslie he looked fine, which sent a shaft of pure relief spearing through her. Had Solange exaggerated his health problems? "And incidentally, who's this 'Father' you're talking about? I thought you disowned your father years and years ago."

"Not Michael Hamilton," Leslie said. "Maybe you should both sit down; it's kind of a long story."

"Why don't we have a snack in the kitchen?" Solange put in. "We have some wine and some very good bread that our next-door neighbor brought over." She switched to French and asked Tattoo a question, to which he responded with a vaguely impatient tone in his voice, but with sparkling eyes. Solange grinned.

"Tattoo tells me he feels just fine, now that you're here. Well, then, let's go."

Around a varnished wooden table adorned with a long ivory lace runner, where they sat sipping wine and nibbling on soft, buttery French bread, Leslie explained the story of how she had come to refer to Roarke as "Father." Tattoo had a knowing look on his round features almost the entire time; Solange was astonished. "So," Tattoo said when she had concluded her story, "does the boss mind you calling him that?"

"No, he was flattered," Leslie recalled, grinning at the memory. "It had occurred to me when I told Michael Hamilton that it was really Mr. Roarke who was my father in all the ways that matter, but I held off even then—I wasn't sure how he'd take it. Then, when Mom told me not to hold back from him, I knew it was the right thing to do. After all, he and I are family, you know."

"That you are," Tattoo agreed warmly and sipped from his glass. They were silent for a moment; then he regarded Leslie with a serious look. "I suppose Solange told you about my health troubles lately."

"She mentioned them, yes," said Leslie cautiously, watching him as if afraid he would topple over before her eyes. "Tattoo, how are you really doing? I mean…folks at home have been worried about me on account of overworking myself, but from the way Solange tells it, you do three times as much as I do. I had visions of you bedridden and barely able to speak."

"At death's door, you mean?" translated Tattoo wryly, with a sharp but affectionate look at a sheepish, red-faced Solange. "Not exactly that, no. Don't worry, Leslie, sometimes Solange exaggerates. But on the other hand, I've been thinking about things and I realized that she does have a valid point on one thing. I do work too hard. As of last month, I've been going into the city only once a week to make sure things are going well at the gallery, and I've left the actual running to my two most trusted employees. I spend a lot more time at home painting now, although Solange thinks I do too much of that as well."

"Better you paint too much than work too much, I say," Leslie told him.

"Thank you!" Tattoo exclaimed wholeheartedly, surprising her. "Finally, someone who thinks like I do on that subject! I've been trying to tell everyone—Solange, the doctor, our friends—painting relaxes me, it makes me feel good. There's hardly anything strenuous about it. I think while you're here, I'm going to drag you with me to see everyone who's told me I spend too much time in my studio and have you tell them what you just told me."

Leslie giggled merrily. "Hey, anything for my favorite honorary uncle. Incidentally, where's the next generation? Are they hiding or something?"

"Oh, you'll meet them soon," Solange said. "I'd better get started on the evening meal—we're having quite a little feast in honor of your arrival, Leslie, and don't bother asking if I need help. I love cooking, and I want you to be surprised by the menu."

"Are you sure?" Leslie asked, watching her rise from the table.

"Positive. Stay out here and get caught up with Tattoo, and tell him what's been happening on the island," Solange urged. "Mon chér, if you need anything, say so."

"But of course," said Tattoo, smiling after her as she left the room. He heaved a contented sigh and turned back to Leslie. "So. Before I let you talk my ear off, I guess I should tell you a little about the kids. Patrick just turned nine, and Antoinette's seven now. Mireille will be two at the end of January. She's been napping all afternoon, and the older kids are playing with friends of theirs. Patrick and Antoinette both speak English, so you'll be able to answer all their questions. And believe me, they'll have a lot of them."

"I just bet," Leslie said, grinning. "So what day do you go into the gallery?"

"Usually Wednesdays," Tattoo said. "This week I go in tomorrow, though, because Prince Errico is here for one of his purchasing trips. You're coming with me, of course. Wait a minute. You just came from Arcolos yourself, didn't you? Did you come in with him?"

"No," said Leslie and told him why. "By the way, Michiko sends her love and greetings from the family. She and I had a great time catching up, and I saw more of Arcolos than I'm sure most tourists do. And the prince warned his brother away from me."

"Yeah? How come?" Tattoo asked.

"For the same reason Errico himself couldn't marry me," Leslie said. "I'm Father's only child and the one inheritor of Fantasy Island. That equates Father with a king or president, since the island is solely his and he's the highest authority. And Arcolos has a law that states that a royal is expressly forbidden to marry another royal if the latter is the only child of the ruling authority of his or her country."

"Ah," said Tattoo, dark eyes sparkling. "I see. And the prince wanted to marry you, then? You should have, Leslie…you'd make a perfect princess."

"A perfectly unsuitable princess, you mean," Leslie shot back spiritedly. "I had no interest in Errico; it was too soon after Teppo died, and even now I'm not interested in a new relationship. I had to disabuse Michiko of that little notion too, so I'm telling you now, before you get any ideas about marrying me off. I love being Father's assistant, and nothing in the world will take me away from Fantasy Island like that again."

"You're away from it now," Tattoo pointed out, grinning.

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Literal to the end, aren't you? You know visits don't count. Anyway, Michiko is much better for him. That man had a way of trying to think for me, and I absolutely can't stand that. I have my own brain, thank you very much; I don't need to borrow someone else's."

Tattoo burst out laughing. "Great way to put it. Okay, so you're a happily single woman, working yourself to death alongside the boss." She glared at him in mock threat, and he grinned. "You said yourself that you're recovering from exhaustion. You can do only so much, Leslie. On the other hand, I'm glad it happened in a way, since it finally got you out here to see us. Now, since we're on the subject, tell me what's going on back on Fantasy Island. How's the boss doing? Any big changes since I was there last?"

With that, Leslie found herself in the midst of a long narrative getting Tattoo caught up on events on Fantasy Island; he listened avidly, nodding often, laughing now and then. When she finished some thirty minutes later, he shook his head. "Sacre bleu, you've really been busy. No wonder you're exhausted. So Jean-Claude finally retired, did he? Any idea where he went? I used to love his Alaskan king-crab legs."

"I'm not sure," Leslie said. "I think he was planning to return here to France, but I don't know if he actually did. We haven't heard from him and we don't really expect to. On the other hand, we did hear from some old buddies of yours." Grinning, she told him about a recent encounter she and Roarke had had with Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse; Tattoo roared with laughter.

"Never a dull moment," he said, shaking his head. "Things are just as interesting as ever on Fantasy Island, I see. Okay, well…" He sat back in his seat, thinking for a moment, while Leslie waited, watching him and smiling. "We're not really on a schedule around here, except for sending Patrick and Antoinette off to school in the morning. Prince Errico always calls here before he's ready to go into the gallery, so we don't need to leave till we hear from him, and that's likely to be late in the morning if he sticks to his usual habits. So you can sleep as late as you like tomorrow. I think, once we've taken care of business in the gallery, we can wander around Paris a little before we come back home. Solange has Mireille all day, and what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Only if we don't walk all over the city," Leslie warned him, her gaze growing a bit troubled. "I don't object to seeing Paris, but I don't want you wearing yourself out on my account. We can just as easily take the Métro, and you know it. Besides, I'm not up to so much walking myself, and it certainly wouldn't do anything for my exhaustion."

"No, you're right, it wouldn't," Tattoo agreed, and they eyed each other before starting to laugh in unison. "You think you're doing me a favor, and I think I'm doing you a favor," he chortled. "I guess we're even!"

Leslie nodded, giggling. "We both have good reasons not to walk, so I guess we can just leave it at that. In that case, we'll plan on touring Paris tomorrow. What about the rest of the week?"

"No plans," Tattoo said, folding his hands over his stomach. "I don't see any reason for there to be any plans. You're here for ten days, right? Remember, since you're my honorary niece, that makes you a member of the family. You just make yourself at home and do whatever you'd normally do. And by the way, if you want to call the boss and tell him how your vacation's going, that's fine by me, as long as you let me talk with him too."

"I should think that would go without saying," Leslie said, grinning again. "Well, then, we'll pick out a day and figure out what time would be most convenient, and put a call through." She too settled back in her chair and heaved a sigh. "I'm glad I came, Tattoo, and I'm sorry I didn't do it before, especially now that I see what a magnificent home you have here. This place is just beautiful. Oh…if it's not too much of an imposition…do you think I could have a look at some of your works in progress in your studio?"

"Sure, of course," Tattoo said, smiling broadly. "Just tell me when you'd like to see them. What do you think of that painting in your room?"

"I thought it was a photograph," Leslie told him. "It's absolutely perfect and every detail is exactly right. Did you actually paint that from memory?"

"You think I could forget what that place looks like after living and working there for so many years?" scoffed Tattoo. "I spent at least half my life on Fantasy Island, you know. If I can't remember what the main house looks like, then I shouldn't be painting it."

"Then it's all the more extraordinary," Leslie said. "It was a perfect choice to hang in that room. Although I'll admit it kind of makes me homesick."

Tattoo laughed. "Well, I didn't mean for it to do that." The door to the kitchen opened and his attention shifted. "Solange, chérie…how are things?"

"Just fine, I promise. Well, I can see it's been too long since you two were last in contact, since you've been talking out here all this time." Solange chuckled. "The meal's going to be ready in about fifteen more minutes. Do me a favor, mon chér, and call Patrick's and Antoinette's friends and have them send the children home."

"No problem," Tattoo assured her and slipped out of his chair, going into the next room and picking up the phone. He held a couple of quick conversations in French and then returned to the table. "So soon you'll meet the kids, and then we'll eat." He paused beside Leslie's chair and folded one of her hands inside both of his. "It's really good to have you here, Leslie. Thanks for including us on your trip."

Leslie tilted her head at him; his last remark, while innocuous enough, sounded just a little too out-of-place to her, somehow. Her smile held a tinge of worry. "How could I not stop and see you?" she asked softly, hoping the fact that her stomach was diving again didn't show on her face. "This is the warmest welcome I've ever had anywhere, and this already feels like an extension of home."

"Good, because you should consider this your second home," Tattoo said and patted her hand. "Okay, enough of this mush. Let's go bother Solange for a while." Leslie joined in his laugh and followed him into the kitchen, but her feeling of foreboding remained nevertheless, and she could only hope she would be able to eat something that evening.