§ § § -- January 21, 1995
"Now that you are here," Roarke said, regarding Rollins from behind his desk, "perhaps you would be so kind as to explain to me precisely why you are so determined to see your fantasy brought to life."
"Yeah…I'd be interested in that myself," agreed Leslie, standing beside his chair with her hands clasped behind her back. Both she and Roarke wore dubious looks.
Rollins shrugged and settled into one of the leather chairs. "Don't see why not. It just so happens, to begin with, that I strongly believe in reincarnation. There's something to the idea about coming back and living an entirely different life. The group I belong to feels that you can choose what you want to be when you return. Well, me…I decided I want to be a cat in my next life."
"And you can't wait till then, is that it?" Leslie asked. She kept her gaze on Rollins, but that didn't mean she wasn't aware of the glance Roarke tossed in her direction.
Rollins frowned. "Don't misunderstand me, missy, I'm in no particular hurry to die," he said. "But I'm curious. Someone in my group says their dear departed auntie has come home to roost—literally, as I understand it, since the auntie in question is now a parrot."
Leslie nodded, trying hard not to grin but not quite succeeding. Roarke gave her another look, this one a little sharper than the first. "Suppose you don't get to choose?" she asked curiously.
"Then I hope I come back as a rottweiler," Rollins retorted, glaring at Roarke, who shot a quick, exasperated glance out the open French shutters. Leslie observed this byplay with surprise, certain there was an inside joke she was missing, but deciding to let it pass.
"Mr. Rollins, I can still refuse you your fantasy," Roarke warned.
"Oh no you can't, Roarke, not after you cashed my check and made me agree to all those conditions," Rollins barked, half rising from his chair with indignation. "You're bound to do it now. You promised."
"It was an entirely verbal agreement, and there would be no problem whatsoever with returning your money," Roarke said, settling back in his chair. "However…since you are clearly determined to see this through, there is no point in my wasting ten days of work. Leslie, please bring me the decanter on the tea table there."
"You mean…you're really going to let him do it?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, I am," Roarke said grimly.
Rollins gave her a perplexed, impatient stare. "You got a problem with it, missy?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Leslie told him spiritedly. "You're going to regret this, Mr. Rollins, make no mistake."
"Is that so? Listen, missy, Roarke here wasted plenty of time and breath trying to tell me what a lousy idea this was and how dangerous it's supposed to be, particularly to somebody of my…venerability." This word came out loaded with venom and aimed squarely at Roarke, who eyed the ceiling, mouth quirking to one side. "Dammit, I can't understand this ridiculous fuss. I'm just asking for a trial run, to see what I can expect in the next life."
"Hairballs, that's what," muttered Leslie. This time Roarke gave her a very dirty look, at the same moment that Rollins leaned forward.
"What was that, missy? Speak up," the old man commanded.
Faced with Roarke's warning glare, she backed down and shook her head. "Nothing, Mr. Rollins. I think I'll go get that decanter now." She sidled hastily out from behind the desk and crossed the room to the tea table.
Rollins planted his cane on the floor in front of him with a loud thud and rested both hands atop it, scowling at Roarke. "First you, now that impudent daughter of yours. Either one of you ever heard the old saying, 'the customer is always right'?"
"We are merely operating with your best interests in mind, Mr. Rollins," Roarke said.
"Best interests, my butt," Rollins snorted. "You just don't want me to have my fantasy for some benighted reason. You accepted my money quick enough, Roarke, and obviously you went so far as to come up with some way to turn me into a cat like I want." He watched Leslie return to the desk, carrying the glass decanter filled with an unappetizing-looking mud-colored substance. Both he and Roarke noticed that she held it out as far in front of her as she could stretch her arms, a look of revulsion on her face. Roarke eyed her as she set it on the desk, but said nothing, even when she met his raised-eyebrow stare with a narrow-eyed look that spoke volumes.
Roarke quelled a sigh before it could escape and opened a drawer, removing a vial and pulling the stopper out of the decanter. "You should be aware, Mr. Rollins, that any potion can only approximate the true state of being; and the effects are not entirely predictable," he said, pouring a quantity of the stuff into the vial as he spoke. "For that matter, you may have no memory of this entire experience." He looked up at that, as if visited with a revelation, and inquired almost hopefully, "Does that change your decision about this fantasy?"
"Not a whit," Rollins told him. "Quit trying to discourage me and get on with it."
"But if you can't remember anything about it after it's over," Leslie put in, "there'll be no point in living out the fantasy in the first place."
Finally Rollins had had it. "What the hell is it with you two?" he yelled. "Don't bother answering me, Roarke, I've heard more than enough out of you." He pointed at Leslie. "Your father's given me about six hundred reasons not to do this. Since you're obviously dying to put in your two cents, go ahead and add to his list."
"For your information," Leslie told him, "I myself have been through this. When Father tried to put this potion together the first time you asked for it, he needed a test subject—and I was the unlucky victim." She caught Roarke's look and said, "Oh, all right, guinea pig. Or maybe guinea cat. Whatever. In any case, Mr. Rollins, I spent one entire night as a cat—so I'm told. I don't remember anything about actually being a cat, but I do recall the aftermath. And believe me, it wasn't pretty. You won't listen to Father, but since I have firsthand experience, you might consider listening to me."
Rollins studied her, looking honestly impressed. "You did this?"
"Under extreme duress," Leslie quantified direly. "For the life of me, I can't figure out why you'd actually choose to do it. If you don't believe me, you won't believe anybody."
Rollins exploded with his loud, bronchially-disadvantaged-moose laugh, making Roarke wince and Leslie stare at him. "That was just the test version, missy. Since I'm paying for this—and very handsomely at that—I'm sure Roarke worked very hard on his potion there to make sure my experience would be much more satisfying than yours." He squinted meaningfully at Roarke. "So I'll not only remember being a cat, but I'll enjoy the living daylights out of it, and it'll be the best experience of my life. Right, Roarke?"
Roarke only raised an eyebrow before pushing the stopper back into the decanter and slowly extending the vial across the desk at Rollins. "Before you drink this, Mr. Rollins, one final word," he said with deliberation. "Since, as Leslie has just explained, she has prior experience with the potion, she will be in charge of your fantasy. If you have a problem, you should consult her." Leslie stared at him incredulously; but before she could comment, Rollins grabbed the vial from Roarke's hand.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the old man growled impatiently. "No more stalling."
"Mr. Rollins, you'd better stand up," Leslie said through a loud sigh.
"And you'd better close the shutters, Leslie," Roarke advised. She shrugged with resignation and went to do so.
Rollins cursed but arose anyway, and for good measure moved into the middle of the room, leaning on his cane. "That make you happy?" he snapped. "Enough's enough. Bottoms up." So saying, he drained the contents of the vial.
Roarke watched dispassionately; Leslie cringed when the vial fell out of Rollins' hand and his eyes bugged out to a grotesque extent. Thick dark-brown smoke materialized from thin air and enshrouded Rollins from head to toe; then there was a very odd little popping noise that echoed slightly off the walls and ceiling. The cane fell to the floor and the smoke dissipated, revealing a pure white Balinese cat with greenish-gray eyes. The cat immediately opened its mouth and emitted a loud wail of a meow.
Leslie laughed. "Well, this one's not afraid to express its opinion." She turned to Roarke and in spite of herself asked, "Is that what happened to me when I…?"
Roarke smiled. "Yes, exactly as it happened to Mr. Rollins, except that you turned out to be a Siamese. A very skittish one at that."
"Skittish?" Leslie repeated, easing toward the cat so she could pick up the cane.
"Yes—once you had changed form, you were extremely frightened. Perhaps if Lawrence hadn't been so heavy-handed in his attempted treatment of you…" He shook his head. "In any case, you fled the house much faster than we could chase you, and as a result, you were out all night in a thunderstorm."
"Oh, beautiful," groaned Leslie. The cat meowed again and she stooped, lifting it into her arms and stroking its soft fur. "By the way…it's one thing to put me in charge of Mr. Rollins' fantasy, but it's another thing entirely to tell him to consult me if there's a problem. Just how do you expect him to communicate that to me? He's a cat!"
The cat lifted its head and looked at Roarke, meowing loud and long; Roarke raised his eyebrows again and then looked at Leslie. "You have already seen that he's a complainer. Right now he needs to be fed, so I suggest you do so…and he requests sushi."
She stared at him, looked at the cat which meowed at her, then back to Roarke, and finally demanded, "Are you telling me he just now said this, and you understood him?"
"Are you telling me you don't?" Roarke asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, I am," she said, rolling her eyes. "Father, this may come as a shock to you, but not everybody can be Dr. Doolittle. And this character has expensive tastes. I hope Chef Miyamoto doesn't laugh me out of the hotel when I ask him for a plateful of sushi."
"RRRR-ooowwwww!" the cat interjected, and automatically Leslie looked at Roarke for a translation. Roarke sighed.
"He wishes a supply of sushi for the entire weekend," he said.
"In his dreams," Leslie scoffed, disgusted. "I'll indulge him this once, but after he has his plateful, I'm taking him to Tabitha's. If he really wants to experience life as a feline, then he better learn just how the feline world operates." She came to the desk and removed a set of keys from the gold box thereupon, while the cat meowed indignantly at her. She ignored him till she'd gotten to the foyer, at which point she scolded, "Knock it off. Tabitha's a cat person and you'll be very comfortable at her house—and she has three cats already, so you'll have friends."
"I thought you said you couldn't understand him," Roarke said, puzzled.
Leslie stopped long enough to eye him ironically and drawl, "Lucky guess." So saying, she carried the cat out the door. Roarke sighed and shook his head, grinned in spite of himself, and found his ledger underneath a small stack of letters. He needed something mundane to get his mind off crazier things.
Leslie found herself talking to the cat all the way to the hotel; it began with the animal struggling in her arms while she climbed into the car. "Listen, you, you're just going to have to learn to like this. Do you want me to find a cat carrier and really confine you?" Claws dug into her arm in response. "Ow, blast it! Then in that case, shut up and count your blessings." She put the cat on the seat beside her and started up the Main House Lane. "You realize this could have been a lot worse. You could've wound up as a stray, begging for food all over the island, fending for yourself…you might be stuck hunting and eating mice." The cat hissed at her. "That's what I thought. I hope Tabitha can handle you—you must be the most demanding animal I've ever seen. Spoiled rotten. Sushi, for crying out loud! Just because you paid Father half a million for this ridiculous fantasy of yours, you think you can demand anything you want. You're a piece of work, all right. Okay, here we are. If Chef Miyamoto's willing, then you better enjoy the heck out of that sushi, because that's the last time you're having it this weekend. Come on, Rollie." She parked, lifted the cat into her arms and carried it into the hotel, through the lobby and dining room.
A waiter busing the last two or three breakfast tables caught sight of her. "Uh, I'm sorry, Miss Leslie, but we don't allow cats in the dining area…"
"I know, Jack, but I need to speak with Chef Miyamoto," she said.
"But he's…" Jack began.
Leslie fixed him with a sharp stare that suggested he was forgetting his place. "This cat is a guest of ours, and he's being treated accordingly," she informed him regally. The cat meowed at him as if to second the statement.
Jack stared at her. "Huh?"
Just then the kitchen door opened and Chef Kazuo Miyamoto emerged from the kitchen, stopping in surprise. "Good morning, Miss Leslie! Something I can do for you?"
She nodded. "I realize this is going to come as something of a surprise, not to mention an inconvenience." She shot the cat a black look. "But my feline friend here has requested a plate of sushi, and we thought we'd indulge him just this once."
"Oh," said Chef Miyamoto, studying the cat and grinning. "Hey, he's a really nice one. New pet, I take it? What's his name?"
"Rollie," said Leslie. "He's a Balinese."
"My mother has a cat that looks just like this guy," Chef Miyamoto said admiringly, gently scratching the cat between the ears with two fingers. The cat purred loudly, eyes shrinking to contented slits. "They're wonderful companions. Okay then, one plate of sushi coming right up. I'll be just a few minutes—I have some set aside for tonight's luau, actually." He returned to the kitchen.
"I hope you're happy now," Leslie told the cat, which ignored her and continued purring after the departed chef. She heard the waiter snicker and gave him a pointed look that sent him scurrying back to his job.
In a few minutes Rollie was dining blissfully away on sushi and Leslie and the chef were watching, both highly amused. "So he's a new pet, is he?" Chef Miyamoto asked.
Leslie shook her head. "No, I'm…uh, watching him for a friend. He's going home on Monday morning."
"Ah, I see. Seems this friend of yours must really spoil him, if he's partial to sushi." Chef Miyamoto laughed. "I think this is the first time I ever fed sushi to a cat. Tell your friend not to make a habit of it, though. Good heavens, you'd think he was starving." Rollie had just finished the plate and was licking his paws, eyes slitted with bliss.
"Well, that ought to keep him happy for awhile," Leslie said, lifting the cat into her arms. "Thank you so much, Chef. I really appreciate this, and I hope it wasn't a lot of trouble…but this guy wanted sushi."
"I have plenty of time to make more," the chef assured her. "I hope to see you and Mr. Roarke at the luau tonight."
"We'll be there," Leslie said and smiled. "Thanks again, and see you later."
She drove down to the fishing village, on whose outskirts Tabitha had a tiny two-room cottage to herself. She was out front watering a rosebush when Leslie pulled up, and looked up and waved in welcome. "Hi, Leslie! What brings you down here on a Saturday?"
"A favor," said Leslie, gathering Rollie into her arms and coming around the front of the car. Tabitha lit up at sight of the cat and set down her watering can. "This is Rollie."
"Oh, he's beautiful! A Balinese, right? What a handsome boy you are!" she exclaimed, readily accepting him from Leslie. Rollie purred loudly in agreement at her accolades, and Leslie rolled her eyes to herself. "Where'd you get him?"
"Someone left him with Father and me for the weekend," Leslie improvised. "They'll be back for him on Monday, but in the meantime, we're really not equipped to keep a cat in the main house. I thought he'd be better off down here, where he'll have company, as long as your cats don't mind a visitor. I know it's an imposition, but I'm afraid we're desperate."
"Oh, don't worry about it," Tabitha said cheerfully. "Any special requests?"
"He's already had enough of those," Leslie muttered, scowling at Rollie. "Spoiled-rotten cat. He just polished off a plate of sushi, and that's all the special treatment he's getting, unless you're inclined to spoil him some more. But there is one thing…whatever you do, don't give him any catnip."
Tabitha eyed her curiously. "Oh…okay, if you insist. Actually, you're in luck—I ran out the other day and I haven't gotten around to getting any more. Although Cleo's probably got a hidden stash somewhere—she's always squirreling things away from the others."
"Oh, well, I hope she's got it very well hidden," Leslie said. "He absolutely can't have any catnip. Owner's orders. Look, thanks so much for taking him in tonight. I really appreciate it. Let me know when you have a free minute or two and I'll treat you to lunch at the hotel, okay?"
"If I can bring Fernando, you have a deal," Tabitha said with a shy grin, eyes sparkling with delight. "You won't believe this…but he and I have been seeing each other romantically. I never thought I'd fall in love with my best friend, but it's been getting better every day. It's just hard to keep it a secret from everyone else, and I needed to tell someone."
"You lucky thing," said Leslie, lighting up. "Well, for heaven's sake, if you two are so happy together, why hide it? Tell the world! The others'll kill you for not saying anything. Myeko'll probably want to put it in her newspaper column."
"That's what worries me," Tabitha kidded, and they both laughed. "Okay, then, I'll watch Rollie for you. When will you pick him up?"
"Tomorrow afternoon," Leslie said. "I should be here around three or so. Rollie, you better behave yourself, you understand?" Rollie gave her an insolent look and snuggled into Tabitha's arms, purring like a machine. Leslie sighed and grinned wearily at Tabitha. "Thanks again, and good luck."
"See you tomorrow," Tabitha said and watched Leslie's car retreating till it was swallowed by trees at a bend in the Ring Road. "Well, Rollie, let's introduce you to your temporary roommates."
Inside the cottage, she peered into an enormous feline jungle gym. "Okay, you three, come meet our guest for the weekend." Rollie squirmed in her arms and she set him atop the gym's highest point. Undoubtedly sensing the presence of a strange cat, three more feline heads popped out of assorted openings in the structure, and Tabitha smiled at the silver Egyptian Mau. "Cleo…I hope you don't have any catnip tucked away. If you do, better keep a sharp eye on it." Cleo meowed at her and she grinned, turning her attention to the amber-eyed cat with a short, glossy dark-gray coat, of a breed called Chartreux. "Hi, Copper. And there you are, Rusty." This last was directed at a Norwegian Forest cat, white shading to reddish. "Guys, this is Rollie. He's a guest for the weekend, so make him feel welcome." She went off to the kitchen, really little more than a galley-sized alcove at the end of the room, to refill her watering can.