§ § § -- July 19, 1995
It was early afternoon, and the entire day had been overcast, an unusual occurrence for Fantasy Island. The barge carrying Tattoo's flower-bedecked coffin waited beside the dock, where Roarke and Leslie stood each with an arm around the other, beset anew with their memories of Tattoo and only half aware of the growing crowd of islanders gathering along both sides of the river that ran out of the island's largest lagoon toward the South Pacific. It was a particularly eerie experience for Roarke and Leslie, who had endured the same tragic journey after Helena Marsh's death.
Solange and the children came abreast of them, drawing them both from their respective reveries. "I guess it's time," Solange murmured, glancing at the coffin.
Roarke nodded and stepped onto the barge first, giving Leslie a hand and then Solange, who in her turn helped her children aboard. Several brawny young men waited in silence for the signal to send the barge on its way. As though standing guard, Roarke took up a position just behind the head of the coffin; Solange stood on one side of him and Leslie on the other, and he loosely rested one arm around each of them. Patrick and Antoinette stood in front of the three adults, with Mireille in between her brother and sister.
Onshore, Leslie's friends and their families stood in one extended group, watching her with some anxiety. They were just far enough down the riverbank that they couldn't quite make out the expression on Leslie's features, and they all thought she looked defeated somehow, as if this latest loss had been the final blow to her endurance. They all squinted at her as the barge slid slowly past them, noting her bowed head and closed eyes.
"I hope she'll see us before much longer," Myeko murmured worriedly. "I don't think she looks very good." Frida Rosseby nodded silently, blue eyes sorrowful.
"At least she's out of the house," Lauren said hesitantly, clutching the hand of her husband, Brian. They had returned from an extended honeymoon barely a week before, so that hearing of Tattoo's death seemed all the more tragic by comparison.
"We'd better give her at least a few more days," Tabitha suggested softly from the embrace of her own husband of six weeks, Fernando.
Maureen nodded. "I think you're right. Maybe if just us girls go together…" She looked at Michiko, who had been notified by her parents the previous morning when the elder Tokitas had received their morning paper and had immediately departed Arcolos with Prince Errico for Fantasy Island. Michiko nodded faintly.
"We should check with Mr. Roarke first," she said. "If the funeral's hard on us and all the rest of the island, I can only imagine what they're going through—him, Leslie, and especially Tattoo's family. His little daughter there is just adorable…poor little one, to lose her father at such a young age." Michiko, always empathetic, blinked away tears, and the other girls nodded silently. Even Camille, normally so outspoken, was subdued, to the point that she could find no words at all.
The funeral itself was mercifully short, but it seemed like the final straw when it came time for the grave to be filled in. Roarke dropped a flower atop the coffin, deep sadness gleaming from his eyes; Leslie followed suit and turned away, hand to her mouth, eyes squeezed shut and tears streaming out from under the lids. Solange's chin trembled when her flower landed on the coffin, but when the children had dropped theirs in and the first shovelful of dirt followed, she broke down completely. Her children, terrified by their mother's grief, all began to cry in their turn, and Leslie scooped up a wailing Mireille before joining the others in their grieving huddle. None of them could watch the new grave being filled in; it seemed to be the official, final seal of Tattoo's death, the one action that made the whole tragic event finally hit home.
Unnoticed by the principal mourners, countless islanders filed one by one past Tattoo's grave, making their own final farewells; the line moved slowly but steadily along and continued shuffling past the grave long after the Latignons, Roarke and Leslie had left the area to go on grieving in private. It was dark before the last of the mourners were able to pay their respects and go on home.
§ § § -- July 20, 1995
Tattoo's will had been read and the Latignons had boarded the plane to make the long journey home to France. Roarke and Leslie stood now beside the deserted plane dock, watching the seaplane crossing the lagoon preparatory to takeoff; Leslie, holding a videotape that Solange had given her at the last moment, turned the cassette over and over in her hands. Not till the little craft came into sight above the treetops did Roarke and Leslie move from the spot, going to the station wagon that waited for them and settling silently into their seats for the ride home. The driver looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he didn't; and no one spoke all the way back to the main house, except for Roarke's quiet thanks when he and Leslie got out.
Inside the study they both stopped; Leslie felt lost, and even Roarke looked uncertain for a long moment. He turned to her and asked gently, "Do you feel up to watching the tape now, sweetheart, or would you rather wait?"
Leslie bit her lip and stared pleadingly at him. "I don't know if I could handle it now, seeing his last message to us. I'd rather remember the happier times."
Roarke nodded. "I understand completely. Perhaps it would help if your friends were to come for a little visit. I saw them a short distance behind us among the crowds who came to the funeral, and I am sure they're very worried about you."
"Well, I…" Leslie began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Roarke went to answer it and smiled when he saw who was there.
"Speak of the devil," he said. "Come in, everyone, please." He stepped aside to allow all seven of Leslie's friends to file past him into the foyer. Prince Errico brought up the rear and grasped Roarke's hands, murmuring condolences.
"He was a friend of mine too," the prince said as the eight young women watched. "I could hardly believe the terrible news. The world is a much sadder place without him, Mr. Roarke, much sadder indeed."
"But better for his having been in it," replied Roarke with quiet gratitude. "I thank you most sincerely for your sentiments, Your Highness. May we get you anything?"
"No, no, my dear sir, I won't impose on your grieving. I merely wished to express my emotions at this time and to leave my dear wife with her friends. I'll simply return to our bungalow, thank you." The prince backed out and pulled the door shut behind him, and Roarke turned to his daughter and her friends, who stood in a loose, uncertain group in the middle of the study, all looking as if they had just met for the first time.
"You put up the painting," Maureen said suddenly, taking note of the beautiful canvas that Tattoo had sent Leslie for her birthday only two months before. "It looks perfect right there." She looked at Leslie, eyes wide with sympathy. "Imagine all the paintings he must have still had in him…what an amazing talent."
"I must have half a dozen of his works by now," Leslie said, her voice faraway. She still felt as though someone had taken her whole world and shaken it like a snow globe. "Every time I look around, there's a reminder…" Her voice thickened and wobbled on the final word, cueing her friends to gather around her in a small, protective huddle while she cried again, still clutching the videotape.
Roarke waited patiently in the foyer, allowing them a few minutes in sad silence before clearing his throat and stepping down into the study. The other girls moved aside to let him into their circle, and he nodded thanks. "Leslie," he said softly, cradling her face in his hands, "I am sure you know better than almost anyone else in the world that Tattoo would prefer to be remembered with smiles instead of tears. His was the kind of soul that thrived on joy, don't you remember? Can you imagine how distressed he would be if he could see you grieving like this?"
She stared at him, processing this, and Camille picked up on his words. "Yeah, Leslie, I still remember the first New Year's party we went to after you came to live here. He was dancing up a storm with every female within a fifty-yard radius and having a great old time, laughing it up. Every time he laughed, it made me laugh too."
Leslie nodded in recollection, and Myeko spoke up then. "Hey, I seem to remember he had this really goofy fantasy once. Something about having women admiring him and everybody looking up to him…"
Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, the same memory hitting them both simultaneously, and out of nowhere they both laughed. "He wrote you a letter calling himself 'H. L. Oottat'," Leslie remembered, her tears battling with her giggles, "and he wanted to be nothing less than a love god—completely irresistible to all women."
"H. L. Oottat?" blurted Tabitha, blinking. "I see that 'Oottat' is 'Tattoo' backwards, but what did the 'H. L.' stand for?"
Leslie grinned, brushing tears away. "Hot Lips," she said, and laughter exploded out of all of them, including Roarke. "Oh my God, he could be such a skirt-chaser sometimes, before he met Solange and finally lost his heart for real. And there were a lot of times when it got him into some incredible trouble."
"But he couldn't have spent all his time chasing girls," Michiko said, still giggling. "I know he was really fond of kids. He must have doted on his own three, and I could tell he thought you were pretty neat yourself, Leslie. A surrogate niece or something, isn't that the way he thought of you?"
"Essentially, yes," Roarke answered for his daughter, slipping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. "Occasionally, however, they had their differences. During the first week Leslie was learning how to drive, he flatly refused to ride anywhere with her."
"As if he was any sterling example himself," Leslie scoffed playfully. "Remember when you had me watch him backing up, thinking I could get a good idea of how to do it from him? He always drove as if someone were chasing him and he had to get away."
"That's true, he did," Roarke agreed, and together he and Leslie related the story for her friends.
§ § § -- March 10, 1980
On their way back out of the hotel, Roarke and Leslie met Tattoo, looking a bit disgruntled, in the lobby. "Jean-Claude again?" Roarke inquired.
"Of course," Tattoo snorted. "Now he wants Maine lobster and Alaskan king-crab legs. Do you know how much that stuff costs?" He shook his head in annoyance. "He must be planning some kind of seafood menu this week, but I suppose mahimahi and mako aren't enough for him now. Next week he'll want swordfish and caviar, probably."
"Maine lobster is good," Leslie said as the threesome walked out. We had it sometimes before we moved from Connecticut."
"Didn't it cost an arm and a leg?" Tattoo asked.
"Not if you're in Maine," Leslie told him.
He rolled his eyes. "Does this look like Maine to you?" He caught Roarke's mildly admonishing look and said, "Sorry, boss. I guess Jean-Claude's attitude just really gets to me. How's the driving lesson going?"
"Very well so far," Roarke said. "Leslie, the next errand will be to go into Amberville and reorder flowers for Friday, so they will be fresh for the arriving guests. You do know where the florist shop is, don't you?"
"I think so," said Leslie. "You might have to give me some directions. See you later on, Tattoo."
"Au revoir," he responded and got into his car. Roarke saw an opportunity and directed Leslie's attention toward it.
"Tattoo will have to back out," he said. "Watch how he does it."
Tattoo's car roared to life, and a bare second later he began to back right out of his space, glancing around perfunctorily. Once he was clear of the nearest vehicle, he shifted gears and tore out of the parking lot as though he had three police cars in hot pursuit. Leslie turned to Roarke with a dubious look on her face, and he cleared his throat. "Well…perhaps that's not the best example," he admitted. "All right then, we'll take it a step at a time."
§ § § -- July 20, 1995
"But he obviously didn't have that attitude forever," Lauren pointed out.
"No, because he was with me when I finally let Jean-Claude have it for the way he was treating me, and he defended my driving like a champ. I don't think Jean-Claude knew what hit him." Leslie giggled and told them all that part of the story; since Roarke hadn't been there, it was the first time he, too, had heard about it.
§ § § -- March 14, 1980
On Friday morning Leslie realized that Camille's birthday was the next day, and she had never managed to find time to get her friend a gift. "Is there any way we could stop off in Amberville?" she asked, explaining her reason to Roarke.
Roarke, who sat at his desk faced with that day's mail, his date book which lay open to July, a stack of invoices and a small pile of telephone messages, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't spare the time," he told her. "Perhaps tonight if we finish everything in time, but at the moment there is too much to do." He noticed her crestfallen look and had a sudden idea. "However, I believe you could go on your own. Tattoo?"
Tattoo came in from the flagstone patio where he had been speaking with a few of the native girls. "Yes, boss?" he said.
"Leslie needs to take a short shopping trip," Roarke said, "and I have too many things waiting for me here to take time away and accompany her. There is no reason she can't drive herself, but she does need a licensed driver with her. So I would appreciate it if you would go along and supervise her driving."
"But boss…I've got a lot to do myself," Tattoo protested, "don't I?"
"You mean you wish you did," Leslie said, scowling. "Now I know why I've hardly seen you all week. You always manage to find a reason not to come along when you hear I'm driving." Tattoo looked guiltily away, and Roarke glanced back and forth between them.
"Is there a problem, Tattoo?" he asked.
Looking trapped, Tattoo stared at Roarke, looked at Leslie over his shoulder and then back at Roarke again. "You sure she's not gonna crash the car, boss?"
"You should talk," Leslie retorted, goaded. "I've seen the way you drive."
"Far be it from me to be what Leslie referred to as a backseat driver," Roarke said, "but she does have a point, my friend. Consider it a break from your rounds, and relax. She actually is becoming a good driver. If she errs on the side of caution, you must admit it's far preferable to erring in the other direction."
Tattoo mulled this over and sighed after a moment. "Well, boss, if you say she's not a bad driver, then I guess I should take your word for it. Okay, Leslie, I'll go along with you. I hope you aren't going to take long, though."
"I'll try not to," Leslie said dryly, still stinging from Tattoo's assessment of her driving ability. "But you know us girls and shopping…we just can't help ourselves."
"If you're going, you'd better leave now," Roarke interjected, clearly in the hope of putting an end to their sparring, at least in his presence. "Once you're back, we'll have lunch, and then we need to accomplish a great deal through the afternoon."
Tattoo followed Leslie to a car parked in the lane and climbed into the passenger seat, watching her warily as she settled into the driver's seat and followed her mental checklist, murmuring each step to herself as she went through it. In less than a minute they were on the Ring Road and moving at a respectable pace; since Monday, Leslie had grown accustomed enough to driving that she felt comfortable with a little extra speed. Roarke had said it made a very good improvement from her snail's pace of Monday.
"Hm," Tattoo said finally. "I take it back, Leslie. You are pretty good for a brand-new driver. So what are you getting Camille for her birthday?"
For awhile they chatted a bit as Leslie drove; then a sudden high-pitched, very loud buzzing noise became audible from somewhere. Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other. "What's that?" Leslie exclaimed.
"I hope it's not the car," said Tattoo.
She was just approaching a curve in the road when this noise began, and when she was halfway through the bend, a heavyset man on a moped—the source of the noise—buzzed around going the other way. The moped rider looked up as he saw the car; he and Leslie recognized each other at the same moment, and she scowled at him before quickly returning her attention to the road and coming out of the curve. No sooner had she done so than there was a howl of panic and a loud crash; the buzzing moped fell abruptly silent.
Leslie stopped the car, barely remembering not to jam on the brakes. "That was Jean-Claude!" she cried at Tattoo. "Do you think…"
Tattoo's dark eyes widened and he cautiously cast a glance over the back seats. There was nothing visible from their vantage point, so he said, "Wait here and I'll take a look," got out of the car and walked back around the curve. He wasn't very far down the road, so Leslie heard the curse he expelled. Dread roosted in her stomach while she put the car in park, killed the engine and got out to see what had made Tattoo swear…