§ § § -- January 9, 1999
Leslie was unpleasantly surprised to find herself eating lunch alone on the veranda. Mariki was puzzled too. "What happened to Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Leslie uneasily, sweeping a quick, hopeful glance across the lane but coming up short. "He didn't tell me anything this morning, and I had no reason to believe he wouldn't be here." She frowned and gave out with a long sigh. "Don't mind me, Mariki. I'm probably dreaming up all kinds of outrageous scenarios that have nothing to do with reality. I'm sure we'll see him at supper." Mariki nodded, reassured, and pushed her serving cart back to the kitchen; but Leslie hadn't convinced herself, and she ate the entire meal with a little black cloud over her head.
She would never have imagined the reality, however. While she sat alone with her misgivings, Roarke was some two-thirds of the way across the island with Paola, lingering over a sumptuous picnic lunch, at Bella Glen—Roarke's private sanctuary. Paola was the first person he had brought here since Helena Marsh; had Leslie known this, the significance of it would have greatly frightened her. To give Roarke his due, he had started out asking Paola to enlighten him further as to the exact nature of her problems; but she had begged off very prettily, asking that he let her just enjoy herself and get her mind off weightier matters. Roarke had given in without argument, and they had talked of inconsequential things as they enjoyed their lunch. Before he quite knew it, the picnic had come to a languorous end, and Paola was pleading an oncoming migraine; so he took her back to her bungalow, made sure she was settled into a dark room, offered her anything he thought she might need, and at last made his reluctant exit.
At the main house he found Leslie heavily occupied; there was a small stack of phone messages on the desk, his date book was open, and she was on the phone with someone who evidently wanted to change the date of his trip, while simultaneously trying to go through the mail. Several envelopes slipped out of her hands and landed on the floor when she tried to shift a pencil to her writing hand. "No," she was saying in a voice that sounded a little frayed, "there's nothing available for this month…" She managed to turn a page in the date book as he stood and watched. "…nor next month either." Once more she struggled to push a page over, and he smiled suddenly and turned it for her, earning a surprised but grateful look. "Ah, here we go. What about March 20? That's the first open weekend we have, and the only one till at least summer." She listened, and a relieved look settled over her features. "Okay, March 20 it is. We'll see you then, Mr. Gray." She wiggled the phone receiver off her ear, where she'd been pinning it with her shoulder, and dropped some more envelopes before she managed to put it back on the hook. She jotted a name in the date book and let the pencil fall, then fell back in the chair and blew out her breath before focusing on him.
"Busy?" Roarke asked indulgently.
"Frantically," said Leslie. "The Saturday-afternoon lull is nonexistent this week. Tell me, what happened to you? You had me worried when you didn't come home for lunch, and I haven't seen you since you dismissed me this morning to talk to Paola."
"Hers is a difficult fantasy," Roarke said. Even he knew he sounded evasive; but while deep inside he didn't blame Leslie for her skeptical stare, it annoyed him all the same. "I have yet to learn its true nature, and it's taking longer than I expected. She is hiding a great many things, and it's impossible to read her."
"Where is she now?" Leslie asked.
"I took her back to her bungalow," Roarke replied, "when she realized that one of her migraines was setting in. Perhaps I have something in the cellar that may help her." He turned to depart the room, but Leslie sprang out of the chair and darted around the desk to grab his arm.
"Father, wait a minute! You have all these messages waiting for you, and in another hour or so I need to check on Mr. Kearney. There's not much you can do for people with migraines. Camille said her sister Andrea's been getting them for the last few years, and all she can do for it is shut herself in the darkest possible room and wait it out. Please, why don't you let Paola rest for awhile and try to clear out some of the paperwork?" She flinched at his flinty stare, but refused to back down.
Roarke frowned at her. "You don't realize the particular nature of Paola's migraine," he said. "Nothing can be done for the average human being, but I believe I can do something for her. If I am ever to learn anything in order to help her, I must make all possible effort. You are doing fine here, Leslie. I'll be back up when I can." With that, he walked off down the hallway, leaving Leslie standing there open-mouthed, his words echoing through her brain. What in the world had he meant by "the average human being"? The phone rang again, summoning her back to the desk with a groan.
Most of Leslie's hour had passed before Roarke returned with a small vial, looking deeply preoccupied. "Perhaps…" she heard him murmur, alerting her to his presence, and she looked up hopefully.
"Father?" she called.
Roarke stopped to look at her. "Yes? Quickly, Leslie, I must take this to Paola." His stance indicated impatience, and she bit her lip.
"Can it wait just a little longer? I've really got to check on Mr. Kearney," she said, her voice apologetic despite herself. It was a perfectly legitimate request and she knew it, yet he had been acting oddly enough that she was afraid of rubbing him the wrong way.
"No, this is urgent; Paola's needs take precedence. Wait for my return," he said curtly and left before she could think of a protest.
Leslie waited till she heard the click of the closing door before expending her fear and frustration with a fist pounded on the desk and a couple of loudly expelled epithets. Never before had she seen Roarke place the welfare of any one person over any other. And why Paola? What was it about her that had him so captivated? And "captivated" is definitely the word, Leslie thought. It almost looks as if he's…falling for her. The very concept, once put in so many words, felt like an icy shaft through her stomach. She supposed it was possible that she could be overreacting; but her instincts had been screaming that something was very much awry ever since she and Roarke had watched Paola disembark that morning, and she could remember numerous occasions when Roarke had advised her to trust those instincts. So now she was trusting them implicitly for once, and she couldn't even get her father to stop and listen to her! She glanced at the clock and scowled. No matter how taken Roarke was with that woman's mysterious problems, there was still other business to be conducted: and if he wasn't going to do it, it was up to her. She left a note for him and headed for the time-travel room, where she still had to go in order to make a Roarke-style "jump" into a fantasy, trying to set aside her steadily growing anxiety to present a calm, professional façade to Daniel Kearney.
As it turned out, she need not have bothered with a note; when she got back, Roarke was still out. Of course, there were three new messages on the answering machine, and she wrote them down, wishing she could unload on someone. But it seemed to be the weekend for getaways. Grady and Maureen had gone to southern California with Brianna so they could tour movie studios and take their daughter to Disneyland; Jimmy was on vacation and had taken Camille, David and Craig to Hawaii to visit his parents. And Fernando and Tabitha had temporarily referred their patients to Dr. Lambert at Fantasy Island Hospital so they could travel to Mexico—their first vacation since Fernando had taken over the medical office near the fishing village. Brian and Lauren were completely booked with inter-island excursions and wouldn't be home. Katsumi was working at the teahouse, and Myeko would be at the newspaper laboring over her column. Michiko, too, was out of reach, at some function in some country whose name Leslie couldn't remember. She couldn't even share her fears with Christian: he was still incommunicado, right in the thick of his extended royal junket and likely to be gone for at least another two months.
Knowing she was alone, for all intents and purposes, made her feel abandoned and unduly neurotic as a result. When Roarke came back for supper, she was initially relieved, but it soon became clear that he was somewhere else mentally. To her disbelief, he merely tossed a perfunctory greeting at her when he first arrived, then said nothing at all for the entire meal. Hurt and bewildered, Leslie retreated inward and tried to ignore him.
He left immediately after the meal, and only then did Mariki appear, looking spooked. "Miss Leslie, what on earth is going on?" she asked low, as if afraid Roarke would overhear her. Leslie gave her a helpless look.
"I don't know anymore, Mariki. He's supposedly occupied with a fantasy, but the guest in question has him so caught up that he seems to be turning into a stranger." She shook her head wearily. "I think I'm going to bed—something tells me it's going to be a very long day tomorrow. If you hear the phone ring, just leave it."
"All right. Sleep well, Miss Leslie," Mariki said and started to clear the table, while an exhausted Leslie sought sanctuary in her bedroom. Only her fatigue allowed her to sleep without fretting over Roarke.
§ § § -- January 10, 1999
"I don't know what you gave me, but it worked a miracle," Paola said in wonder. Roarke smiled; she had just arrived, and it was so early that Leslie was still asleep and the sun had only just come up. "I thought today I would take a long ride, explore the island a little more. Will you be my guide?"
"Of course, my dear, of course," Roarke agreed. "I'll be only a moment to change into more suitable attire." He smiled again and hurried up the stairs; it wasn't long before he returned, wearing equestrian clothing and looking full of energy. "Are you ready?" She tucked her arm through his and beamed up at him.
"Yes, you must give me some more of that amazing elixir," Paola went on some twenty minutes later, as they cantered on horseback along a well-worn trail. "My headache was gone in no time, and that's a first. I can't tell you how I suffer with those migraines."
"I'll mix a new batch this evening," Roarke promised. "I am very glad to know that it worked so well." He paused a couple of beats. "Has it ever occurred to you that these migraines are an outgrowth of the larger problems plaguing you?"
"Yes, in fact, it has," Paola said slowly. "But the problems you mention are not so easily removed, Roarke…they go much deeper. I recall that, years ago when I was in the assistant's position, you suggested they are ultimately mental in origin, and also that mental ailments can contribute to—indeed, even cause—physical ones."
Roarke said, "Yes, indeed they can. Mind you, my dear, the elixir I gave you treats only the symptom—the migraine. If you truly wish to be rid of the underlying cause, we must discuss the problem and possible solutions."
"Could we wait until we have reached Bella Glen?" Paola asked hopefully. "I found it so very relaxing there. It's little wonder you chose it as your private domain."
Roarke acquiesced, and the two rode along in companionable silence for the remaining half hour it took them to get to Bella Glen. They dismounted, dropped the reins to let the horses wander and graze at will, and settled on the edge of a smooth, grassy spot that directly overlooked the ocean. The day was impeccable; cottony cumulus drifted in a deep blue sky, and the water glimmered almost indigo. A soft breeze teased Paola's dark curls; Roarke reached out and gathered a hank of her hair in one hand, with inordinate care, absently rubbing it between his fingers. "Tell me, Paola, please. Let me help you."
She sat still, as if absorbing the touch of his hand resting on her shoulder; then she turned to him with despair in her eyes. "If I only knew where to begin! My whole life long I have battled night terrors…demons that whisper to me, telling me to do unspeakable things to the ones I love. As soon as I was old enough, I left my family for fear of harming them. I have had these afflictions since my memory began. I don't know their source, I don't know how to rid myself of them. I know only that they are there, have always been there, and seem determined to remain with me for all my days. No treatment I have ever sought in my life has had the slightest effect on them." She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them again, there was a strange light in them and her face took on a look of horror. "Even as I sit here with you, they speak to me again. I must go…" She tried to get up, but he firmly restrained her despite her struggles.
"No, no, Paola, don't give in," he instructed her urgently. "Talk back to them. Tell them to leave you, that you will never give in to their demands. You are ultimately the master of your mind, and you must assert that mastery and gain control over those demons before you can vanquish them. It begins here, and I will help." He released her hair, cradled her face in his hands and touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. Paola sat almost immobile in his cautious grasp, her own eyes closed, her face contorting now and then as she shouted back at her mental chimera. In his own mind Roarke heard the distant echoes of voices, taunting, laughing, threatening, and one desperate, continuous cry of protest: but that was all he could make out. They seemed in his perception to be at some distance, audible but incomprehensible, wordless ribbons of sound. Mentally he called down the tenuous link between them, but there was no response, as if he had gone unheard or ignored. He raised his "voice" and tried again, but could not make his presence known.
To an outside observer, the scene would have been disturbing. As Roarke made one futile attempt after another to establish a mental presence, his face took on an increasingly anguished look, a sign of his growing frustration at being unable to lend his powers to Paola's struggles. Paola kept grimacing, whimpering audibly now and again as she screamed at the enemies only she could see.
They are closing in on her, Roarke realized angrily, and loosed one enormous, inarticulate roar down their mental link. The sound came out physically, as a growl of frustration; Paola cried out softly, and the link snapped. Her eyes popped wide open and she gaped at him, while he sat breathing as if he'd run a mile, his eyes closed and his face a mask of empathetic pain. She reached up and rested her hands on his cheeks; he opened his eyes at her touch and grimaced in defeat.
"I couldn't get through," he whispered, so painfully that she winced in response. "I have never known such failure. I couldn't help."
"Stop, Roarke, stop—you did everything in your ability to do, and that's enough," she insisted. "Don't punish yourself so. I was certain I heard your voice somewhere in the background, and it gave me strength." Her expression softened and she smiled faintly up at him. "You give me strength, my Roarke." Gently she drew his head down to hers, and their lips met, tentatively at first, and then with rapidly increasing passion. They eased back onto the grass, lost in each other; the world might have blown to bits around them and they never would have noticed.