§ § § -- December 21, 1996
In fifteen minutes there came a knock and the door opened; Chef Kazuo Miyamoto stepped inside and greeted Roarke with a smile and a quick, shallow bow. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke," he said. "You sent for me?" His English was quite good, though gently accented, after having lived outside Japan for a few years.
"Yes, Miyamoto-san, please, come in and sit down," Roarke requested, watching as the chef came fully into the room and settled into the chair that Katsumi had recently occupied. "All is well at the hotel?"
"Everything's going exactly on schedule, sir," Chef Miyamoto replied. "We're ready for the lunch rush and working on tonight's menu along with the fare for the luau."
Roarke smiled. "Excellent," he said approvingly. "I must commend you, Chef Miyamoto. You have run a tight ship at the hotel since the day you first came into my employ, and I am very pleased with your performance. Not only that, but you have received many very positive reviews from our guests, and Leslie and I have eaten at the hotel often enough to know that those reviews are justified. I believe you deserve a raise."
The chef's eyes lit. "Thank you so much, sir! I'm very happy to know I've been of service. I always try to do my very best."
"You're a credit to Fantasy Island's reputation," Roarke said warmly, making a note to himself in regard to the raise. He let the pen fall to the paper, his mind turning to the real reason he'd summoned Chef Miyamoto, and sighed silently before raising his eyes once more. "Forgive me for the evident prevarication, Miyamoto-san, but I must admit that your job performance is not the reason I called you here. One of our guests this weekend has come here specifically to find you."
Chef Miyamoto tilted his head a bit in puzzlement. "May I ask who, sir?"
"Her name is Katsumi Nishimura," Roarke said.
The chef's gaze fell out of focus while he tried to place the name. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name, Mr. Roarke. Maybe my reputation precedes me." He grinned, and Roarke chuckled briefly, a voiceless huff.
"Perhaps, in fact, it does…in a way," he said. "I realize this may sound like a very odd request to you, but I ask that you go to see her. She is waiting in the Plumeria Bungalow."
The chef stared at him. "Are you asking me to go there now, sir?"
"Please," said Roarke, though his tone indicated that it was less a request than a command. "When you get there, I believe you will understand why I ask this of you."
"All right, Mr. Roarke, I'll go right now," Chef Miyamoto said slowly, rising from his chair. "Unless there's anything else you need…"
"No, that will be all. Thank you again, Miyamoto-san," Roarke replied. The chef bowed once more and left the house.
Leslie and Katsumi had talked a little on the way to the bungalow, and when they got there Katsumi turned to her with a pleading look. "You stay, Resrie? I want talk…"
"I can stay for a little bit," Leslie said, honestly wishing she had more time to spend with Katsumi. "What would you like to talk about?"
"You see my girl, yes?" Katsumi beamed when Leslie nodded, and turned to call to one of the back rooms. "Haruko-chan, koko ni kite kudasai!" Leslie watched as the little girl she'd seen at the plane dock bounded out of the room and into her mother's arms; Katsumi knelt and hugged the child, speaking rapid Japanese with her before indicating Leslie and adding what Leslie presumed was an introduction which included her name, slurred L's and all. She dredged her mind for what few words she knew and aimed her smile at Haruko.
"Ohayo gozaimasu!" she said, and Haruko giggled and responded shyly before breaking loose from her mother and scuttling back to the bedroom where she'd come from. Katsumi smiled apologetically.
"Haruko not good with new people," she said, straightening. "She learn English soon too. Maybe we both practice your name."
Leslie laughed again. "Have you and Haruko eaten anything?"
Katsumi blinked. "I not eat. Not think about eat. Haruko maybe…" She considered the idea, then nodded as if in confirmation. "Yes, Haruko eat some food. Some nice fruit, yes? I not eat…meet Itamae-san…"
"You're nervous," Leslie guessed, and Katsumi shrugged, looking blank. But Leslie smiled. "That's all right. I'll go and get Haruko something for breakfast. Itamae-san may come before I return."
"Yes, he come," Katsumi murmured, swallowing hard. Leslie, afraid a sympathetic touch might be bad manners, contented herself with a little smile and slipped out.
Katsumi watched her leave, wishing she had had more time to practice her English before leaving Japan. Unfortunately, it had been necessary to act quickly to get away, before the women at the geisha house realized she and Haruko weren't coming back. Now they were here, for better or for worse, and for the first time she wondered uneasily what they would do if Itamae-san failed to remember her—or worse, did remember her and wanted nothing to do with her and Haruko. There was nothing for them back in Japan, and she was unprepared for life anywhere else. Her worried thoughts carried her far enough away that she was badly startled by the knock on the door. "Come in!" she called in Japanese.
The door opened, and for the first time in seven years, she saw the man whose face had never left her memory. Katsumi stared, drinking him in, unable to speak.
‡ ‡ ‡
Kazuo Miyamoto wasn't sure what he would find when he reached the Plumeria Bungalow, but he definitely hadn't expected to hear a voice speaking in Japanese. Slowly he pushed the door open and stepped inside, gazing curiously at the incredibly lovely young woman standing in the middle of the main room. There was only one other place he had seen a face like that, and it had been—
Memory hit him with the speed and force of an express train and he stumbled back a step, emitting a strangled sound of shock. It couldn't be…! He'd thought he had pushed the image of her to the darkest depths of his brain after his transfer from Kyoto to Tokyo, and for years he'd almost succeeded—except in his dreams. When he least expected it, the flawless porcelain-doll face would smile softly at him, and he'd wake up yearning. After a long time, even those had grown few and far between; since coming to Fantasy Island, he hadn't dreamed of her at all. Now the sight of her face was as indelible as a tattoo: she was here before him, and he would never be able to banish her image.
"Yoriko," he breathed, unaware he'd even spoken. He was lost in flashes of memory—walks beneath spring cherry blossoms; talks of his business, his dreams, his life in general; her attentive interest in him, her instant accedence to his every request, her sweet, soft smile; and—
"Itamae-san?" Her hesitant, questioning voice brought him back to the present with a jerk, and he stared at her, thinking her Western dress oddly out-of-place, yet appealing, on her. She had never worn anything other than a kimono when he visited her, and she'd had a way of slowly removing it that— He had to shake his head sharply once to dispel the vivid image that tried to fill his head. Not quite sure he wasn't dreaming all this, he took careful steps toward her, watching her lovely face grow apprehensive, with a glimmer of fear in those fathomless eyes.
"Ah, Yoriko, it's really you," he murmured. He couldn't resist reaching out to touch her cheek, trying to convince himself she was actually here, in the flesh. Her eyes drifted shut and she leaned into his palm, a tiny smile stretching her lips. "What are you doing here? How did you get here? How did you know I was here?"
His beautiful geisha opened shining black eyes. "I asked. I dreamed of you for so long, but I thought you would never wish to see me again. Are you happy I am here?"
He blinked and dropped his hand, reality crashing in on him. "What are you doing here?" he asked, this time with serious intent.
She swallowed, so uncharacteristic of her, so at odds with the serene, secretive grace she had always exhibited with him in Kyoto. "I left," she said. "I had to leave. They wanted to train Haruko to follow me, and I don't want that life for her. I took her away."
He stared at her in confusion. "Who is Haruko?"
"Mama-san?" They both turned sharply at the timid little voice, and there in the doorway of a back room stood a little girl, looking uncertainly back and forth between the pair, a confused and frightened expression on her small round face. "Who is that man?"
He looked back at her, waiting for an answer every bit as much as the child, but far less prepared when it came. "He is your father, Haruko-chan."
Kazuo gaped at the child, who stared just as openly back at him; a movement caught his peripheral vision and he saw his geisha watching him with a pleading expression on her face. "That's impossible!" he protested.
"But she is your child," she insisted.
"I tell you, that can't be true," he said. "I had an illness as a child…one that kept me desperately sick for weeks. When I finally got well again and was examined by a doctor, he told me I would never be able to have a child."
Her hands dropped to her sides and her exquisite features took on an incongruous stubbornness. "Haruko is my daughter with you," she stated flatly. "I was never with another man after I knew you, Itamae-san."
The honorific alias made him realize that, whatever ultimately transpired between them, it might be best if he told her his name. "I am Kazuo Miyamoto," he said. "That is my true name, Yoriko…will you use it?"
She went pink, and the hopeful gleam re-entered her black eyes. "I will be happy to use it, if you will call me by my true name as well. Yoriko was my geisha name, and I have left that life behind. I am Katsumi Nishimura."
Kazuo and Katsumi smiled at each other at the same moment; then she ducked her head and he looked aside, clearing his throat. Haruko, till now a silent spectator, padded into the room and took refuge behind Katsumi, peering warily out at the visitor. Kazuo met her gaze, and she blinked and quickly ducked out of sight again, making him grin. "How old is she?" he asked.
"Six," said Katsumi. "She was conceived the very last time you and I met."
Kazuo swallowed visibly and looked away again. "I need time, Katsumi. Forgive me, but this is a great surprise to me, and I feel…" His voice trailed off when words failed him, and in the end he took refuge behind stiltedly formal Japanese manners. "It has been good to see you once more, Nishimura-san. Please forgive me, but I must take my leave now." He bowed to her and departed without another word.
Katsumi stared after him, bewildered, hurt and a little afraid. I need time, Katsumi… That had to mean that she would see him again, at the very least. The fact that he had used her given name—something done only between family members and close friends—spoke volumes to her. She turned to see her daughter's questioning face and smiled suddenly. "Don't worry, Haruko-chan. He is truly your father, and we will see him again."
Haruko looked a little doubtful, yet wistful at the same time. "It would be nice to have a daddy," she said before her expression changed. "I'm hungry, Mama. Will Hamilton-san bring us some breakfast?"
Katsumi grinned. "Soon, yes. I think, however, if we are to stay here, we need to learn the ways of English-speaking people, and I know they use given names much more than we do. When Miss Hamilton comes back, ask her what she would like you to call her."
"I like her," Haruko said after some thought. "She spoke Japanese!"
Katsumi laughed and hugged her daughter. "I'm glad you like her." Things would work out, she told herself stubbornly. They had to. What could she do if they didn't?