Fantasy Island and all associated characters (except mine and MagicSwede1965's) are owned by Spelling-Goldberg Productions, Columbia Pictures Television, Sony Pictures Home Entertainment. All persons described herein are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Copyright infringement is not intended.

Chapter 4: Weaving a Tapestry

Andrea spent the next few weeks visiting the island on a regular basis. Often, she would put in a full day's work at home before teleporting herself to the island, which was six hours behind her time zone, and then involve herself until the end of the island's day. When Delphine and Leslie began to worry that she wasn't getting enough sleep, she assured them that she kept careful track of the time so that she could rest properly. It invigorated her just to see that the island and its people were thriving thanks to the continuing efforts of Roarke's family.

Each time she arrived she felt more comfortable, as if the island itself were welcoming her as an old friend. Which she was, in some ways. She even found herself being drawn into the lives of the residents and the guests as her walks led her to the various facilities and settlements that had spread out from the resort area over the years.

On her first evening, she mingled with the guests at a few events to gauge their moods and liking for the island in general, at the same time being careful to not draw too much attention to herself. What she heard was almost overwhelmingly positive; the few negative comments she attributed to the person's general attitude and not to the service.

She was in the Hawaiian lounge when she overheard the emcee grumbling about the absence of one of the comedic acts. As she walked toward him, he noticed her and looked her up and down before saying, "Please tell Miss Leslie that I'll have to shorten tonight's show. One of the performers couldn't make it in time because a connecting flight was delayed by bad weather."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not an employee," she protested as she realized that he had mistaken the outfit that she was wearing for that of the resort managers. "I can still tell her if it's really needed, though."

The man scowled blackly. "What's needed is someone who can cap the show with a dynamite act. I watched the rehearsals earlier and most of them are fair at best. People who aren't entertained won't tip the establishment very well."

It seemed a shame to leave the man in the lurch. "If it's all right with you, I have an idea."

The emcee's prediction turned out to be accurate. While the comedians were competent, a few of the acts didn't resonate well with the audience and some became bored. Finally, the emcee announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, to cap off our show, may I present: everything that a mother says in one day, condensed into three minutes."

Andrea marched onto the stage wearing casual clothing and an apron, as the opening fanfare of the William Tell overture began to play. She went up to the microphone and belted out her best rendition of 'Momisms' by comedian Anita Renfroe. Most of the people in the audience understood the references in the song and howled with laughter, which she was heartened by. Anyone who'd ever had a mother or who was a mother would get it. Her performance completely reversed the mood in the room, and the patrons were clearly appreciative.

When she was done, she bowed and waved to everyone, belatedly realizing that Rogan and Delphine were sitting at the back, watching.

The following week, she happened to be passing by the Fantasy Island Theatre when she heard the strains of a very familiar-sounding musical piece emanating from within. It was rather surprising, but after all, this was Fantasy Island, where she knew there was no such thing as coincidence. Curious, she went inside. The seating area was empty but the stage was occupied by a small orchestral ensemble and choir. The director, a thin, middle-aged woman with grey hair tightly bound in a bun, stood ramrod straight in front of a lectern.

Irritably, the director waved her baton to stop the rehearsal. "Vivaldi did not write music for the foot," she proclaimed in a broad Irish-sounding accent. "Stamping is unprofessional. You need to watch me like a hawk for the time signature." Then she turned as the concert-master indicated the new arrival. "Yes? Oh, yes, I'm glad to see that someone takes music seriously."

"Oh, I'm not an employee," she demurred. "I just came in to hear the music."

The older woman eyed her critically. "Anyone who's attracted to music like this has good taste, regardless." She put her baton down on the lectern and reached out. "I'm Mrs. Elizabeth Hanley, director of the Westport Chamber Ensemble," she said as Andrea shook her hand. "Can you sing? We could use some help."

With a startled blink, Andrea said, "I sang soprano in my university choir many years ago." Upon hearing this, Mrs. Hanley stooped and rummaged in a briefcase that lay on the floor, extracted a musical score, and held it out. She walked up to take it, and couldn't help but grin as she recognized it as that of Antonio Vivaldi's Gloria in D Major. "I can't believe how much of a fluke this is; I've performed this several times, although I'm very out of practice now."

Eagerly, Mrs. Hanley asked, "Have you done solo work? I left a message at the main house asking about finding a replacement soloist, as ours has laryngitis. We're supposed to be performing in a charity concert tomorrow night, and the piece wouldn't be the same without her."

Andrea grimaced. "I'm sorry, I was never good enough for soloing. The closest I ever got was second understudy to the soprano in the Benedictus trio of Schubert's Mass in G Major."

"I'm familiar with that work," said Mrs. Hanley, "and the Laudamus Te is not as difficult. Would you give it a go?" Her encouraging look was echoed by murmurs from the musicians.

She wavered for a few moments, and then decided that there was no harm in it. The choir needed help, and she wasn't one to refuse. Besides, who could say that she wasn't meant to be here? "All right." She climbed up onto the stage.

It took a few tries to get her voice back into key, but once she warmed up it was easier. Mrs. Hanley was as strict a musical director as any that she'd ever worked with, but the woman knew how to get the musicians to sound their best. Andrea felt right at home as she remembered all the times that she'd performed with her high school and university ensembles back in the day.

Mrs. Hanley dismissed them all after an hour, with instructions to reconvene the next morning for the dress rehearsal. When Andrea expressed her concern about not having a uniform, the director assured her that they'd be able to find her a jacket as long as she wore clothing to match.

The charity concert ended up being a great success. It didn't escape Andrea's notice that Rogan, Leslie, and Christian were in the audience. Since they were the most important people on the island, it made sense that they'd attend. Deciding that prudence would be best, after the concert was over, she thanked Mrs. Hanley for the opportunity before returning the borrowed jacket and quietly slipping out of the theatre.

The glow of satisfaction at a job well done remained with her through the remainder of that week. On Sunday afternoon she was out walking once again when a sense of sadness and disappointment touched her, emanating from the direction of the resort's bungalows. Quickly she traced the source to a girl of about eight years old sitting on a bench between two of the bungalows, whimpering. "What's the matter, my child?" Andrea asked kindly as she sat beside the girl and held out a handkerchief.

The girl stared up at her with sky-blue eyes and sniffled. "I asked my mommy and daddy to come here because I heard this place was magic, and I wanted the magic to make them stop fighting all the time." She wiped her face with the handkerchief and gave it back. "But they're still fighting. And they even told me that there's no such thing as magic."

"If people don't want to believe, even magic can't help sometimes," she told the girl. "But magic is everywhere if you look carefully enough. Especially in here." She tapped the girl's chest lightly. "Love is the most special kind of magic there is. If your parents still love each other, they'll find a way to stop fighting. Maybe you could remind them of that."

"I guess so." The girl sniffled again. "But it would still be nice to see some real magic."

Andrea looked around; the two of them were alone for the moment. "What's your name?"

"Emily."

With a smile, she said, "Do you know what kind of people use magic, Emily?"

The girl gave her a somewhat reproachful look. "I've seen the Harry Potter movies."

"Of course you have," Andrea responded knowingly, and stood. She hadn't used her powers openly for years, but putting a smile on this child's face would be worth it. As she called upon her elemental aspect her power surged through her, transforming her clothing into the black, white, and silver outfit that she favoured.

Emily gasped and then clapped her hands in absolute delight.

She wasn't done yet. Next, she envisioned a specific location that she wanted. A small circular portal appeared in the air in front of her, parallel to the ground, and a corn broom dropped into sight – it was her own, lifted from a cupboard in her home. "This might look like an ordinary broom," she commented as she grabbed it, "but I can make it fly." A flick of her free hand dismissed the portal, and then she positioned the broom between her legs.

"No way," the awestruck child whispered.

"Yes way." She patted the broomstick, uncertain if Emily would be brave enough to accept the invitation. But she was: the girl threw a leg over the broomstick and held on with both hands. "Good, now hold on tight," Andrea cautioned.

She concentrated and carefully wrapped her power around them in a glowing silvery sheath. It was second nature for her to lift herself because she'd done so countless times. To bring another along, especially a lightweight child, wasn't difficult. With one hand holding the broom and the other arm wrapped around Emily in front of her, she propelled them upward slowly until they were hovering at treetop level.

Emily was transfixed, hardly even daring to breathe as she gazed at the scenery all around. "And I thought being on a plane was cool!" she managed to say.

"There was a time when people thought that flying could only be magic, because they didn't understand how it worked," said Andrea conversationally as she brought them back to the ground. "But after a long time and lots of work, they figured out how to make planes."

"Can anyone do magic if they understand how it works?" Emily asked shyly.

With a chuckle, Andrea replied, "Only if they have a special power, but you don't find people like that very often." She helped the girl dismount from the broom. "I'm what they call a professional: I know what I'm doing. So please, don't try that at home. But do try to talk to your parents about how important love is. Swear?" She offered Emily her pinky in the traditional manner.

Emily grinned. "Swear," she said and shook Andrea's pinky with her own before grabbing her in an enthusiastic hug. "Thank you." She let go and then skipped away merrily, a completely different child than she had been just a few minutes ago.

With a satisfied sigh, Andrea sent the broom back to its proper place before pulling her elemental aspect within herself, shifting back to human. It felt good to do good.

Another highlight was witnessing the hilarious antics of a resident's pet. She was walking through the main resort area and heard a commotion. After running up the road she discovered a young woman frantically trying to pick up groceries that she'd dropped, and hopping around her was a large Moluccan cockatoo that was chattering up a storm.

"Don't worry about Gotcha," the woman said as Andrea helped her to retrieve her groceries. "He won't fly away; he's just having fun at my expense."

Andrea listened as the bird's noises began to sound like actual words.

"I'm Gotcha! I got four bed rats! I can't work! I want that! I want a Coke, a Diet Coke, then call Sarah. Football's on Sarah! Go on then, whoa, whoa! I got more pie! I thought I let them go, a bed rat, there's four bed rats, there's more bed rats! I got angry. That's right, call the office, four bed rats! Football! Deadpool, deploy Deadpool! I won't! They want him right back. I won't do it; they can't do it right. I can't do it!"

She couldn't help herself, and started to giggle.

The woman laughed too and said, "He talks a lot about bed rats and Sarah, but the funniest thing is that I don't know anyone named Sarah. He must have picked that up from a previous owner." Grasping the refilled grocery bag in one arm, she held out her other hand to Gotcha, who obligingly stepped on it and climbed up to her shoulder. "Thanks for the help."

The bird's final comment was a much softer "I got you," as the pair moved away.

One evening, Andrea was on her way to the Hawaiian lounge to check out a 1980s dance party when she felt Roarke's unmistakable presence moving up behind her. "You can't ambush me that way, matua," she teased. "What brings you here?" It was wonderful to see him again, particularly after the understanding they'd reached during their previous conversation.

With a gracious smile he asked, "Have times changed so much that I am not permitted to accompany a dear friend?" He stepped to her side and offered his arm.

"Not so much," she said as she smoothly accepted. "I'm glad to see that your Tribunal allows you some time off once in a while."

"Let me say that… my presence wasn't required at this moment."

Astonished, she took a glance at him and noticed the twinkle in his eyes. "In other words, you sneaked out? You rogue, you! What would Leslie say?" Roarke's laugh joined her own, and she was glad to see him happy for a change. "But aren't you worried that people will recognize you? They'd panic if they saw a man who's believed to be dead."

"Just a little telepathic camouflage," he explained casually. "You can see me as I am because you sense truth. All others see only what they believe they should see. While I was managing fantasies, if ever I needed to directly observe, I preferred to actually disguise myself. However, there were times when that wasn't feasible."

They entered the lounge and were fortunate enough to find a free table for two near the bar. Andrea ordered herself a shrimp salad while Roarke only asked for a glass of water – telling her afterwards that he no longer needed to eat because of what had been done to him. "I do miss it, however," he reflected. "A simple thing like being able to savour one's food is among the many qualities of humanity that incorporeal beings cannot appreciate."

"I can imagine that you must disagree with them on many issues concerning humans," she observed. "But despite what they did to you and your family, I almost feel sorry for them. Especially if they've been in that state for so long that they might've forgotten what it's like to just… feel."

"You're quite right," Roarke said as he hesitantly reached across the table to put his hand over hers. "This… is something that I don't want to forget."

Before she could reply, their table was approached by a younger and well-proportioned man, whose slightly clammy face indicated that he'd had a few drinks more than he should. "Hey there. Am I interrupting?"

Roarke let go of her hand and straightened in his chair. "I'm afraid so," he said mildly.

It took all of Andrea's self-control to not react. Back in the day he wouldn't have hesitated to hear a guest's concerns; but then again, he no longer had that obligation, plus he'd told her that nobody could see his true appearance.

The man frowned. "I didn't ask you; I asked this lovely lady here." He put a hand on Andrea's shoulder as two other men, presumably his friends, walked over.

She smiled at the man and said in a friendly manner, "Please remove your hand or I will remove it for you."

The two friends hooted with glee while the man's jaw dropped at her pretentiousness. He recovered quickly and said, "Well now, I like a woman with spunk. How about you and me get to know each other?"

Keeping the same expression on her face, she slowly rose. "I already have a date. Besides, is that any way to treat your elders? In case you didn't notice, my hair is grey. Didn't it occur to you that I could be as old as your mother?"

He whipped his hand off her shoulder and jerked backward as if stung. One of his friends gaped, while the other muttered, "Sorry, but you look younger."

"Thanks for the compliment," she retorted sarcastically. "At least one of you has eyes."

"Come on, guys," the man said, disgruntled. "No point in wasting time. She's probably too tired anyway."

A playful expression crept across Andrea's face, and she turned to wink at Roarke, who raised his eyebrows in curiosity. "What are you planning?" he asked quietly.

"I'll show you just how much energy I have," Andrea boasted to the three men. "If any of you can keep up with me, I'll dance with you. Is that fair?" She sauntered over to the stage and had a few words with the DJ, who grinned. After the current piece ended, the opening bars of "You're the One That I Want" from the film Grease began to blare from the speakers. Then she unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it aside to reveal a close-fitting white sequined top underneath.

Almost immediately, another man who had been on the sidelines eagerly slid onto the dance floor and took up the part of Danny, while Andrea sang Sandy's part. The two of them went through the motions of the song as it had been performed in the film, to the delight of the watching crowd. When the song ended, they both bowed and Andrea gave a salute to her impromptu partner before retrieving her jacket and returning to her table. The three men who had interrupted earlier were, by this point, seated at the bar looking sullen.

She put her jacket back on, and then slipped some money to the bartender. "A drink for the gentleman over there," she said, pointing to the man who'd partnered with her. When she returned to the table, she told Roarke, "I hope I haven't put you off with that little display. There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."

Roarke chuckled before saying, "Not at all; you've just shown that there's more to you than most people would realize." Including himself, and he fervently wanted to find out.

"Let's just take things slowly," she said, sensing his zeal but also knowing that these interludes could be cut short at any time. "You and I are too accustomed to looking at the big picture. Perhaps we should simply enjoy these small moments as they occur, and let the future take care of itself."

He raised his water glass to her. "I would like that."