§ § § -- December 18, 2004

Christian was already on the veranda with Roarke when Leslie returned with the Latignon children, and he looked up from the stroller where the triplets sat, all energetically gnawing on teething rings. "Oh, there you are, my Rose," he said. "We have extra guests?"

"Very special ones, my love," Leslie said, catching up to him and kissing him. "These are Tattoo's children—Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille. And guys, this is my beloved husband, Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö—though here, he's plain Christian Enstad."

Her last phrase went apparently unnoticed, though, for Antoinette and Mireille gave Christian deep curtsies, and even Patrick deferred to him with a bow of the head. "I've never met a real prince before," Antoinette said a little breathlessly. "It's an honor, Your Highness!"

Christian chuckled, tossing Roarke a self-conscious glance. "I'm pleased to meet the three of you as well," he observed, "but I do ask you a favor. Please, don't be so formal. You can just as easily refer to me as 'Mr. Enstad' as 'Your Highness', and believe me, I get enough of the latter in my native country."

"Come and sit down," Roarke invited, and Christian and Leslie took their usual chairs while the Latignon children ensconced themselves at the three extra place settings created for them at the enlarged table. Leslie got up almost immediately and moved the triplets' stroller to the front part of the porch rather than the edge of the side section where they would have gotten in Mariki's way, and positioned the stroller so that the babies could see her and their father. Mariki came out with her cart as Leslie was resuming her seat, and Roarke introduced Tattoo's children to her as well. She beamed, told a couple of anecdotes about Tattoo while she was putting serving dishes on the table, and took her cart back to the kitchen with the Latignons' laughter floating along after her.

"Did you ever meet Papa, Your Highness?" Mireille asked, and then quickly corrected herself. "I mean, Mr. Enstad?"

Christian smiled. "No, I'm afraid I never had that privilege," he admitted. "I've heard a bit about him from Leslie and Mr. Roarke, and in fact Leslie recently brought home some of his paintings she had that were stored here at the main house. What I know about him is of him as an artist." He chuckled suddenly. "I think there's a chance that at least one of his originals hangs in the castle. Arnulf had a brief brainstorm, if you can call it that, about investing in art and perhaps adding something to the royal treasury. In the spring of 1993 he and Kristina took themselves off to Paris and returned with four or five paintings which they proceeded to show off to the family. Only one of them really appealed to me; it was of a very French-looking country cottage nestled in a grove of trees in the full bloom of their autumn colors." He noticed the Latignons' excited recognition and grinned. "I asked who the artist was, and Kristina looked quite puzzled by the question. But Arnulf said the man who painted the scene went by the name of Tattoo; he remembered it only because it was so unusual, and further announced that it was Kristina who had insisted on purchasing the painting. I said I thought she had very good taste, and Arnulf inferred from that remark that I must want it. So he offered to sell it to me and named a price so outrageous it should have been illegal." Everyone laughed. "Needless to say, it was far beyond my resources, and I told him that if he meant to make a serious business out of reselling his art collection, he'd better research the actual going prices of these items. I think that took the wind from his sails, and I don't remember ever seeing the paintings again after that. I'll have to ask Briella whatever happened to them."

"Maybe she'll give you Tattoo's painting," Leslie suggested with a grin, and again they all laughed.

"King Arnulf was lucky," Patrick noted. "The painting you described was one of his very popular autumn-scene series. They always sold the moment he finished them, it seems. Papa knew by 1992 that he was dying, and a couple of those autumn paintings had earlier sold for extravagant prices; so he thought it best if he started to stockpile money for us to live on after he was gone. Nearly all he painted from then on was autumn scenes, and even though he produced at least two hundred of them over the next three years, every single one of them sold instantly and for a tremendous price."

Antoinette nodded. "They were usually of a cottage in a grove of trees, but even though he painted so many, they were all unique somehow. The cottages would be different architectural styles or different sizes, or there would be a flower garden somewhere in the picture, or there'd be a deer in the trees or a rabbit in the yard, or perhaps someone looking out a window, or a cat or dog on the doorstep…no two were ever exactly alike."

"I see," said Christian thoughtfully. "All the paintings Leslie had stored away here were your father's work, and one of them happened to be an autumn scene. We've hung it in the living room at our house."

"It must have been the second one he ever painted," said Patrick. "The first two he did, he set aside especially for Mr. Roarke and cousine."

"I didn't know you had one, Father," said Leslie in surprise. "Where is it?"

"It hangs in my own room," Roarke told her with a smile. "The structure of the walls and ceiling is such that it allowed space for only one painting, and there was no question but that it be one of Tattoo's. Yet it was difficult for me to make a choice; so when he sent us those paintings as his Christmas gifts to us in 1992, I was delighted. I was so taken with the scene that I knew it must be the one on my wall."

"The first two autumn scenes he ever painted?" Mireille asked, eyes wide. "They'll be worth thousands if you ever sell them!"

"I'd never sell mine," Leslie declared a little fiercely. "Sell one of my honorary uncle's paintings? No way!"

Mireille got up and came to Leslie's chair to hug her. "I'm glad you're our cousin," she said. "You care about Papa and his memory…far more than Maman does now."

Leslie slipped an arm around the girl and squeezed her. "Don't worry, Mireille," she said. "We'll find a way to help you, okay? You have several days before we have to start thinking about it, so just put it out of your mind till then."

"What's wrong?" Christian asked, having watched this exchange.

Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille took turns explaining about their mother's impending remarriage and the unsavory preparations she had been making for it. Christian listened intently, frowning, and when they concluded their spiel he shook his head. "This LeNoir sounds quite suspicious to me," he murmured. He looked at Patrick and asked, "Before this man came into your mother's life, did she have…forgive me, but I can't think of any better way to put it—the 'proper regard' for your father's memory? I suppose I'm asking whether she still recalled him with fondness, or if she had slowly grown indifferent over the years."

"I understand your meaning, Your Highness," Patrick assured him. "No, she always remembered Papa with love. Until Georges came along, she insisted that the right amount of respect be shown to Papa's memory and the things he left behind. Then she met Georges, and within weeks she had decided that Papa's paintings were cluttering up our home and that we had better shred or archive all his papers."

"Actually, archiving your father's papers would be a very wise thing to do," Christian noted. "If I were you, I'd encourage that—but by no means allow either LeNoir or even your mother to handle that. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty," Patrick replied.

"Good," Christian said. "You're of age, and as you say you run Tattoo's art gallery in Paris, you sound like a responsible and stable young man. I expect Tattoo would have great pride in you. Find a reputable service, turn your father's papers over to them, and keep a hand in the process. Don't let them do anything that doesn't sit well with you."

Patrick nodded, looking impressed. "I never thought of that. Thank you, Your Highness. Mon Dieu, I wish only that we could have known you before Maman met Georges."

Christian chuckled. "I speak from some experience, I'm afraid. Every time a ruling monarch dies, all his paperwork must be collected and turned over to the national archives, and it's a daunting process. I had to help with it when my father died and then again when my older brother passed on. That's a great deal of what occupies the period between the death of one monarch and the coronation of the next." He thought for a moment before looking up again. "Now, what happened to Tattoo's paintings that were in your home? You mentioned you believe your mother wants to sell them."

"I shipped them here," Patrick said.

"They should be at the docks," Leslie put in. "Father said they notified him that a lot of fragile packages arrived yesterday."

"I see," said Christian. "Another wise move, Patrick."

"He's a very intelligent young man," Roarke remarked with a smile. "I recall that, when Leslie was about to be married the first time, Tattoo came here in order to give away the bride, on extremely short notice, and spent a great deal of time telling us about you, Patrick. I've never seen such paternal pride…except perhaps in you, Christian." They all laughed. "There's little doubt Tattoo saw the potential in you, Patrick, and as Christian said, I am certain he'd have great pride in you. And he wouldn't have any less pride in his two daughters." He smiled at the girls.

Mireille looked wistfully at him and then at Leslie. "Tell us about when Papa worked here," she said, her voice plaintive. "He was here so long, you must have a lot of stories."

"Frankly, I'd find that interesting myself," Christian observed, grinning.

So the rest of lunch was devoted to assorted anecdotes about Tattoo; Roarke provided the majority of them, though Leslie certainly had her share of stories to tell. Their laughter often produced answering giggles from the triplets, so that it sounded rather like a family party throughout. After the meal Leslie and Christian fed the triplets, and Roarke treated the Latignon children to a quick tour of the main house.

In the upstairs spare room, which Roarke and Leslie had used for years as a combination extra bedroom and entertainment room, the children stared at a large early landscape Tattoo had done, which hung over the sofa. "Is that one of Papa's?" Mireille finally asked.

"Yes, it is," Roarke assured her. "I can see why you aren't certain. It was done many years ago, early in Tattoo's employment with me as my assistant." He smiled. "In fact, he gave it to me as a Christmas gift the second year he worked with me."

"When was that?" Patrick asked.

Roarke smiled, gazing at the painting. "It was the early 1960s, I believe. I never had many details, but I gleaned that Tattoo had had a very difficult time of it for some years. He grew up in France, and though he told me little of his past, it was my understanding that his childhood was happy. I recall a reminiscence he had once, about his mother comforting him when he was frightened or upset." He frowned slightly, thinking back. "I don't recall that anyone in his family came to his wedding to your mother, except for a cousin named Hugo. He didn't speak of it, but I had a feeling that something must have happened to his family, that he was forced to try to make his own way before he was quite old enough."

"How did he come to Fantasy Island?" Antoinette asked.

"He was very young," Roarke said slowly. "He tried again and again to find employment, and invariably he was rebuffed by prejudiced people. He was unjustly persecuted, treated as something less than human, and grew more and more desperate as he searched. He wandered farther and farther afield, hoping that somewhere, someone would have enough heart and intelligence to overlook his alleged handicap and give him a chance.

"It was the late 1950s when Tattoo and I met for the first time. I had been running this island for quite some time prior to his arrival, although business was not as…shall we say, brisk…as it is now." The Latignons laughed and he winked at them. "It was a quiet morning in the spring, and I was making out advance schedules for guest visits when someone came into the room. At first glance I thought it was a child, until I got a closer look. Tattoo's clothing had seen better days, and he clearly hadn't had enough to eat for some time. I later learned that he had spent the last of his money for a charter pass to get onto this island. Despite his condition, he was extremely proud. The very first thing he said to me was, 'My name is Tattoo, and I am an artist. Are you the owner of this island?'

"I said, 'Yes, I am, and I am also the highest authority here. What can I do for you?' He explained then that he had hopes of settling here, if I agreed to it, and perhaps making a living selling paintings of local scenes to my guests and the tourists who have always come here for simple vacations." Roarke smiled. "The idea had a certain appeal, but color film for snapshot cameras was becoming more and more widely available, and most people were able to take photographs of whatever suited their fancy…"

"Papa's paintings would have been prettier than any silly photograph," Mireille said loyally, sniffing.

Roarke laughed. "I won't argue with you there, my dear Mireille, but I did have to take that into consideration. It's very, very difficult for most artists to make a living from their work, even those with exceptional talent, such as your father. He had nothing to begin with—only his paints, which he carried with him, and he could do nothing without the money with which to buy canvases and an easel. It occurred to me then that perhaps I could help him after all—but I could see his pride, and I realized I would have to tread carefully.

"So I suggested we discuss the matter over lunch, and he agreed readily. Despite his bedraggled appearance, he had good manners and was very polite, which told me that he was no vagrant and had clearly been raised well, in a good family. I asked him some questions about himself; he had no place to live, and was out of money and quite at the end of the line. Yet he wanted no charity; he merely wished to make an honest living for himself, by selling his artwork.

"At the time I had noticed that my business was beginning to gain some notice. I had just had my first truly busy winter; and though I knew things would slow in the warm season, I could see the pattern. Once fall arrived it would pick up again, and I was going to need someone to help me. The spring and summer would afford me the chance to train an assistant in all the duties and responsibilities the position would entail. But I wasn't sure how to broach the idea to him, and thought it over for a bit while we ate.

"Then I knew what to do. I inquired as to whether he had perhaps seen the advertisement I had placed for an assistant. He looked quite surprised; he hadn't." Roarke smiled conspiratorially. "That was to be expected, since I had placed no advertisement to begin with." The children laughed. "I asked him if he might be interested in the job. I told him that while he might manage to eke out a living on his paintings, he might prefer to earn enough to have a proper roof over his head, buy the materials he needed to produce his paintings, and other such necessities of living. I told him the position would keep him busy, but that it would be interesting and varied, and it would afford him the chance to meet a great many people. 'You,' I said to him, 'are the first truly trustworthy-looking person I have seen, and you appear quite capable to me of handling the job—if you want it.'

"I wasn't certain at first if I had convinced him of my sincerity. He looked very hard at me for a moment or two and didn't say anything. Then," Roarke said with a grin, "I added that he would have two weeks of vacation every year, time that he could use to paint to his heart's content, or to do whatever else struck his fancy. He seemed shocked and exclaimed, 'Two weeks! In Europe we get four!'

" 'Indeed,' I said. 'Well, if you prefer four weeks of vacation, you may have them; but I daresay you'll find the job—and its setting—intriguing enough that you'll wonder what on earth you're going to do with yourself for four long weeks.' He stared at me for another very long moment, and then he started to laugh and told me he'd take the job. Your father was no more than fifteen years old, if that." Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille gasped as one, and he nodded. "Despite his extreme youth, he was already streetwise, and he never gave me cause to regret taking him on. He proved to be very competent, enjoyed his job greatly, and grew to love this island very much. He had a cheerful, open disposition that won him many friends here; and even though he often styled himself as something of a Romeo and seemed to be constantly ogling the young native girls here, he had a great soft spot for children and on a few occasions mentioned in passing his hopes to marry and have a family. On that he was always self-deprecating, but I knew that if the opportunity came up for him, he would be a devoted husband and father."

"How could you tell, though?" Mireille wanted to know.

Roarke smiled. "In the early 1970s, some close friends of mine were killed in a plane crash, and for almost two years their daughter Cindy lived with me here in the main house. Tattoo and she became friends, and they remained in touch after she left the island to go to college. Then when Leslie arrived here early in 1979, he took her right under his wing. She had lost both parents and her sisters in a tragic house fire several months before, and she was lonely, frightened and still grieving. Leslie was younger when she came to me than Cindy had been, and this meant that she would be under my care for several years; so we would have to learn to live amicably with each other. Leslie has since confessed that she was actually afraid of me when she first came here, and I myself was unsure how she would fit in. Tattoo provided a sort of bridge between us, putting her more at ease and engaging us both in conversations whenever the three of us were together, helping Leslie and me to know each other better. He smoothed the way for us both, and they grew close."

"I guess that's why he called her his 'honorary niece'," Patrick mused.

"Indeed so," Roarke agreed. "As if that weren't enough, he enjoyed playing with the island children; he was always at ease with them, for they accepted him unconditionally and looked up to him. He grew especially fond of a few of them over the years. One little girl eventually moved off-island to marry, sometime in the mid-70s. Just a few years later, she and her husband were killed, leaving an infant son named Patrick. Tattoo was deeply shocked by the young lady's death, and nearly adopted the baby himself."

The Latignons looked at each other in amazement. "He never told us that!" exclaimed Antoinette, amazed.

"Oh?" said Roarke and smiled again. "It must have stayed with him for a long time. I suspect he named you after that baby, Patrick."

Patrick's dark eyes grew very thoughtful. "Maybe he did. It would explain why I didn't get a typically French name, as the girls did."

They were quiet for a few minutes; then Antoinette said, "Cousine promised us she would take us to see the museum that you built in Papa's memory."

"Indeed so, and she will do precisely that," Roarke assured her. "As a matter of fact, I think you'll have the triplets for company. She and Christian should be nearly finished feeding them, and once they're ready, you'll be on your way."