§ § § - June 25, 2008
A little less than an hour later, they were gathered around the breakfast table with the children, Carl Johan and Amalia, with Ingrid serving. "Anna-Laura has a couple of surprises for you when we see her later today," Carl Johan told his brother, catching the triplets' attention with the word surprises. "I think you'll enjoy these."
"What kind of surprise, Uncle Carl Johan?" Susanna asked eagerly, getting onto her knees in the chair and leaning over the table toward him.
"You'll see at your grandfather's house this afternoon," Carl Johan promised his niece with a grin. "Aunt Anna-Laura made me promise not to tell."
"Sit properly, Susanna," Christian told his daughter, who obediently resettled herself in the chair atop a couple of old phone books. "So she thinks I'll like them, then? This should be interesting."
"What else are we gonna do today?" Tobias piped up.
"Probably get your mother and grandfather to talk some more about old fantasies they've granted," Christian said, eyeing his brother and sister-in-law, "if past experience is anything to go by."
Leslie laughed. "That seems to be a tradition with us lately. Well, that's okay, it'll be fun to reminisce."
"Are we having cake and ice cream too?" Karina asked.
They all laughed and Christian ruffled her hair. "Well, naturally, lillan min, it wouldn't be a birthday party without cake and ice cream, would it?" Beaming, Karina shook her head, and Christian grinned back at her and returned his attention to the adults. "You know, it's true…Leslie and Mr. Roarke do seem to narrate a lot of their past adventures for our benefit on special occasions. Sometimes even on random occasions."
"I hope Matti's there," Tobias said. "If he's not, it's gonna be just a bunch of dumb girls, and that's no fun."
"Girls aren't dumb!" Susanna informed him hotly. "Girls are as good as boys."
"Better," Karina added loyally.
"Are not," Tobias retorted, and that immediately set off an argument that Christian and Leslie both had to put an end to, while Carl Johan and Amalia looked on with enormous amusement. The triplets kept spearing each other with mutinous glares, while Christian and Leslie looked at each other with half-smiling resignation.
"That brings back a few memories that were better left undisturbed," Amalia said.
Christian snorted. "Not on my birthday, preferably. This is quite a precocious age to start the girls-versus-boys argument."
"Would you rather start your party right now, so as to avoid further altercations?" inquired Carl Johan with a wicked twinkle in his eye.
Christian gave him a look that made him burst into laughter. "As if I really had to answer that," he said, though he too began to grin. "If I can't handle three young children, I can't possibly be expected to handle an outsized party."
But they could see, as they arrived at the main house, that it was already shaping up to be exactly as outsized as Christian dreaded. Roarke met them at the top of the steps to the porch, greeting them warmly and squeezing his grandchildren's hands as they shouted excited hellos. "It's as well you've come a bit early. Christian, your sister and her husband are waiting in the study, and for now at least, it's quieter there, before all the other party guests begin to arrive."
In Roarke's study, Anna-Laura presented her younger brother with a couple of wrapped packages that anyone could see were books. "These are both somewhat overdue, but since your birthday was coming up, we decided to save them anyway."
"Overdue, are they?" Christian echoed, settling into one of the chairs in front of Roarke's desk while Leslie took the other and the triplets hung on both their father's chair arms, staring on with eager, shining faces. "Well, let's see what they are."
"Hurry, Daddy!" Susanna urged.
He grinned at her. "I'm trying, I promise." He put one package in his lap and deftly removed the paper from the other one; it turned out to be the English translation, released only a few months before, of Anna-Laura's biography of Queen Susanna.
"Oh, that looks beautiful," Leslie said with appreciation.
"Now you can read it properly," Christian agreed, chuckling. "Perhaps they should have given it to you for your birthday last month." They laughed; they had received the original jordiska version of the book the previous Christmas, but Leslie had found it difficult going and had been looking forward to the translated version so that she could read it too.
"Now this one, Daddy!" Tobias insisted, patting the remaining present as Christian handed the book over to Leslie.
"Calm down, you little tornado," Christian said, half laughing. "I can go only so fast." He picked up the second present and ripped away the paper to find that this book was the exposé that Christian had been involved with for most of the past nineteen months. Its title was Buried, with a subtitle of Oil, Royalty and Far-Reaching Machinations. Douglas Grunewald's name as author appeared just below that. While Roarke and Leslie looked on with great interest, Christian opened the book to find Grunewald's autograph on the title page, with an added notation: In deepest appreciation for all your help and insight. Christian smiled at that. "This will make fascinating reading."
"Look at the acknowledgments pages in both books," Anna-Laura suggested.
Christian checked through Buried and discovered three pages of acknowledgments in the back, just before the index. At his sister's urging, he read aloud from the beginning: "I have a great many people to thank for the existence of this book, but more so than anyone else, the jordiska royal family, who graciously allowed me to invade their hard-won privacy for so many months. In particular, Prince Esbjörn was very generous with his time and memories, providing dozens of e-mails and many pages of handwritten letters describing his years under lock and key. I am also greatly indebted to Prince Christian, who provided much insight on his father, his oldest brother, and Ingela Vikslund; and to Princess Leslie and her father, Fantasy Island's Mr. Roarke, for allowing me the opportunity to meet with the royal family there and make my request. Were it not for them, this book wouldn't exist." Christian looked up in sheer amazement after a few seconds. "He lists several of the Vikslund sisters and Kurt as well, but makes it clear that they acquiesced to interviews only after hearing that we were willing to tell our side. Now if this book lives up to its promise, I'll be completely satisfied, but from what I see here, I fully expect it to."
Anna-Laura nodded. "It does."
Esbjörn put in, "Lauri and I had first crack at the book when Grunewald's publisher in Lilla Jordsö sent copies. He's just as impartial as his reputation makes him out to be, but it's clear enough that the family, other than Sire and Arnulf, was completely innocent of the machinations in the incident. There's no suggestion that Einar Vikslund is any more or less guilty than either Sire or Arnulf was; each one bears his fair share of blame, and I see not one statement that is anything less than the most meticulously researched fact. He did an excellent job. I've suggested to Gabriella that we present him with one of our national medals."
"That's a very good idea," Christian said. "How's the book selling in Lilla Jordsö?"
"It's disappearing from store shelves nearly as quickly as employees can unpack boxes and fill their display bookcases," Anna-Laura said with a grin. "I think it can be said to be the definitive account of what really happened."
"Wow," said Leslie. "I don't know which one I'll want to read first." They all laughed. "Well, in the meantime," Roarke put in, "we all have a party to attend; even as we've been sitting here discussing these books, guests have been arriving in droves." He gestured out the tall shuttered windows behind the desk, and one glance was all it took to confirm the truth of his statement. Christian groaned playfully.
"I suppose I may as well face the hordes and get this thing over with," he said, exaggerating his grumbling, and his siblings scoffed at him all the way out the door. But Christian was genuinely taken aback by the cheering and shouted birthday wishes that greeted him when he stepped out the door, surrounded by family.
When the noise had died down enough for one person to be heard speaking, and a few people (primarily Christian's friends and his brother) had goaded him to say something, he shrugged. "I wouldn't exactly call myself a public speaker, and I see no reason to glorify this any more than you already have—not that I don't appreciate this…"
"Oh, quit lying, Enstad," Nick Okada yelled playfully, and laughter welled up.
Christian grinned good-naturedly. "Well, oddly enough, as Leslie so pithily pointed out to me about a year ago, my attitude left something to be desired, and I knew this was going to happen anyway. So I've decided just to sit back and enjoy it, and be grateful that I have so many friends and family who are willing to show what I mean to them. Thank you all for going to such lengths, and I hope you'll all enjoy the party as well—whatever it may consist of." Laughter mingled with applause, and those on the porch stepped down into the side yard where there were several tables set up, containing assorted refreshments.
One of the tables was strewn with countless envelopes, and when Christian asked about it, Roarke told him, "As a matter of fact, those are birthday greetings that have been arriving here in droves for the last few weeks. The post office held them until this morning and then brought them all here in several mailbags."
"Herregud," Christian said, astonished, scanning the table. "I'm going to have to recruit half the island just to help me go through all those."
"We have plenty of time to look them over," Leslie said with a grin, coming up beside him and squeezing his hand. "There's that long flight out to Arcolos lying ahead of us, so that'll be the perfect time to get through a bunch of these."
"I'm sure the kids'll love tearing open envelopes for you, too," added Myeko, who with Nick had sauntered over to get a look. "That'll save you half the work right there."
The day went on quite like this, mostly with chatter and many birthday wishes extended to Christian, except for one point when Mariki brought out an elaborate three-tiered birthday cake topped with two candles in the shape of the numbers 5 and 0. The triplets' eyes were round with delighted anticipation, and they hung around their father's chair while everyone sang "Happy Birthday to You", barely able to restrain themselves from begging for pieces. Even then they had to wait while Christian blew out the candles, and then Mariki sternly reminded them that the person having the birthday was entitled to the first slice of cake. That didn't deter the children for long, though; once Christian had his piece, Mariki and a couple of her kitchen staff were busy for a good fifteen minutes doling out slices of cake, mostly to children, though quite a few adults got in line as well.
Late in the afternoon, people finally began to drift away, eventually leaving only their friends and Christian's family relaxing around the yard. Christian had opened a number of birthday gifts that had subsequently been taken over to the Enstads' car for the trip home later; five or six post-office buckets had been filled with the cards that had come primarily from Lilla Jordsö, though there were certainly other countries well represented in the mix; and though some of the tables had been broken down and removed, there still remained a couple of them, bearing what was left of the food, along with open soda jugs and a couple of bottles of apple wine brought in especially for Christian's birthday from his native land. Many toasts had been drunk and everyone was feeling full and somewhat lethargic, except for the children, who were running around the yard and the empty lane, apparently heedless of the increasingly late hour.
"Well, I've been waiting for this," said Anna-Laura presently, having just returned from accompanying a couple of Roarke's employees in returning Kristina to her bungalow. (That had amazed the Enstads; Christian had quipped that she must have attended too many parties before coming to his own, and therefore she'd flagged long before anyone had expected her to!) "Christian says that you often tell anecdotes about past fantasies you've granted, on special occasions, and sometimes not-so-special occasions. Mr. Roarke and Leslie, if you feel so inclined, I'd truly enjoy being witness to such a storytelling."
"Huh, perhaps we should have had you doing readings from your book about Mother," Christian put in with a grin.
"Boring," teased Rudolf, glancing into the lane where his and Louisa's daughter was tearing around with all the other children. "No offense, of course, Aunt Anna-Laura."
"None taken…I think," she retorted, drawing laughter. Her face broke into a smile. "No, in fact, I have to agree with you. What do you think?"
Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and grinned at the same moment. "I don't mind if you don't, Father," Leslie offered.
"Not at all," he agreed. "All that remains is to decide which story to tell."
There was some silence while everyone pondered this; then Maureen spoke up. "I was just thinking. This is a milestone birthday for Christian, right? Maybe you could tell us about the very first fantasy you allowed Leslie to actively help you grant, even if all she did was just go-fer duties and things like that. She tended to whitewash her anecdotes when we got together at school lunch on Monday."
"Oh?" Roarke inquired with interest.
Camille smirked. "I think she was afraid of not looking perfect in front of us."
"Hey, would you want to lay out your most embarrassing moments in front of your friends?" Lauren countered. "Of course, if you're willing to tell us now, Leslie, I'm sure not gonna stop you."
"No, I'm sure you won't," Leslie concurred amid the laughter. "I guess the first fantasy I was allowed to be involved in could be said to be a milestone for me, too. Well, in that case, grab something to drink if you want it, and we'll get started."
§ § § - February 16, 1979
Leslie was just finishing up some social-studies homework when Roarke shifted a bit in his desk chair and regarded her thoughtfully till she looked up. "So you've been here two weeks, Leslie," he said. "How do you like it thus far?"
"I like it fine, Mr. Roarke," she said, a little carefully. School was going well for her, at least as far as classes went; she had managed to orient herself so that she was able to keep up with the subject matter, even after just her first week of school here, and her homework was usually surprisingly easy. She had three friends: Myeko Sensei, Michiko Tokita, and Lauren McCormick, all of whom seemed to accept her almost as if she'd always been here. Camille Ichino was another story, but the memory of her altercation with Camille made her flinch every time she thought of it, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She had yet to tell either Roarke or Tattoo; they seemed so relieved that she was adjusting as well as she was, she dared not disillusion them by talking about Camille.
"It seems so," Roarke agreed. "You appear to be settling in well and quickly at school, and I commend you for that. I must confess I hadn't expected it of you." His smile was warm despite his words, and Leslie smiled back. "You were quite a help to me last weekend, taking the smaller duties off my hands so that I could do more to help our guests, and I want you to know I appreciate it deeply." He sat back, folding his hands over his stomach. "In fact, you did so well, I thought perhaps you'd like to take on a few more tasks this weekend."
Leslie sat up straight, interest instantly piqued. She had really enjoyed going through all the incoming fantasy-request letters, and getting responses ready to be sent out had been fun too, as if in some small way she were helping someone's lifelong dream come to fruition. It might have been mundane, but she'd had a blast. "You mean…I could maybe handle all the mail this weekend?"
"Oh, not just that," Roarke assured her, smiling. "I have a few other things in mind for you to do as well. It so happens that this weekend I'll be granting three fantasies, and your help will come in very handy indeed. Do you think you're up to the challenge?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Roarke! I promise to do the best I can," Leslie exclaimed, thrilled.
He smiled, nodding in approval. "Very good. Then I'll count on you," he said, and she nodded, now so excited she could barely concentrate on the remainder of her homework.
§ § § - February 17, 1979
She dressed carefully the following morning, donning the pale-blue sundress that was one of four such garments she had chosen during her first week on the island. She felt cool and elegant wearing it; she'd often wanted sundresses when she was younger, but had never been allowed to have one new, thanks to her stingy father. Now she had four, and it was all she could do to decide which color to wear. If I do well, she told herself, maybe Mr. Roarke and Tattoo will let me help every weekend, and I could get a few white sundresses or something, and really look like I belong in the business. How cool would that be?
Grinning to herself, highly anticipatory, she cast a last glance around her just-tidied bedroom, then hurried down the stairs just in time to hear Tattoo ringing the bell from the bell tower next to her bedroom dormer. Roarke was in the inner foyer, getting ready to leave, and looked up when he heard her coming downstairs. "Ah, Leslie, perfect timing," he said, smiling. "The car will be around any moment."
She scurried across the room and joined him, so that they exited the house together; it still felt strange to Leslie, being able to dress for summer in February. Every morning it struck her anew how warm and pleasant it was. She squinted into the sunlight as she made her way alongside Roarke to the steps; as they started down, she noticed Tattoo crossing the porch toward them from her left, concentrating fiercely on a bright-yellow notepaper with a matching envelope. She thought to greet him, but he was so absorbed that she restrained herself, particularly when she saw his frown.
Roarke checked the weather for a moment—as if he really needed to, Leslie thought, when every day she'd been here so far was as sunny and warm as the last—and then caught sight of Tattoo approaching. Looking concerned, he inquired, "Tattoo, is something the matter?"
"My cousin Hugo," said Tattoo, surprising Leslie, who had never heard Tattoo mention any relatives at all. "He's in the hospital."
Leslie blinked; Roarke looked sympathetic. "Oh, that's terrible. What's wrong?"
"His girlfriend. When she found out he was married, she threw him over."
Leslie made a face, already sure she didn't care much for this cousin of Tattoo's, when the first thing she learned about him was that he was a two-timer. Roarke seemed puzzled by something else entirely. "But why would his girlfriend throwing him over put him in the hospital?" he wanted to know.
"Because she threw him over a cliff," said Tattoo, completely straight-faced.
Roarke got an exasperated look about him; Leslie put a hand over her mouth, wanting to laugh but unsure how such a reaction would be received. Roarke, though, seemed to have lost whatever sympathy he might have felt. Shaking his head, he nudged Leslie along, and they approached the car that was just pulling up to the sidewalk. Leslie slid in beside Tattoo, forgetting Cousin Hugo in her renewed excitement.
Seeing the plane-dock clearing from her guardian's perspective was strange but fascinating; as she took up a spot to Roarke's right, he called out, "Smiles, everyone, smiles!" and gestured at the band she remembered from her own arrival two weeks before, which burst into the same lively Polynesian melody she'd heard that day. The band seemed smaller, she thought; there were only three male musicians and one female dancer, yet they sounded like a larger ensemble. She tapped her foot unconsciously to the music, while Roarke buttoned his jacket and glanced at Tattoo, who double-checked his. Satisfied that everyone was properly buttoned up where applicable, they all three turned their attention to the far end of the plane dock, where a pretty young blonde woman clad in a modest white dress with a powder-blue jacket stepped out the hatch, smiling at the attendant.
"Who is she, boss?" Tattoo asked, and it was then that Leslie remembered that same attendant telling her that Roarke explained the new fantasies to Tattoo each weekend.
"Sister Mary Theresa," said Roarke.
"You mean she's a nun?" Tattoo said, surprised. "But how come she's dressed like that?" Leslie was glad he asked; she herself wouldn't have minded asking, but she still felt much too new, and dared not open her mouth.
"Because for this weekend, she wants to be just Mary Hoyt, the woman she was before she entered the convent and became a sister almost seven years ago."
"She does not want to be a nun anymore?"
"Even she is not sure, Tattoo. Ever since her best friend, also a nun, died last month at the age of thirty-five, Sister Mary Theresa's wondering if she was ever meant to be a nun at all. And next week, she is supposed to take her final vows—vows that will last a lifetime."
Leslie could hardly imagine shutting oneself up in a convent for the rest of one's life; what a lonely existence that had to be, she thought, frowning. Never to be able to travel places? To make new friends? To fall in love and get married and have kids? Imagine what this woman was going to miss out on! She didn't speak, though, certain her opinion would not be welcome. It wasn't her life to decide about, after all.
"But boss, how can we help her?" Tattoo asked, scattering Leslie's thoughts.
"By helping to make her choice very clear. You see, several years ago, she met a young man—a man who doesn't even remember her. But there was something special about him, something that, if there were ever a man she could love—be a wife to—he could be that man." That made Leslie smile hopefully.
"Can you do that, boss? Can you bring that man here?" Tattoo asked.
"He's already on the island, Tattoo. They will meet this weekend, and Sister Mary Theresa will have to make her decision—him, or the church."
The two men looked at each other, and Leslie watched them, wondering what their ideas were. She supposed Roarke would have no opinion one way or the other, but she couldn't believe Tattoo didn't, and thought she'd ask later.
Then she noticed their attention shift and looked back at the plane dock, where this time the approaching new guest was a plain-looking, nerdy sort of guy who reminded Leslie immediately of Eugene Clarke, who'd arrived here with her two weeks before. But this man was clearly older, slowly balding, and grinning to beat the band; he was dressed in a light-blue suit with a little red bowtie. "Mr. Felix Birdsong," Roarke introduced him, "a certified public accountant all the way from Waukegan, Illinois."
"What's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo inquired with interest, glancing at Leslie and then getting a wicked little sparkle in his eye. "Maybe Leslie'd like to guess."
Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her, and she blinked at them and reared back slightly, startled. "You haven't said a word yet, Leslie," Roarke remarked. "Have you no comment at all on our fantasies?"
She shrugged self-consciously. "Well, I am brand-new and all…"
"You can still guess," Tattoo encouraged her. "C'mon, have some fun with it!"
With her guardian and his assistant watching, she returned her attention to Felix Birdsong and squinted carefully at him. "Gosh, I don't know. I mean, I remember coming here with another guy who reminds me of him, but I bet they didn't have the same fantasy." She peered at Roarke. "What was Eugene Clarke's fantasy, anyway?"
Dryly Roarke replied, "He wanted to be irresistible to college women." Leslie made a face, and he chuckled. "Have you a guess, then?"
"Well…I bet this has something to do with women too," she hazarded. "Am I right?"
"Indeed you are," Roarke said with a grin. "It's a fantasy shared by millions of red-blooded men the world over. Mr. Birdsong, an avid movie fan all his life, wishes to become casting director for a major motion picture."
Tattoo lit up with amazement, while Leslie wondered what this had to do with women. "You mean, with all those beautiful starlets chasing after him to get the part?" At those words, she grinned sheepishly to herself. She had learned very quickly that Tattoo had an eagle eye for the ladies.
"Oh, much more than that, my friend," Roarke told him, with an expression that convinced Leslie he had something intriguing up his sleeve. After a moment's hesitation, he went on, "Well, you see, the name of the movie Mr. Birdsong is casting is The Most Beautiful Girl in the World. It will be his responsibility to decide which of the twenty gorgeous finalists already assembled here best befits the title."
If anything, Tattoo got even more excited. "You think he needs an assistant?"
Roarke gave Tattoo a look that made Leslie collapse into giggles, and shook his head a couple of times with resigned amusement before winking at Leslie and then making a discreet gesture back toward the plane dock. This time, the new arrival looked familiar: a no-nonsense, fortyish blonde woman in a red blouse and long beige skirt, looking confident and striding purposefully down the ramp. "Boss, I know her—it's Ms. Garwood!" Tattoo blurted out. "The famous news lady on TV!"
"Oh yeah," Leslie said, eyes widening. "Jane Garwood, the national news anchor!"
"Ah, you recognize her," Roarke said, smiling. "Did you watch her newscasts?"
"Well, not really," Leslie admitted. "We usually watched David Brinkley. But if my dad wasn't around, Mom would turn to another channel and we'd watch Jane Garwood."
As Roarke nodded understanding, Tattoo queried, "Is she here for the big award show?" Leslie had heard nothing about this and tuned in to her guardian with full attention.
"Well, that's what Ms. Garwood would like the world to believe; in fact, it's already been announced that she has won the most prestigious honor," said Roarke.
"But there is something else?" Tattoo asked, looking worried.
Roarke's expression darkened. "There most certainly is, Tattoo. You see, Ms. Garwood won her award for an exposé of satanic cults called the Black Mass. Since that program was aired a year ago, three men very close to her have all died in tragic accidents. And she blames herself."
"You mean she's a jinx?" Tattoo asked, wrinkling his nose.
" 'Cursed' is the word the high priest of the cult used against her," said Roarke. His tone and expression were very grim now.
"But boss, if this has something to do with the supernatural, how can we help her?" Tattoo asked, sounding quite helpless. Leslie had to agree with him; uncertain of her new guardian's abilities, she found herself wondering exactly what they were all in for.
As Tattoo spoke, a pretty native girl had started across the clearing with a tray bearing one glass; she now stopped in front of them and presented it to Roarke, who instantly snapped into welcoming-host mode, removed the glass from the tray and addressed their new guests while the girl retreated. "My dear guests," he said, in the cadence that would become very familiar indeed to Leslie over the coming years, "I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"
Each of the visitors beamed back in anticipation and raised their drinks in unison; Felix Birdsong took a healthy draft of his and grinned even more widely than usual. Leslie watched Roarke sip from his own glass and began to wonder exactly what kind of role she was destined to play in the fantasy-granting enterprise on this, her second weekend ever on this enchanted island.