§ § § - February 8, 1981
Leslie was awakened by Roarke's footsteps, even though he moved almost soundlessly along the carpeted hallway. Of course, he saw her raise her head. "Are you all right, Leslie?" he inquired.
"Sure, I'm fine. Where're you going?" she asked through a yawn.
He paused in the doorway and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I'm preparing to end the MacAllister-Scoggins fantasy," he said. "Perhaps you'd like to watch."
The invitation was more than she could resist. "What do you mean, 'perhaps'?" she retorted with a grin, and he laughed and left her privacy to get dressed.
The sky was turning pink in the east as Roarke piloted a rover up a winding trail on the back side of the mountain he had sent the two feuding clans to find the day before. After a good fifteen minutes of climbing, he parked the rover among some trees where it couldn't be seen, alighted from the car and beckoned Leslie to follow. They made their way along a short trail into an unexpected clearing, where a rickety shed stood not far from their end of the expanse, half covering a huge, steaming, rusty-looking lidded barrel. A haphazardly coiled copper tube spiraled from an upside-down funnel atop the barrel and disappeared into a copper pot about half the size of the barrel; the pot had a spigot driven into one side near the bottom, and under the spigot rested an earthenware jug.
"This is the still?" Leslie asked, astonished.
"This is the still," Roarke confirmed, tugging at the old brown rags he wore and leading the way to the shed. Removing his battered hat, he reached underneath a huge old jug and pulled out a bushy white wig and a few other bits and pieces that, within just a few minutes, had transformed him into a nearly ancient mountain man. Leslie recalled what he had told the clans the previous morning and snickered. "Oh, so you're the 'old gentleman' who's tending the still, then. I wonder if they'll recognize you."
"I suspect they'll all be too busy rejoicing over their find," Roarke remarked, crossing over to the copper pot. "I daresay you'd better conceal yourself, lest you give away my identity too soon." He winked at her and she snickered, glancing around the area and then slipping behind the shed. It was as haphazard as the still, with enough space between boards that she could peek through and see everything that went on. She found a good peeking spot just in time to see Roarke lean over, catch a drop from the spigot with one finger, and taste it. "Mm, that's good, that's good," he remarked in an odd, high-pitched voice that had lost all trace of his natural Latin accent. "That's the stuff they gave the troops!" Unable to help herself, Leslie laughed, and he paused just long enough to wink at her again before lifting one finger to his lips.
He took up a post behind the barrel, almost as though in hiding, and none too soon: a few seconds later, several figures emerged from one of the trails that led into the clearing. "That's it!" crowed the voice of Otis MacAllister. "We found the still! And look—the Scogginses." He pointed across the clearing to a second path, from which R.J. and Norris were just stepping out. "They're too late—we were here first!"
R.J. and Norris stopped and stared; the MacAllister boys took advantage and charged across the clearing, howling, "We won! We won!" R.J. and Norris took to their own heels, just as Bobby Joe knocked Otis and Amos aside with a couple of body blows. Leslie was amazed to see that Bobby Joe's hands had been tied behind his back. Norris and R.J. threw themselves headlong into the resulting scuffle while Chlora and Ruthanne, a few feet behind the men, stared on, mouths open in alarm.
Leslie watched her guardian grab a sawed-off shotgun from a corner of the shed and move out so he had clear aim. "Stop that fightin'," Roarke commanded in his high, ornery-old-coot voice. "Now!"
No one paid attention, so he raised the gun—at which point Leslie slammed her hands over her ears—and fired off a carefully aimed shot that instantly froze everyone. They all gaped at him as if they'd never seen another human being before.
"I'll decide who's the winner here," Roarke informed them, glaring at them through his disguise. "Have you forgotten what Mr. Roarke tol' ya? Huh?" The men picked themselves up and separated into their respective family units, still belting each other a few times as they did so. "You, you. Com'ere." He pointed with the gun at Norris and Chlora, who exchanged uncertain glances and crossed the clearing. "Come over here." When they reached a table containing a jug and a few small tin cups, Roarke handed them each one of them. "Now you let the young men taste White Lightning."
Leslie watched avidly while Chlora took the cup to Otis and Amos, and Norris toted his over to his two nephews. Amos got the first sip, then Otis, while Norris gave Bobby Joe a draft of the stuff. But when Norris made to give the cup to R.J., Roarke intervened again. "No, no, he don't need no taste." R.J. and Norris stopped and stared at him. "Nor you," he added when Norris made to sip, "nor you." This last was aimed at Ruthanne; both she and her aunt paused to stare at him as well. Slowly Roarke put the gun down and began to reach for his fake beard. "What you call White Lightning," he began, peeling one piece of his disguise after another away from his face and reverting to his own voice, "is, indeed, a wondrous nectar." Leslie could see the startled recognition dawn on the faces of everyone in both clans. "A single taste transforms the drinker into a person of compassion and brotherly love…permanently."
He uttered the last word with a certain purpose, and the moment it was out, Amos' and Otis MacAllister's heads flinched and they stared into the sky, wonder blooming on their faces. The same transformation happened in Bobby Joe, whose face broke out into a huge grin. Leslie found herself watching the three former antagonists suddenly beaming at each other, laughing and exchanging hugs and slapping each other's backs, at least once R.J. got Bobby Joe's wrists free of the rope that still bound them. As Roarke pulled off the hat and wig, Amos offered, "Sorry 'bout that, Bobby Joe…no hard feelin's, huh?"
"Shucks…weren't nothin'!" Bobby Joe scoffed, cackling cheerfully.
"And now, Ms. MacAllister, Mr. Scoggins," Roarke said then, "I believe it's time to reveal the true fantasy of your aunt—" he nodded at Ruthanne and her brothers— "and your uncle." This he aimed at R.J. and Bobby Joe, while Leslie decided it was okay to come out of hiding and sidled up to stand beside her guardian.
"They had a fantasy?" Leslie asked. "I thought it was to find the White Lightning."
"Oh, it was that," Roarke agreed, "but you see, they too have been in love with each other for many years." Disbelief crossed the faces of all the younger clan members while Chlora and Norris shyly sneaked glances at each other. "But the feud between your families kept them apart, stole away their youth…broke their hearts." Bobby Joe, Otis and Amos got guilty looks about them; R.J. and Ruthanne had eyes only for Norris and Chlora. "Their true fantasy was to make certain that the same thing didn't happen to you." He nodded at Ruthanne and R.J. "Well, their fantasy is now complete, but yours—yours is only beginning."
Ruthanne hugged Chlora, and as R.J. went to stand beside her, Chlora moved over to Norris' side. Norris doffed his hat, and Leslie found herself smiling with her guardian when the two joined hands.
"What a great ending," she whispered to him.
"Indeed," he said, nodding and then smiling down at her.
"So this means nobody'll be shooting any more guns from now on, right?" she postscripted hopefully, and Roarke began to laugh, shaking his head with delight.
‡ ‡ ‡
"Mr. Roarke…" Leslie said slowly, at lunch, catching Tattoo's attention. "I, um, I have a question for you."
"I thought perhaps you had something on your mind. Ever since we left the White Lightning still, you've been preoccupied. What is it?" Roarke encouraged.
"Well…you have to have a pass to get on the charter plane so you can come to the island," she began. "But I don't see how come you sent one to Vicky Lee if you warned her not to come here."
Roarke looked faintly surprised, but Tattoo cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. "That was my fault," he said. "We were behind the week we were answering the batch of requests that Miss Lee's letter came with. The boss needed some extra help, so I took a bunch of mail home with me and sat up till one in the morning one night, putting letters in envelopes and adding charter passes to them, and putting stamps on them, and all that. One of the ones that got a pass was Vicky Lee's. I didn't even look at the letter except to match up the name on it with the one on the envelope."
"That still doesn't make any sense," Leslie protested.
"The letter was a strong warning against her coming," Roarke told her. "I advised her that if she insisted on making the trip, she did so at her own risk. When her return letter arrived telling me she wanted the fantasy too badly to give up, I sent another explaining that her life would be in danger should she come here. There was no response, so to be certain she understood my position, I sent her the telegram last week. Yet she came anyway."
"She never really did believe you, boss, not till it was too late," Tattoo observed.
"Quite true," Roarke agreed. "But in the end, it was all for the best. Claude Duncan was released from any ties he had to Pan, and now both he and Becky Lee can find their rest. And Vicky Lee is now free to write her grandmother's biography."
"So what's going to happen to the chateau?" Leslie asked.
"Claude Duncan, obviously believing his pact with Pan would be fulfilled and that he would live forever, left no will. Unfortunately, he has no descendants and no immediate living family members. I've spent the morning looking into appointing a lawyer to execute Duncan's estate. Nothing can be done with the chateau until a relative is located."
"So it's just going to sit there?" Leslie prompted, astonished.
Roarke nodded. "I'm afraid it's the only legal option. I've already gone down there and padlocked the gate against looters."
"That sounds like a waste," Leslie remarked, working her fork through a hunk of mango to cut off a piece. "I mean, if they can't find any relatives, you'd think it'd go to Vicky Lee, or maybe her dad, because Duncan loved Becky Lee so much."
Roarke regarded her. "It's certainly a good idea. I'll speak with Miss Lee this afternoon and find out what her wishes are."
As it turned out, Vicky Lee wasn't interested in the chateau, after what had happened therein. "I think I'd rather just stay away from it," she said. "I have all the material I need now to write Grandmother's biography, and I don't want to go back there anyway. It'll be hard enough to explain what really happened to Grandmother and to Claude Duncan."
Roarke nodded. "I understand, Miss Lee. Thank you for your time."
"When do you think your book'll come out?" Leslie asked then. "I'd really like to read it. I mean, this whole weekend's made me curious about your grandmother."
Vicky Lee laughed. "I'm glad to know I'm guaranteed at least one future reader. But I don't think it'll be published for at least another couple of years, so don't hold your breath waiting. I have a lot of notes to organize and plenty of writing to do."
"Well, I'll be waiting anyway," Leslie promised, and the young journalist laughed and thanked her before leaving. And, Leslie added to herself, so will that chateau!
§ § § - February 9, 1981
The first rover dropped off R.J. Scoggins and Ruthanne MacAllister, who to Leslie's surprise were alone. Ruthanne was frantic. "Oh, Mr. Roarke," she blurted as she stumbled out of the rover behind R.J., "we can't find Aunt Chlora and Uncle Norris anywhere, and it's time to leave!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you," Roarke exclaimed apologetically. "They've decided to stay on here for a few more days."
"And get reacquainted," added Tattoo.
"Why, that sly ol' dog," R.J. said, grinning.
Ruthanne beamed. "Oh, I'm so glad. They deserve so much! Thank you for everything, Mr. Roarke." She shook his hand.
"That goes double for me. Thank you very much," R.J. added.
Roarke smiled and thanked them, but Leslie had another question. "Um, I hope you don't mind if I ask, but what plans do you have after you go back to Tennessee?"
R.J. grinned. "Well, right after we get married—" he returned Ruthanne's huge grin— "Otis and Amos and Bobby Joe and I're starting a new business."
"I didn't know that," exclaimed Ruthanne. "Where are the boys, anyway?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. They caught an early plane to get things started. Y'see, we're combinin' the Scoggins and MacAllister land, and splittin' it between peanuts and sweet potatoes—maybe even a little sorghum. Now, it's gonna be an equal partnership, o'course…" His voice faded from earshot as he and Ruthanne strolled away toward the landing dock. "I figure that in five years' time, we'll be in clover!"
"White Lightning strikes again, boss," remarked Tattoo, grinning.
"Indeed, Tattoo!" Roarke said, and he too grinned, including Leslie in the gesture. "Indeed." They returned Ruthanne's and R.J.'s farewell waves.
The second rover drew up with Vicky Lee inside; she stepped out with assistance from Roarke and paused in front of him, her face solemn. "Mr. Roarke…you wanted to refuse my fantasy, and you were right. But I am glad I came."
"I understand," Roarke assured her. "Destiny often works in strange but wonderful ways."
"Now you can go home and write your book about your grandmother," said Tattoo.
"Yes, but a very different kind of book from the one I had planned, Tattoo," Vicky told him, perhaps a bit ruefully.
"I'm sure it will be a success," Roarke said, smiling. "After all, it's basically a love story, isn't it?"
Vicky smiled broadly and nodded. "Yes. A love story." Her eyes lost focus for a few seconds; then she brightened again. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke." She stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
"Thank you, Miss Lee," he replied, and farewells went around before Vicky made her way up the dock to the charter.
"Boss," Tattoo mused, "I wonder what it would be like to be young forever."
"Well, if you wish it, Tattoo, I will see if I can arrange a seating with the same artist who painted the picture of Mr. Duncan…you know?" Roarke inquired.
"Oh, c'mon, he's gotta be dead by now," Leslie snorted.
"Besides, I was just wondering," Tattoo added hastily, while Roarke grinned at Leslie over his head. She hid a silent snicker behind one hand.
"Uh-huh," Roarke murmured, amused.
"What's a gray hair or two?" added Tattoo diffidently.
"That's right, yes," Roarke agreed.
"Oh, like you have any gray hairs anyway," Leslie said with disgust, and Roarke finally let out his laugh before they returned Vicky Lee's final wave.
§ § § - June 25, 2008
"That is positively creepy," Maureen said, making a face. "Now that I know all that, I'm not sure I'll get any sleep tonight."
"Yuck, me either!" agreed Brianna Harding, shuddering.
"I think it's cool," Noelle Tokita spoke up from beside her best friend. "A haunted chateau. Maybe the ghosts of Claude Duncan and Becky Lee are still hanging around your house, Brianna."
"I don't think so," Grady and Maureen chorused, setting off a round of laughter. Grady, chuckling, added, "I won't say I don't believe in ghosts, being a resident of this island, but I can tell you for sure that if you do see any, they won't be Duncan and his inamorata." At the girls' looks, he grinned. "Weren't you two listening to the story? Those two ghosts were laid to rest, thanks to Mr. Roarke."
"Crud," muttered Noelle in disappointment, while Brianna blew out a relieved breath. Everyone laughed again, and a moment's silence fell while Roarke and Leslie refreshed themselves with replenished beverages.
Then Myeko, who had been eyeing her daughter, spoke up. "I think, if Noelle is nuts enough to want a ghost story, we should give her one. I mean, now that I know what to give Maureen next Christmas—" she smirked at Maureen, who rolled her eyes amid some more chuckles— "I think some of us are in the mood for some extra scaring."
"No, don't," Brianna begged. "That last one was scary enough."
Leslie grinned. "I think we can probably accommodate you. This involves both a ghost and some time travel, but the ghost is a romantic one, so no nightmares tonight."
§ § § - February 12, 1983
"Smiles, everyone, smiles," Roarke called out, signaling at the band to begin playing. Tattoo climbed the steps to the platform Roarke had installed for him a couple of years before; there had been a few times when Leslie had been tempted to sit on the little dais in front of him while Roarke introduced their guests, but the one time she'd tried it the previous summer had gotten her such a disapproving look from her guardian that she had never dared do it again. She sometimes wondered why she'd bothered; they were never there long enough for her feet to start aching from standing. Maybe the temptation had just been too much to resist.
The first person to emerge from the hatch was an older man in suit and tie; he smiled at the attendants and waved off any assistance. "Who's that nice-looking man, boss?" asked Tattoo with interest.
"Mr. John Cook, a very successful physical therapist from St. Paul, Minnesota," said Roarke briskly.
"He's got a nice face, but…his eyes look kind of sad," Tattoo commented.
Roarke studied him, impressed. "Very perceptive, Tattoo. In fact, Mr. Cook is fighting courageously to hold his life together right now. You see, his wife of thirty-nine years died only six months ago."
"Oh, what a shame," murmured Leslie.
"He loved her very much, right, boss?" Tattoo asked.
Roarke nodded. "Oh yes, Tattoo, Mr. Cook loved his wife very deeply. But, out of his genuine consideration for other people, he has never openly shown his grief."
"So, what's his fantasy?" Tattoo prodded.
"His fantasy, Tattoo, is to have one last dance with his wife," Roarke said reflectively, his dark eyes losing focus for a moment. Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, then at him; and Leslie found herself wondering if Roarke was thinking of Helena right now.
Tattoo was confused, though. "But boss, how can he? You said that she was…" He shot a glance at John Cook, then lowered his voice. "…that she was dead."
Roarke said nothing, only took in his ward and his assistant with the faintest of smiles, then returned his attention to the plane. A well-dressed woman, perhaps in her early forties, wearing a muted light-tan dress under a bright-red jacket that matched the tropical hues in the natives' clothing, stepped out, her dark curly hair reflecting the sun. "Who is that lady, boss?" Tattoo asked. "She looks shy."
"Miss Adele Anthony, a waitress from Des Moines, Iowa," said Roarke, "and you're right, Tattoo. She is not much of a socializer." Adele Anthony had started venturing down the ramp, suitcase in hand, her smile looking slightly artificial while she flicked hesitant gazes at the beaming natives on either side of her. "And ever since her parents died, she has spent all her time working to support her younger brothers and sisters."
"She sounds nice," offered Tattoo. "So what's her fantasy?"
"Well, having served others all her life, Miss Anthony's fantasy is to spend the weekend having others wait on her."
Leslie peered at him. "You mean, like a rich type with loads of household staff?"
"That's all?" Tattoo added, grinning confidently. "That's a simple fantasy."
"Yes," murmured Roarke thoughtfully, studying Adele Anthony, "but I have a feeling there is something else she wants from us."
"Like what?" Leslie wanted to know, but Roarke only aimed his mysterious stare at her before a native girl arrived with his drink and he toasted their guests.