§ § § - February 13, 1983
Roarke was as good as his word and rousted Leslie out of bed at six on Sunday morning, rushing both of them through breakfast—a piece of fruit in his case, a wrapped breakfast bar in hers—before taking her out with him on morning rounds. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, and Leslie had a hard time believing anyone could be up at this hour—at least until she happened to notice a figure staring into one of the little turquoise pools that dotted random parts of the island.
She gestured through the trees, half turning to speak to Roarke, who was several paces behind her, as if allowing her to decide where they roamed. "Mr. Roarke, isn't that Mr. Cook over there?" she asked.
Roarke caught up and followed her gaze. "Yes, it is," he said.
They drifted forward and watched John Cook meander around some flowering tropical bushes to stand at the very edge of the pool, staring morosely into its depths. After a moment Cook's eyes widened and he exclaimed softly, almost pleadingly, "Carol?" Leslie wondered what the bereft old man saw in the water.
Roarke evidently decided it was time to alert him to their presence. "Mr. Cook," he said in greeting, "you're up very early."
Cook turned to look at him and Leslie as if he had never encountered human beings before, but she could see that his eyes were wet. He blinked away his tears and put on the same cheerful façade he'd worn the previous morning when disembarking from the plane. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Roarke, I didn't sleep at all," he confessed.
"Is something wrong?" Roarke asked.
"No, nothing. I'm fine. Beautiful morning, don't you think?"
"Have you ever stopped to think," Roarke said, cutting to the chase, "that one of the reasons you are so successful in helping your patients to heal is because you listen so care-fully to their inner feelings?"
Cook shrugged. "I suppose that may be true, but—"
"And how are you going to heal yourself," broke in Roarke, "if you never share your sorrow with someone who's willing to listen?"
Cook looked at him as if he were crazy and frowned dismissively. "People want to be cheered up, Mr. Roarke, not burdened."
"Is that true? Or is it that you know only how to give help, and have yet to learn how to receive it?" Cook stared at him, and Roarke concluded gently, "It's time for you to start thinking of yourself."
Cook's stare held for a few more seconds before he nodded once, slowly, and turned away to stare at the pool again. Roarke laid a hand on Leslie's shoulder and murmured, "It's best we let him have time to think about that. Let's go, we have other places to be."
By the time they returned to the main house, it was mid-morning and Leslie was very thirsty; she talked the kitchen staff out of a tall glass of cherry juice—something of a rarity on this tropical island—and took it back to the study with her. Tattoo was there, watching Roarke while he spoke with someone on the phone. After some conversation, he hung up and took in both his assistant and his ward. "I am afraid it's no use. Mrs. Wilson insists on departing on the noon plane."
"That's too bad," Tattoo said, shaking his head. "I hoped she'd stay. She's in even worse shape than Mr. Cook."
"Who's Mrs. Wilson?" Leslie asked.
"She arrived here Friday afternoon," Roarke said. "She is a recent widow, still grieving deeply for her husband, Frank. Some friends insisted she come here for a getaway, to dis-tract her, but she claims that nothing can make her forget even for a little while, and she feels the best thing to do is return home." He looked at the phone as if Mrs. Wilson's photo were pasted to the receiver, and shook his head. "Tattoo, would you and Leslie kindly go to her bungalow and see that she has some help with her luggage and getting to the plane?"
"Sure, boss," Tattoo said.
"Leave that here, Leslie," Roarke said, indicating her juice glass. "You can finish it when you return. By then the new mail will be here." He laughed when she let out a groan. "Consider this a break, if you prefer. Thank you both."
"I wonder why Mrs. Wilson didn't ask for the same fantasy as Mr. Cook," Leslie re-marked to Tattoo on their way over. "To have a dance with her husband on Valentine's eve."
"Maybe she just didn't think of it," Tattoo said, shrugging. "I wish we could help her, but I guess you can't help someone when they don't want it. I think we better hurry."
Martha Wilson was a slender, frail-looking elderly lady who dressed a bit old-fashioned, at least in Leslie's view; but the clothing suited her. She smiled at Leslie when Tattoo introduced her. "Thank you for your help, Leslie."
"It's too bad you couldn't stay longer," she ventured.
"Well, I have plenty of things I need to do at home," Mrs. Wilson murmured vaguely, glancing around the main room. "I think I've packed everything. Can we go?"
Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other but said nothing, merely agreed quietly. They each lifted a suitcase and toted it out to the rover Leslie had driven to the bungalows; she hefted the bags into the back while Tattoo went back to assist Mrs. Wilson with her third and final bag. Just then, John Cook appeared from around the bend in the lane, heading for the bungalow and staring in disbelief at the loaded rover. He saw Tattoo and Mrs. Wilson at the top of the steps and almost ran over to them. "What…you're not leaving!"
"Yes, John, I am," said Mrs. Wilson, refusing to meet Cook's gaze, her voice cool.
"I was up all night, thinking," he began, as if in protest.
Finally she looked directly at him, expression softening a bit. "I—I'm sorry I said what I did. I was just so afraid, and I…" She shrugged helplessly. "I felt so awkward."
"I did too," Cook said, entreating. "I haven't dated since I was in my twenties and I'm a bit rusty. When you've lived with one person all your life—as you know—it's hard to let go of old habits." As he spoke, Leslie noticed that Mrs. Wilson was fidgeting and fluttering with a lacy handkerchief that she kept pulling out of and stuffing back into her purse, while Tattoo looked back and forth between them, a worried frown on his round face.
"Well, I'm afraid it's impossible," Mrs. Wilson said flatly.
"It won't hurt to try it," Tattoo offered, voice optimistic.
Mrs. Wilson blinked once and peered at him curiously. "Are you playing Cupid, Tattoo?" she asked with a tiny, amused smile.
Tattoo grinned. "Why not?"
Mrs. Wilson glanced at Cook, then back at Tattoo, and then, to Leslie's pure amaze-ment, she capitulated, still smiling. "Perhaps I will stay."
Tattoo brightened. "You won't regret it. Leslie! Bring the bags back!" he called, and Leslie laughed, promptly tugging one suitcase out of the back of the car.
She lugged it past Cook and Mrs. Wilson, who spoke in soft tones; though she longed to hear what they might be saying, she knew better than to linger. However, inside the bun-galow, she asked, "Tattoo…what about Mr. Cook's fantasy? You know, to dance with his wife at the Valentine's dance tonight? Will he still get it? Will he still want to?"
Tattoo turned to her with the mysterious smile Roarke always seemed to bring out when he didn't want to tell her anything. She hated that smile even more than she hated his sphinxlike expression when a guest looked to him for information Roarke wasn't giving out. "I guess we'll see," the Frenchman mused lightly, and promptly left the bungalow to get the remaining suitcase out of the car.
"I so hate it when you do that," Leslie muttered in annoyance, toting the suitcase into the bedroom. "I think I'm gonna tell Mr. Roarke on you."
As she reached the half-open front door to leave, she heard Mrs. Wilson say hesi-tantly, "Mr. Roarke mentioned something about a dance tonight…the Fantasy Island Valen-tine's Ball. Would it be too forward of me to…ask you to be my escort?"
Whoa, she thought. There goes that fantasy! And I really thought Mr. Roarke could bring back a ghost! She waited for Cook to respond, but for a long moment he was silent. Then Mrs. Wilson spoke again: "Oh, I'm sorry…that was insensitive."
"No, no, it was flattering," Cook protested. "I'd be honored, Martha." Mrs. Wilson let out an embarrassed little chuckle, and Leslie turned away from the door, wondering how fast a grieving widow or widower could fall in love again, and whether it was merely a desperate attempt to alleviate a lonely existence. As if shown a vision, she shuddered and tried to divert her mind to something else.
‡ ‡ ‡
About three that afternoon, Roarke arose from the perpetual paperwork on the desk and smiled at Leslie. "It's time for me to bring Miss Anthony back from her fantasy," he said, "so if you would take any calls, I would appreciate it."
She nodded, but couldn't resist saying, "I just hope you're bringing her back in one piece, if you know what I mean."
The return look he gave her wasn't the dirty or exasperated one she had expected; he merely smiled again before retreating into the time-travel room and closing the door securely behind him. She made a face and resumed going through mail.
Roarke swiftly changed into a knee-length red uniform coat, slim black trousers and knee-high black boots, and donned a ponytailed gray wig and a black tricorn hat outlined in white. Then, checking the pocket watch hidden within the vest he still wore under the red coat, he stepped through another door on the far side of the room and emerged into a crowded, dirty street filled with shouting, furious people. They hardly seemed to notice him as he wove his way through the throngs till he reached a waiting horse and carriage. His timing was perfect: two women, both wearing voluminous gowns and two-foot-high white wigs over their own hair, stepped out of a nearby door and climbed a few steps to street level. One of the women wore a crown in her wig and a huge, gaudy necklace; she kept throwing her companion smug looks. Ah, so Ms. Antoinette survives yet, Roarke reflected, keeping his face averted. Leslie and Tattoo should be glad to see that.
The carriage jerked into motion when Roarke touched the whip lightly to the horses' backs, and people parted almost automatically, shouting threats, epithets and insults at the women seated behind him. He could faintly hear their arguing, until at last Adele Anthony's voice rose a little above the rest: "Put a sock in it!" He grinned secretly at that.
The young man escorting them said little until they had cleared the city and reached the open, tree-studded countryside; then he grabbed a second whip and put the horses into a full-on gallop. The chase was on, and young François kept an eye out behind them; they were being pursued by a couple of horse-mounted guards and the king himself, according to his reports. But after some time, the king fell behind and eventually disappeared altogether; a few moments later the two guards wheeled their horses around and retreated. Shortly thereafter there was a loud grunt, and the carriage suddenly felt perceptibly lighter; Roarke sneaked a hurried glance behind him and saw that one of the women had launched herself out of the fleeing carriage. Again he smiled, making no move to stop or even slow down.
François clearly didn't trust their new freedom just yet, and insisted they cover a good bit more ground before he finally dared stop. Quietly Roarke set about unharnessing one of the horses while he listened to the ensuing conversation.
"I don't understand," François said. "If you're not the queen, who are you?"
"Oh, François, never mind that. Let's…let's just spend the few minutes we have left on…important things." There was a moment's silence, then the soft sounds of a kiss breaking up, and Roarke found himself smiling once more.
"The driver will take you someplace safe," François said gently. "But since the revolution's begun, I have to go back." He pulled in a fortifying breath. "I have this terrible feeling we'll never see each other again."
"I believe you may be right, François," she murmured a little hoarsely.
"I'll never forget you," he promised. "It's impossible to forget anything or anyone truly…extraordinary." Once more he kissed her; then Roarke heard him approaching and turned just enough to give him a boost onto one of the horses. François blew a kiss behind him and then cantered slowly away, vanishing into the trees.
Only then did Roarke turn and meet a startled Adele Anthony's gaze. "Well done, Miss Anthony," he said with another smile. "Not only were you treated like a queen, you behaved like one." Slowly, Adele smiled, though he could see that she seemed to half regret the end of her fantasy.
He brought her back through the time-travel room, both still dressed in their French-Revolution-era finery, although Adele removed the wig the moment they stepped into the study. "That thing's hot," she complained, casting Roarke an apologetic glance. "And I keep automatically ducking every time I go through a doorway."
Both he and Leslie laughed, and she stood up. "So what was it like being Marie Antoinette?" she wanted to know.
"Dangerous," Adele said promptly, but grinned. "On the other hand, I found out that when I really have to, I'll do anything that's necessary to survive." She looked at Roarke again. "No more trying to please everybody else at my own expense. That's what got me into so much trouble as Marie Antoinette. I only wanted to help the people by giving them food, but Louis and his mistress tricked me. And I let them get away with it over and over again, thinking they were on my side. I even signed Marie Antoinette's execution warrants because I didn't read the papers I was scrawling her name on!"
"Ouch," Leslie said, wincing with sympathy.
"Yup. So no more. Not that I'll stop doing for others, you know…"
"Of course not," Roarke said. "But you have learned that you must also look out for yourself as well. Have a care for your own best interests, and you will be better able to care for others who may need it."
Adele nodded. "Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Roarke. Um…what do I do with this dress? I have a feeling I'd get a lot of funny looks if I walked out in public wearing this."
Roarke chuckled and said, "I had a change of clothing brought in for you. Just step back into that room to make the change, and you may leave the dress on the back of the chair you find there. Afterward, you can relax and enjoy yourself in whatever way you wish; we have many amenities you may find attractive."
"That sounds great—I will, thanks," Adele said, beaming, and shut herself back in the time-travel room. Leslie surveyed her guardian's attire.
"You look like a lobsterback," she remarked.
"A what?" said Roarke, eyebrows shooting up.
She grinned. "A redcoat. Funny how the French and American Revolutions both involved guys wearing scarlet uniforms. Obviously vanity took precedence over camouflage back in those days."
"Indeed," Roarke said, grinning back. "Suppose you get back to that mail; it might be nice to clear at least part of my desk before tonight's Valentine dance."
‡ ‡ ‡
A beautiful new sunken lounge had been added to the pond restaurant during the previous summer, its walls fashioned to look like the lava cliffs of so many of the islands that dotted the South Pacific; large potted tropical plants stood along the walls, their ranks broken here and there by secluded little tables for two. Two flights of steps led down onto the enormous dance floor, which also boasted some tables scattered here and there; Japanese lanterns and candle centerpieces provided a romantic light, and a bar fronted by five or six stools stood alongside the far end of the dance floor. The lounge had been decorated by large red-and-white heart shapes on wires, stuck into the soil of some of the pots.
Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie stood sentinel at a side entrance, denoted by a huge, frilly pink heart through which new arrivals walked to get in. She was feeling elegant: she wore a long white gown with a scooped neckline and half-length sleeves, and around one wrist was clasped an elegant ruby bracelet that Roarke had allowed her to borrow from his stock of costumes. In her ears hung matching ruby earrings. She had a red-rose corsage pinned to her left shoulder, to match the roses that Roarke and Tattoo sported on their lapels.
John Cook and Martha Wilson arrived together, both looking quite happy; they all greeted one another, and Tattoo put in, "You look beautiful!"
"Thank you, Tattoo," Mrs. Wilson said, beaming.
"Uh, Tattoo, will you show Mr. Cook to table four, please," Roarke directed, "that is, if I may ask Mrs. Wilson to dance with me?"
"I'll wait for you at the table," Cook said graciously, and Mrs. Wilson smiled a little self-consciously. Tattoo beckoned at Leslie, and requested that Cook follow him; they moved off to the designated table, where Tattoo pulled out a chair for their guest.
"Have a good time, Mr. Cook," he said, and Cook thanked him and took his seat. Once again Tattoo gestured at Leslie.
"Come on, we have more guests to let in. Didn't you say your friend Camille was coming with her boyfriend?" he asked.
"She's supposed to," said Leslie, "but I think that depended on whether she managed to finish all the homework she had to catch up on from being sick last week."
"Oh, I see. Well, I hope she makes it," Tattoo remarked. "Come on, back to the Entry Heart." He had dubbed it that early on, making fun of the corniness of the whole thing, but he and Leslie had taken some care to keep from using the term around Roarke.
"Do you really think Mr. Cook's going to get that dance with his wife?" Leslie asked pensively on their way there. "I mean, that was his fantasy, and I honestly don't think he ever expected to meet Mrs. Wilson."
Tattoo shrugged. "I'm sure the boss has got something in mind, but don't ask me what it is. He doesn't tell me anything." He threw her a look as he said this last, and she snorted; this was often her own complaint. They both laughed and took up their stations.
Meantime, Roarke was making conversation on the dance floor. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us until the weekend is over, Mrs. Wilson."
"So am I, Mr. Roarke," she said. "I feel hopeful for the first time in a long while. I never thought I'd meet anyone who…"
"Who could make you feel happy and complete again?" Roarke offered, smiling.
"Yes," she agreed, chuckling up at him, and they continued their dancing; Roarke let his gaze stray to the table where Cook sat alone, and took in his wistful, faraway expression. As he watched, Cook fingered a flower in the centerpiece, stroked the white rosebud that decorated his lapel, checked his watch, and then twisted in his chair to look at the clock behind the bar. It showed just past nine-thirty. Roarke smiled to himself and, when the current song ended, escorted Martha Wilson directly back to Cook's table, wishing them both a pleasant evening before returning to join Leslie and Tattoo.
Leslie was off to one side chatting with Camille and her escort, a good-looking young man of Japanese descent. "Welcome, Steve and Camille," Roarke said, breaking up the teens' conversation. "I hope you'll enjoy the dance."
"Oughta be fun," Steve Matsumoto said, taking in the attendees, "but I have a feeling Camille and I are the youngest ones here."
"Oh, not at all; there are several other couples about your age here as well," Roarke observed. "I'm sure you'll find them if you look around a bit."
"We've seen at least four other couples from school," Leslie said. "Frida's friend Michelle Stockwell showed up with another guy from Coral Island, but she's the only one I know by name. Maybe you'll recognize them, Steve."
Steve shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, Mr. Roarke, thanks for opening up the dance to high-school seniors. The Coral Island kids complain all the time about how we don't have proms at F.I. High, so if they don't come to this dance, then they're just being stubborn."
Roarke laughed. "You'll find refreshments at the bar that are suitable for young people," he said. "Just ask when you are ready." Camille and Steve agreed and ventured away onto the dance floor.
Guests finally stopped arriving around ten, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie had a chance to take a short break and sit down. Leslie straightened the cloth on the table where they sat; it was divided into quarters, with two colored red and the other two white, and each quarter printed with a large heart—red on the white sections and vice versa. "Where'd you get these tablecloths, Mr. Roarke?" she wondered.
"Oh, I can get anything and everything I need on relatively short notice, when neces-sary," he said, smiling. "Why? Do you want to keep some of these cloths for some future Valentine's party you're thinking of holding?"
She laughed. "No, just wondering." She scanned the dance floor, resting her chin in one hand, and both Roarke and Tattoo caught the faintly wistful look that crept into her eyes. Eventually she murmured, "It'd be nice if a boy asked me to dance, even just once."
Roarke exchanged a glance with Tattoo, then inquired, "Well, in the absence of a boy your age, might I suffice as a substitute?"
Leslie giggled. "You'll do," she teased, and they laughed, promising Tattoo they would be back shortly before Roarke led her onto the dance floor. They could see Cook and Mrs. Wilson at their table, talking quietly, laughing a little now and then.
"So…tell me something, Mr. Roarke," Leslie began, "what about Mr. Cook? All he wanted was a last dance with his wife. But here he is with Mrs. Wilson, and they look like they're really enjoying themselves. So is he getting his fantasy after all?"
Roarke watched Cook and Mrs. Wilson for some ten or fifteen seconds before he replied. "I daresay that's up to Mr. Wilson."
There was nothing she could say to that, so she nodded a couple of times in acknowledgement before falling silent. Then Roarke asked her something about school, and they made small talk before the song ended and they rejoined Tattoo.
Through the evening, the three of them played host; Tattoo and Leslie went onto the dance floor for a round, and then Steve Matsumoto surprised Leslie by asking her for a dance as well. "Camille said she's okay with it," he told her with a shy grin, "as long as it's only one dance. I guess she saw you sitting up here by yourself."
"She wasn't by herself at all," Tattoo said, sounding a bit offended.
Steve blushed, and Leslie laughed. "Aw, come on, Tattoo, you know what he meant. Thanks, Steve, I'd like that."
By eleven-thirty Leslie's classmates had all departed, since it was in fact a school night, and Leslie herself found it necessary to stifle a yawn now and then. She and Roarke and Tattoo retreated to the bar, where the men each had a small flute of champagne. Roarke, deciding that it was a special occasion, allowed her to have a miniature flute half filled with white wine, telling her to sip it. Thrilled at this, she agreed, and soon was taking the occasional small taste, following her guardian's lead and surveying the dance floor. The late hour had culled out some of the wearier ones, but the party was clearly not yet over; there seemed to be some sort of magic in the air, some kind of anticipation, though for what, Leslie had no idea.
She threw a glance at the clock at last, and was surprised to see that it read less than five minutes till midnight. Not far away, Cook and Mrs. Wilson were on the dance floor, moving gently along to a slow piano tune. She slid a glance in Roarke's direction, but he just stood watching, his face reflecting the lighthearted mood in the room.
The song ended, and slowly the dance floor emptied; Cook and Mrs. Wilson had a short conversation, and then began to make their way toward the entrance. Leslie's mouth dropped open: was he actually leaving? The question hung on the tip of her tongue, stymied only by Mrs. Wilson's sudden halt. Leslie heard her say something about leaving her purse, and watched the elderly lady make her way back to retrieve it.
"Boss, I'm gonna say good night to Mrs. Wilson," Tattoo said then.
"By all means," Roarke agreed, and Tattoo slipped off his stool and went to table number four to intercept Mrs. Wilson.
When he was gone, Leslie leaned over and whispered, "What about Mr. Cook?"
He glanced at her, but said nothing: and a few seconds later, Cook caught Roarke's eye, clearly sending a message. Roarke raised one finger and looked back at the clock, which now read exactly midnight. The second hand ticked toward the hour—and stopped.
Leslie turned and noticed that all action slowed and then halted entirely, as if the moment had been frozen in a huge three-dimensional photograph. Over the slowing, fading sounds rose a querulous voice. "John?"
Leslie gasped to herself as every person in the room faded out of sight, leaving her, Roarke and Cook the only humans there. Again the voice called out: "John? John?" Cook stood staring, his face acquiring a deep sadness that raised a lump in Leslie's throat. He slowly turned toward the sound of the entreating voice, and under the Entry Heart, a slightly plump woman, clad in a long pale-turquoise gown with a huge orchid corsage pinned to the shoulder, appeared to view. She approached him while he stared at her with-out moving; Leslie gulped, trying to flatten the lump, but it just got bigger. She felt Roarke slide an arm across her shoulders.
"Carol," Cook whispered at last, blinking back tears. "My darling…"
"Happy anniversary, John," said Carol Cook, smiling up at him. "This is our dance."
Their images wavered in Leslie's vision and she leaned against Roarke, squeezing the tears out of her eyes so she could see properly. They both watched in silence as John and Carol Cook, with the dance floor all to themselves, began to waltz.
But only twenty seconds in, Cook stopped. "I love you, Carol," he began. "And I always will." He pulled the ruby ring from his pocket and held it out to her.
"I know," she said softly, eyes shining at him as she worked it onto her finger. "It was the strength of your love that brought me here. But why are you looking so unhappy? Because of Martha?"
"Martha…oh yes," Cook murmured, and they resumed dancing.
"She's a lovely person," Carol said, smiling. "You know, you always had such exuberance for life. That's what made me so happy all those years we spent together. I think it would be a shame to lose that gift, hm?"
He stared at her in confusion. "What're you saying?"
"Oh John, if it had been you, wouldn't you want me to go on living? Be happy?"
He nodded. "Why yes, of course—"
"You see, darling, I want the same thing for you," she insisted earnestly. "Until yesterday, Martha had lost all hope, joy. You're giving that back to her, giving her a reason to live again." They had stopped moving, and now Carol glanced over his shoulder and added gently, "She needs you."
They both turned, slowly, to the table, where Martha Wilson blinked into and then back out of view. Leslie had managed to stop her tears by now, but she still had several knuckles rammed up against her mouth and was watching avidly. Roarke glanced at her, but returned his attention to his guest, waiting in silent concern.
Carol reached up and laid a gentle palm on her husband's face, turning his head back to face her. "You need her," she said. "Go to her." She put both hands on his shoulders, and for the first time her composure began to visibly slip. "You and I can wait until…later."
"I love you," Cook insisted. "I love you, Carol. Always, always."
"I love you too," she said softly, her voice breaking just slightly. "Forever." She began to sway a little in their abandoned waltz. "Be happy." Bracketing his face with her hands, she reached up and placed a little kiss on his lips. "Goodbye, my darling…" With this shaky farewell, she stepped back and retreated to the Entry Heart, from where she blew him a final kiss before vanishing. The music played to its conclusion.
Cook reluctantly faced Roarke, who said gently, "Your fantasy is over, Mr. Cook." He looked back at the clock, which began to tick again; all the remaining partygoers reappeared exactly as they had been standing earlier.
Cook began to cross the floor towards Mrs. Wilson; he paused once to give Roarke a questioning look, and Roarke nodded. As Cook continued on, everyone in the room came back to life and began to disperse, heading for the exits, voices filling the air. Leslie heaved a deep sigh beside Roarke and shook her head as if dispelling a shudder.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "That was beautiful, Mr. Roarke," she murmured. They smiled at each other, and he patted her shoulder.
Martha Wilson joined Cook. "Are you ready?" she asked with a smile.
"Oh yes," he said, beaming back at her. "Yes, I'm ready, Martha." And they clasped hands, departing side by side.
Tattoo came back, smiling widely. "Boss, Mrs. Wilson is very happy," he said.
"I'm very glad," Roarke murmured.
"But you know, it's a shame Mr. Cook didn't get his fantasy to dance with his wife."
Leslie stared at him; Roarke played right along. "Yes," he murmured, watching Cook and Mrs. Wilson just passing under the Entry Heart on their way out. Roarke glanced at Tattoo, then caught Leslie's incredulous look and smiled with amusement. Unable to resist, she grinned back, feeling privileged to have been allowed to be a witness.
Tattoo turned back then and noticed the lingering tearstains on Leslie's cheeks. "What happened to you? What on earth were you crying for?" he asked.
She traded another glance with Roarke and then shrugged. "Oh…just something I saw a few minutes ago, that's all." She felt Roarke's torso heave a little with a silent chuckle, and allowed him to nudge her back onto her feet. She was more than ready to go home and get some sleep.
§ § § - February 14, 1983
Both John Cook and Martha Wilson looked very happy the following morning when they stepped out of the rover. "Mr. Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie…I want to thank you for everything," he said.
"When I came here, it was under protest," Mrs. Wilson put in. "I didn't even have a fantasy. But I had one fulfilled anyway."
"We both did," Cook noted and eyed Mrs. Wilson. "I think we might even be married when we get back to the mainland."
Leslie and Tattoo stared at each other in amazement for a second or two before Mrs. Wilson's voice recaptured their attention. "I'll let you know if we do."
Tattoo beamed. "I'm so glad everything went so well!" On that, the new couple departed amid thanks and farewells, heading for the plane dock as if they had a purpose.
Adele Anthony arrived in the second rover, clearly rested and recovered from her trip to the French Revolution. "Well, things looked kinda shaky there for a while, Mr. Roarke," she remarked, "but I think you have a satisfied customer after all."
Leslie blew out a huge, exaggerated sigh of relief, and the adults all laughed. Tattoo leaned forward and questioned with interest, "How did it go?"
"Would you believe it?" Adele marveled. "I met a man in my fantasy who said I was extraordinary! Me, a waitress from Des Moines!"
"That doesn't surprise me at all, Miss Anthony," Roarke said.
"I've been selling myself short my entire life, Mr. Roarke," Adele said solemnly. "I want to thank you for making me see that. From now on, the people I meet…they're in for a real treat." She grinned self-consciously, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie returned it, then said their goodbyes; Tattoo even kissed Adele's hand before she headed for the dock.
She had just vanished inside the charter plane's hatch when there came a honking sound, and they all looked around to see a tow truck pulling up nearby, with Tattoo's car attached to its winch. A stocky man got out of the front passenger seat and strode up to them, chewing ostentatiously on a chunk of gum. "Well, Mr. Terwilliger, did you enjoy your fantasy?" Roarke inquired amiably.
Terwilliger peered dubiously at him. "Oh, do you mean did I enjoy being king, wear-ing those funny clothes? And being walked all over by a baroness? And almost having my head chopped off?" He all but snorted. "Oh yeah, I loved it."
Roarke had a wry little half-smile on his face, but it rapidly morphed into incredulous astonishment when Tattoo spoke up. "You being Louis XVI was my idea," he said proudly. Leslie stared at him and then met Roarke's gaze for a half-second, barely checking a loud guffaw at his look before they both turned back to Terwilliger.
"Yeah," he said, evidently oblivious to the byplay, "I kinda thought so. Listen, Mr. Roarke—next time, please, don't pay me off with a fantasy for my services. How 'bout cold, hard cash?"
"By all means, Mr. Terwilliger," Roarke agreed, and Terwilliger nodded with satisfaction and set about removing Tattoo's car from the winch on his truck. Roarke waited till he was safely out of earshot before shooting Tattoo a look that meant business. "Your idea, was it?"
"Well, we needed a King Louis the Sixteenth, and I was…uh…kinda short this week," Tattoo admitted, only a little sheepish. "So I asked him what he thought about being a king for a weekend, and he said sure, it sounded great and he could use a break. So…"
"And you neglected to inform me," Roarke said ominously. "Incidentally, why did you require Mr. Terwilliger's services in the first place?"
Tattoo actually blushed and half hung his head. "Well…I was in a hurry, and I parked in front of the fire station door without thinking…"
Roarke raised a hand. "Stop right there—I don't think I want to hear any more." He sighed heavily, then looked at Leslie. "You'd better get to school."
"Yeah," Leslie agreed and shot Tattoo a wicked grin. "Especially since I've got a test on the French Revolution." The look he retaliated with sent her off to the waiting rover, laughing all the way there and hearing Roarke's answering chuckles behind her.
§ § § - June 25, 2008
"Did you really have a test on the French Revolution that day, my Rose?" Christian asked, grinning as if he knew better.
"Of course not," Leslie said, and everyone laughed. "Anyway, that was one of the sweeter ones. I admit to disappointment that Adele Anthony didn't get the guy. I was waiting for François to pop out of the trees, saying his real name was Frank Lewis or something, and that he just happened to also be from Des Moines, and could they sit together on the plane home, and all that. So when Father said François was actually part of the fantasy, it turned out to be one of the few dark spots that weekend."
"I still remember you crying again when you told us about Mr. Cook's fantasy that day at lunch," remarked Maureen. "Something about that one must have really hit you."
"I guess I'd just never seen such a sad, lost look on anyone as I did on his face when he saw his wife for the last time," Leslie said. "So I was especially glad when she advised him to be happy again and take a chance with Martha Wilson. We got Christmas cards from them for the next seven or eight years, and then one of his children told us they had passed away within a few days of each other, peacefully and without any regrets. So that was a really nice one. We were sad about their going, but glad they'd been so happy together."
There was a silence; then Christian cleared his throat. "Well, as much as I hate to break this up, I think it might be wise if we collected our respective children and got back home. My watch tells me it's nearly nine, and it's never been wrong yet."
"I'm afraid he's right," Roarke said, smiling. "Thank you all for being here, and for listening to these endless little reminiscences of ours."
"It was truly our pleasure, Mr. Roarke," Carl Johan told him, "and I hope we can do it again one day. Since most of us are due to leave for Arcolos in the morning to attend Prince Paolono's wedding, it may be the better part of discretion to retire for the night."
"By all means," Roarke agreed, and the gathering began to break up, with many good-nights, final birthday wishes extended to Christian, and general thanks.
"Need seatmates on the flights over to Arcolos?" Maureen asked, when she was able to catch up to Leslie. "Michiko asked us if we wanted to go, and with Brianna out of school for the summer, we thought it might be a perfect opportunity. She and Errico are footing the bill for most of our flights, except for the charter fares between here and Honolulu, or else we never could have afforded a trip like this."
"That was extremely generous," said Christian, impressed.
"You think that was generous?" Maureen said, laughing. "She's also paying for Myeko and Noelle and Dawn to come. I think she's trying to surround herself with friends." Her manner sobered. "Especially with Errico in the shape he's in."
Christian and Leslie looked at each other and both nodded slowly. "I guess we'll find out soon enough," Leslie murmured. "I only hope we make it there before it's too late. I do think Errico will do everything he possibly can to personally witness his son's wedding, but after that, who knows. We'll just have to hope for the best."
CREDITS: These are the episodes I adapted for this story and the names of those who played in them.
1) "Casting Director / Pentagram / A Little Ball"; original airdate February 17, 1979. With Lisa Hartman (Mary Hoyt / Sister Mary Theresa), John Saxon (Colin MacArthur), Phyllis Davis (Jean Arden), Don Knotts (Felix Birdsong), Abe Vigoda (Sid Gordon), Florence Henderson (Jane Garwood), Jim Burk (Paul Kendall), Edward Grover (Marsh), Cesar Romero (Sheik Kamil Abib), and Ben Davidson (Hammerhead Harris)
2) "The Dancer / Nobody's There"; original airdate November 17, 1979. With Max Baer (B.J. Farley), Carol Lynley (Valeska DeMarco), Toni Tennille (Betty Foster), Stepfanie Kramer (Contessa Christina Castranova), Michael Callan (Nicky Deveraux), Dick Sargent (Algernon Pepperhill), Ellen Geer (Sylvia Deveraux), and Howard Morton (Samuel Blade)
3) "The Chateau / White Lightning"; original airdate February 7, 1981. With Pamela Franklin (Vicky Lee), David Hedison (Claude Duncan), Carolyn Jones (Chlora MacAllister), Wendy Schaal (Ruthanne MacAllister), Richard Lineback (Otis MacAllister), Ed Begley, Jr. (Amos MacAllister), George Lindsey (Norris Scoggins), Randolph Powell (R.J. Scoggins), and Ernie W. Brown (Bobby Joe Scoggins)
4) "Midnight Waltz / Let Them Eat Cake"; original airdate February 12, 1983. With Lew Ayres (John Cook), Adrienne Barbeau (Adele Anthony), James Coco (Louis XVI / Terwilliger), Cathryn Damon (the baroness), Rosemary DeCamp (Carol Cook), Patrick Wayne (François), and Jane Wyatt (Martha Wilson)
Next up is a trip to Arcolos…and a lot of changes. Meantime, thanks for reading and for following my stories so faithfully, and I hope you all have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or Happy Kwanzaa, and a Happy New Year. See you in 2013!