§ § § -- September 23, 1979
That was how Leslie found herself at the bow of a motorized raft steered by Roarke, with a large coil of rope in the bottom of the boat, crossing the ocean to a row of small islands some distance to the south of Fantasy Island. Some of them were little more than rocky outcroppings crowned with four or five palms; others were big enough to contain a small village or two. At one of the outermost of these specks of land, Roarke steered the raft down an inlet that was separated from the ocean by a strip of forested land. The inlet curved sharply to the left up ahead and met another waterway that connected with the ocean; Leslie could see glimpses of color through the trees on that side and peered intensely through them, trying to figure out what was happening.
Then they reached the curve and spotted two outrigger canoes still some distance away, toward the village they had earlier spied on; one of them held Tattoo, who was trying with a lot of effort and minimal success to propel the craft along with his lone oar, and the other contained half a dozen village men who had all but closed the gap between themselves and Tattoo, and were preparing to grab him and drag him into their canoe from his own. Leslie pointed and shouted over the raft's motor, "Mr. Roarke, there he is!"
Roarke promptly gunned the motor and sped up the inlet till he had pulled out just ahead of the two outriggers, then let the engine idle long enough to pick up the rope and aim carefully for Tattoo's outrigger. Leslie stumbled back and held the wheel to maintain their position while Roarke cast the rope, with a triple hook tied firmly to one end, and managed to snag Tattoo's outrigger on the first try. "Got it, boss!" Tattoo yelled, barely audible over the noise of the motor. He signaled frantically with his oar.
Roarke nodded, gestured Leslie towards the bow again and took the wheel, revving up the motor again. The raft responded instantly and easily towed the outrigger across the water, outdistancing the pursuers despite their best efforts. Leslie glanced back and saw them finally give up in exhaustion, and grinned at Roarke, scraping her hair out of her face as the wind whipped it back into her eyes.
"Boss!" they heard Tattoo yell from behind, and both focused on him. "Thank you, you saved me!" Roarke nodded acknowledgement, grinning broadly, and turned back around just as Leslie noticed Tattoo put a hand to his mouth and half lean over the side of the outrigger. "Boss…"
Again Roarke looked back at his call, and Tattoo begged, "Slow down, please…don't make so many big waves!" Leslie could have sworn he actually turned a little green, leaning over the side again, and she started to laugh, the sound mingling with Roarke's own amusement. He pushed the motor a little more and sent them almost rocketing out of the inlet on their way home, laughing in spite of himself as Tattoo stuck his oar in the water in a vain attempt to slow down their rapid progress.
§ § § -- September 24, 1979
The rover pulled up and discharged Myra Kolinsky and Gladys Boyling, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie returned their smiles. "Well, ladies, was your fantasy satisfactory?" Roarke inquired, ever the accommodating host.
"Only partially, Mr. Roarke," Gladys admitted.
"It ended too soon," Myra clarified with a rueful smile. "But that wasn't your fault."
Tattoo smiled. "I'm sorry you'll be the only ones boarding the plane…but we do have a couple of more important guests."
"Yes," Roarke said, "several other fantasizers will be returning with you."
"That's okay," Myra said, and then she and Gladys took second looks at Roarke's gesture. Leslie grinned; she had figured it would end like this. The two "Civil War soldiers" with whom Myra and Gladys had fallen in love, now dressed in modern-day clothing, were approaching them from a path, headed for the plane dock themselves.
"I don't believe it!" Gladys exclaimed.
"You?" Myra added, watching her boyfriend peel off what turned out to be a fake mustache. The young man grinned as he paused by her side.
"Yup. You see, my mother was always a real nut about Gone With the Wind. By the time I was eight, she kept telling me that I looked like Rhett Butler." He looked at Roarke and laughed self-deprecatingly, putting his arms around Myra.
His friend nodded. "And I heard I looked like Ashley for so long that we had to live it, just once."
Roarke nodded understanding, and they made their farewells, returning their guests' waves and beaming after them. "Pretty cool," Leslie said. "I figured they'd get their guys for real in the end. One thing I've learned is that you can never resist a happy ending."
"Indeed, young lady!" Roarke retorted, but he grinned.
"So what did it feel like to be a god, anyway?" Leslie teased Tattoo.
Roarke chuckled and put in, "Yes, my friend, I hope you aren't too disappointed that your reign as a love god was rather brief."
Tattoo seemed philosophical. "Well, I'm not disappointed at all. As a matter of fact, I think I'm much more mature now, after my fantasy." This caused Roarke and Leslie to give him odd looks and then direct skeptical glances at each other.
"More mature?" echoed Roarke. "You?"
Tattoo nodded. "Before I was Nui Oh'wi, the only things I thought about were wild girls, wild parties…"
Roarke feigned disbelief. "No!"
Tattoo obviously saw through his playacting, and shot Leslie a look designed to squelch her snickering, though of course it didn't work. To Roarke he said, "Now I'm into a much more serious hobby."
"Oh?" Roarke prompted.
"No way," Leslie scoffed, still laughing. "What?"
"Stamp-collecting," said Tattoo.
"Well!" responded Roarke, duly impressed. "Stamp-collecting offers many educational possibilities, yes."
"And I'm gonna take full advantage of it," Tattoo added, basking in Roarke's approval, just before an Asian girl in Roarke's vast stable of island employees trotted eagerly up to pause beside him.
"Please, Mr. Tattoo, will you teach me now?" she asked brightly, in a heavy Chinese accent. Tattoo turned around and tried to shush her.
Roarke eyed her oddly. "Teach you what, Aurelia?"
The girl beamed, completely ignoring Tattoo's desperate efforts to keep her quiet. "To play a great new game Tattoo told me about. It's called 'post office'."
"You have got to be kidding," Leslie pronounced, staring reproachfully at Tattoo, who tried and utterly failed to look innocent before grabbing the girl's hand and towing her away with him. Roarke, watching them go, let his reproving look give way to quiet laughter.
§ § § -- July 4, 2006
"What's 'post office'?" Rory asked, predictably.
"You don't want to know," chorused Rogan, Julie, Leslie and Christian, all in nearly perfect unison. Roarke laughed.
"Yes I do," Rory protested.
"You're not old enough to know the answer to that," Julie informed him with a strong tone of finality in her voice. "We are hereby changing the subject."
"Agreed," said Rogan, unmoved by his son's resigned, disappointed sigh. "Now here's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time, Leslie. Did you ever once find yourself forced to miss a weekend of fantasies for any reason?"
"Once," Leslie said, nodding. "Just once and that's it—I always tried not to let anything get to me that much after that, because I hated missing out. But as it turned out, it was a very lucky thing I did miss that weekend."
"Oh?" Christian prompted. "Why?"
"Because I made a mistake, and things became very dangerous," Roarke said, looking ever so slightly sheepish. "And it all began with one overly ambitious young woman."
§ § § -- November 29, 1980
They watched a disheveled-looking fellow somewhere in his late thirties step out of the seaplane's hatch, grinning with a mixture of anticipation and mild embarrassment, stuffing one of his shirttails back into his pants. He looked self-conscious, if not altogether ill at ease. "Oh boy," Tattoo remarked disparagingly, "here comes a real wimp."
Leslie, squinting painfully in the bright tropical sun, released a startled, explosive snicker; Roarke nodded absently, before Tattoo's comment sank in and he frowned, mildly confused. "I am not positive what you mean by the word 'wimp', Tattoo," he said, "but if it indicates total inadequacy in dealing with members of the female sex, then yes…Mr. Stanley Hocker, of Steubenville, Ohio, is indeed a…uh, what is that again?…"
"Wimp," Tattoo supplied willingly.
"A wimp," Roarke conceded.
"What's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo queried.
"To be a hot stud, probably," Leslie said with a smirk.
"Well done, if somewhat colloquially put," Roarke said, fielding her grin. "Mr. Hocker wishes to transform his blushes, fumbles and stumbles into what he considers to be the ultimate figure of male dominance. His fantasy is to be…" Here he grinned, as if not entirely sure he himself could grant this fantasy. "…a gigolo."
Leslie sneezed loudly and hard, making Roarke and Tattoo both stare at her. She gave Roarke a disbelieving look, trying to divert attention from the sneeze. "From a wimp to a gigolo in sixty seconds, huh? This I've got to see."
Tattoo regarded Hocker, then said, "Good luck, boss."
"Yes," Roarke murmured, "yes…this fantasy may be somewhat of a challenge…" He cleared his throat, cast one last searching look at his ward, then redirected his attention back to the plane dock, out of necessity. "Miss Lorraine Peters," he introduced the voluptuous blonde woman advancing down the dock on the arm of a slim, mustachioed man, "a very successful attorney and criminologist."
"Criminologist?" repeated Tattoo, interest piqued.
Roarke nodded. "And the gentleman with her is Mr. Robert West, her law partner."
"She's a lawyer?" Tattoo said, as if he couldn't get his mind around the concept. Leslie had to admit that Lorraine Peters didn't look much like her idea of a lawyer, but she was willing to be educated, despite her aching muscles, her sudden odd sensitivity to sunlight and the mild sore throat that she'd awakened with that morning. She had hoped that her guardian and Tattoo wouldn't notice anything amiss; she had peered at herself in the mirror and decided she looked normal enough. These sneezes were going to give her away if she wasn't careful, she thought worriedly.
Roarke nodded. "Miss Peters has evolved a theory which she believes solves the identity of the infamous Whitechapel murderer."
"Whitechapel?" Leslie repeated blankly.
Tattoo had the expression of someone scouring his memory, and she could see when he hit on the answer. "You mean, Jack the Ripper?"
"Precisely, Tattoo. Her fantasy is to go back in time to London of 1888, so she can prove her theory in order to incorporate it into a book she is writing on the subject."
"But boss…she could end up to be one of his victims!" Tattoo protested.
"That thought has occurred to me also, Tattoo." Before he or the others could speculate any further, Roarke's drink arrived and he raised it in the weekly greeting. They all saw Stanley Hocker lift his drink in the direction of the native girls lining the docking ramp from the charter, as if he thought Roarke's voice had originated therefrom, and looked at one another in amused incredulity. Then, in spite of her best efforts, Leslie sneezed again, earning Tattoo's bewildered attention and a very curious glance from Roarke before he focused once more on his guests.
‡ ‡ ‡
Roarke urged the nervous Ohioan to have a seat, which he did with some care, cradling a coffee cup. "You know, it's quite normal for inexperienced men to be apprehensive about meeting women. Perhaps you could solve your problem by simply learning to relax, to trust your natural personality."
"What personality?" Hocker asked, more in resignation than anything else. "At school my class voted me the Man Most Likely to be Forgotten. No, let's face it, Mr. Roarke, the only way I'm gonna make out with the girls is with your help." Leslie admitted privately to herself that she had to agree with him, judging from the way he was dressed: in a loud faux-Hawaiian shirt and yellow shorts, with green dress socks and beige loafers.
Roarke set his cup on the round table around which they sat and arose. "Very well, Mr. Hocker." Leslie remained where she was, her muscles protesting too much to allow her to get to her feet and follow as she would otherwise have done, while Hocker and Tattoo got up and trailed him to a large oil portrait hanging on the wall of Hocker's bungalow. "This is a very rare painting of an eighteenth-century nobleman known to the world as Don Juan."
"The world's greatest lover," Tattoo said with a grin.
"Yes." Roarke moved away from the painting so Hocker could approach and examine it more closely. "Some say his romantic power was derived by magic, through an ancient gold bracelet forged by a sorcerer whose name is lost in the mists of legend."
"This bracelet? In the painting?" Hocker asked, indicating the broad gold band on the wrist of the man in the portrait. It was such an obvious piece of jewelry that Leslie could clearly see it even from where she sat across the room.
"No, Mr. Hocker…the bracelet on your wrist." Hocker lifted his right arm, which was bare, and then his left arm—which had suddenly acquired a large gold bracelet identical to the one in the painting. Hocker stared in amazement at it, then at the painting, whose bracelet had indeed vanished. "Please notice the delicacy, the intricacy of the design."
"Then it's…the same?" Hocker exclaimed.
Roarke nodded, smiling. "With the same power, Mr. Hocker. You are now eminently qualified to attract women in profusion."
Hocker seemed dubious, to Leslie's surprise. He peered at the bracelet again, then looked up and asked, "Is that all there is to it?"
"Look in the mirror," Tattoo suggested, gesturing.
Hocker went to the mirror that hung beside the portrait and peered at himself, then gasped, his jaw dropping. Roarke stepped aside for Tattoo, revealing Hocker to Leslie's view, and she blinked and grinned a little. Hocker's attire had been neatly replaced with a black jacket and gray slacks, along with a white shirt unbuttoned to halfway down his chest; he was wearing a couple of gold chains around his neck. Entranced, he approached the mirror and gaped at himself in delighted wonder. "I'm not a turkey anymore." He faced them and announced proudly, "I'm a hunk!" Leslie's grin got bigger, even though it hurt.
Roarke's eyes widened and he neatly hid his own amusement. "Indeed!" As Hocker gave in to the temptation to peer at himself once more, he continued, "Oh…our hotel and lounge, here on the north shore of the island, are very popular with the ladies—an excellent testing ground for your new skills!"
Hocker beamed. "The day is young and filled with beautiful women…and I'm gonna give all of them a chance…" Again he eyed himself in the mirror. "…at the new me."
Roarke smiled. "Wonderful. I wish you the best of luck. Will you please excuse us?" He gestured to Leslie, who pushed herself painfully to her feet and tried to keep from groaning in the process. Still, she didn't escape Roarke's notice, though Hocker was too busy admiring his reflection and Tattoo looked too amused at the whole thing to pay attention.
They returned to the main house on foot; Leslie was a little less achy when they got there, as if her muscles had been loosened up somewhat by the exercise. But she squinted so hard all the way there that she could barely see at times, and was quietly relieved whenever they moved through shady areas. She was even more relieved to see Lorraine Peters sitting in one of the club chairs in front of Roarke's desk when they walked in; Mana'olana had evidently provided her with refreshments while they were seeing to Stanley Hocker, as she was sipping a cup of tea. She smiled when they came in.
"I hope you haven't been waiting long, Miss Peters," Roarke said, settling behind the desk while Leslie took her usual chair at his right and Tattoo paused in front of it.
"No, but…Mr. Roarke, what about my fantasy?" Lorraine asked, getting directly to the point. Roarke's expression grew pensive.
"It's a very difficult fantasy, Miss Peters…I would even say a most dangerous one," he said, studying his templed hands.
"Especially when you're so pretty," Tattoo added gravely, his round face a mask of deep concern as he regarded Lorraine. "Jack the Ripper didn't like pretty ladies at all."
Lorraine smiled indulgently. "I'm aware of the dangers, Tattoo." She appealed to Roarke. "I've been researching my book for years. I know Jack the Ripper killed girls of the streets, prostitutes. All I need is proof—proof that I can get only by going back to that exact period of time. I know who Jack the Ripper was."
Her quiet certainty met with Roarke's stern regard. "Which could put you in even greater danger. No, for your own sake, I must urge you to reconsider."
Lorraine sighed impatiently. "Mr. Roarke, don't you see? I've solved the world's greatest murder mystery. Please let me prove it."
Roarke seemed to be digging in his heels. "I insist. I don't think—"
"Please, Mr. Roarke!" Lorraine broke in. "Please?"
"You ought to be scared stupid of going back and facing that guy," Leslie ventured, speaking for the first time since they'd left the plane dock. "Especially since you're planning on going there all by yourself." She caught the scratchiness of her own voice and hoped desperately that Roarke and Tattoo didn't.
"I know what I'm doing, Leslie," Lorraine assured her with a maternal smile that to Leslie looked a little patronizing. "I've been preparing for this for years now." She winked at the girl, then shifted her pleading gaze back to Roarke, who stared at her dubiously for a long ten seconds or so before giving in at last.
"Very well, Miss Peters…very well," he acceded reluctantly and gestured to the time-travel room. Tattoo nodded and led the way; again Leslie remained seated, unwilling for more than one reason to accompany her guardian. Roarke arose and addressed their guest with, "Will you come this way, please?"
They left the door open, and from Leslie's point of view she could see Tattoo standing beside it, looking anxious. Roarke disappeared behind it, but she could still hear his voice explaining, "This is a very special door, Miss Peters." Leslie knew there was a second door at right angles to the one from the study, painted white and carved in an unusual diamond-shaped design, placed there just for this fantasy. "It can be caused to open into the past. I warn you, this door is the only means by which you can return here; so it is vital that you note its precise—precise—location after you step through."
After a moment Lorraine's response came through, muted: "I will. But first I want to change my clothes; I brought some things I thought might be appropriate."
Leslie barely heard Roarke's reply of "Very well." By now her muscles ached so much that she suddenly no longer cared whether he and Tattoo noticed, and stared dully at the doorway as her guardian appeared therein and added, "And Miss Peters…good luck."
Roarke let Tattoo out ahead of him and pulled the door shut behind him, stopping in surprise when he saw Leslie sitting listlessly in her chair. "Are you all right?"
"No," she admitted and stared at him. "I think I'm sick."
Roarke's expression grew concerned and he approached her, looking her carefully over while Tattoo paused in front of the desk and looked on. "What exactly are you feeling right now?" Roarke questioned.
"Sore throat, really achy muscles—it even hurts to smile. And I have to squint so much going outside that I can barely keep my eyes open enough to see."
Roarke placed a hand on each side of her face and tilted her head back to look into her eyes, then frowned. "Were your eyes this bloodshot when you awoke this morning, Leslie? Did you note any visible discrepancies?"
"They're bloodshot?" Leslie asked, startled. "I looked at myself in the mirror after I got up, but I didn't see anything weird. I felt bad, but not so bad that I wanted to stay home."
"What about now?" Tattoo put in.
"It's getting worse," she confessed through a sigh. "I just want to go to sleep."
"Perhaps that's the best thing for you," Roarke said. "Go on upstairs and change into your nightwear, and I'll give Dr. Wayne a call and see if he can come to examine you. However, my guess is measles, judging from your symptoms."
In the middle of painfully pushing herself up from her chair, Leslie froze and gawked at him. "How can it be measles? You made me go for booster shots the first week after I came to this island. Wouldn't that include measles?"
"It should have," Roarke said, thinking back with a deep frown. "I recall that we took you to the hospital to have it done, because Dr. Wayne couldn't get you in that week, and it was necessary to have your shots up-to-date before you could be enrolled in school here. It appears to me that whoever administered the boosters failed to do a thorough job. I'll look into it when I have a chance, but for now there's no point in lamenting what's already been done. Upstairs with you, Leslie Susan, and into bed. I'll have Mana'olana bring something for you to keep your throat moist, and otherwise you should sleep if you can."
"Okay," Leslie agreed dully and straightened up. "Ow. I can't believe how much I hurt. I feel like I just spent ten straight hours exercising."
Roarke chuckled. "If you need help getting up the stairs, let me know."
Leslie managed to make it to bed under her own steam, but it took her most of ten minutes to change into her most comfortable sleepwear and crawl into her bed. Tattoo came up a couple of minutes after she'd settled down and peered at her, his dark eyes alight with worry. "We'll have to be really careful with you," he observed. "Measles. I thought nobody ever got that anymore."
"Me too," mumbled Leslie. "Or at least, I never thought about it."
"Well, the boss'll look into it," he said comfortingly. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Well…maybe you could pull down the shade," Leslie ventured hesitantly. "I don't want to put you out or anything, but it's just too bright in here."
"No problem," Tattoo assured her and did as she requested. "Anything else?"
"No," she murmured. "I guess I'll be okay otherwise. Thanks, Tattoo."
He surveyed her and slowly shook his head. "Dr. Wayne should be here soon, so you just rest. Try to get some sleep." He patted her arm, then departed.
It was over three hours later before Dr. Wayne arrived at the main house and checked Leslie over; by that time, she had begun to develop the characteristic spotted rash of measles, so that it took him only a few questions and a minute or so to diagnose her. "It's measles all right, Mr. Roarke," he said and straightened up. "She's got the rash on her face and neck now, and within a day or so it's likely to have spread all over her body. Just keep her in bed and quiet, let her sleep all she wants, and give her some cough medicine according to the directions on the bottle. Plenty of fluids." He looked at the girl. "Light still bothering you, Leslie? I see the shade's down."
"Yeah, right now light hurts my eyes," she said. "I've never felt so tired or achy in my life. It's like I'm drooping."
Dr. Wayne grinned. "Measles will do that to you. Gotta admit, this is very unusual. You don't see too many cases of measles these days, with vaccinations and all."
Roarke nodded and said, "It's my suspicion that when she received her boosters at the hospital the first week she was here, they weren't complete, and she apparently fell victim to some infection, most likely at school."
"There's an exchange student in the senior class," Leslie offered. "From Peru. I heard she was out with measles all this past week. Probably that's how I got it."
"Seems as likely a source as any other," Dr. Wayne agreed. "Well, all right. Just stay in bed, Leslie. Call it an excuse to be lazy and sleep as much as you want." They all laughed, and Dr. Wayne departed along with Tattoo, who would let him out.
Roarke settled down on the side of her bed. "Do you feel up to eating anything? If not, I'll notify Mana'olana accordingly."
"Not right now, I guess. Maybe I'll feel hungrier around suppertime, but I guess it's like Dr. Wayne said—the best thing for me is sleep." She sighed and met his gaze. "But it's still disappointing…having to miss out on the rest of the weekend. I hope you and Tattoo come in sometimes and tell me how things are going."
Roarke chuckled. "Very well, we will. For now, you'd better get some sleep. I have a few rounds to make, and I'll check in on you when I get back."