§ § § -- February 22, 1981
It was dark and about five minutes till eight; Leslie hovered in front of the closed shutters to the terrace, with a few slats open just enough for her to peek out. So far there was no sign of Tattoo; behind her the study was normally lit but quiet, though the air sang with anticipation. Standing beside her was her best friend, Michiko Tokita, who along with her father the sheriff had come to the party as she had hoped to do some weeks earlier. "Do you see him yet?" she whispered in Leslie's ear.
Leslie shook her head. "He better hurry, though, before—" Just then she caught a movement and gasped softly. "There he is." Michiko grinned and waited while Leslie spied on Tattoo emerging into the small yard at the back of the terrace. To her relief, he spotted the gift-wrapped box she had left on a wrought-iron bench and detoured toward it. He lifted her card and read it aloud: " 'For You'?" She grinned broadly when he opened the card and read the message she had written inside: "Happy birthday, Tattoo." With a chuckle he dropped the card on the bench and lifted the lid of the box, extracting the small silver handbell that Leslie had managed to find at the gift shop two days earlier. He examined it curiously, then grasped it by its brass handle, tipped it upright and rang it.
That was the cue. Leslie jumped back from the shutters so that Roarke, waiting nearby, could push them open, and they, along with all those waiting in the study, shouted, "Surprise!" and spilled out into the yard. A couple of the kitchen workers pushed along a big cake on a wheeled table, around which everyone gathered to sing "Happy Birthday to You" while Tattoo stared on, his face alight.
Roarke grinned at him when the applause had ended. "Forgive my little ruse, my friend, but we wanted to surprise you—right?" This last he directed at the guests, who all chorused agreement and clapped once more. "Now," Roarke added, "before we continue with the festivities, there is someone I want you to meet. Come this way, please." He led Tattoo beyond the immediate gathering; Leslie followed for a few steps, with Michiko just behind her, then veered around a vine-covered latticework and vanished. Tattoo glanced after her, but then had reason to forget about this when Roarke introduced him to the older man who stood studying an assortment of Tattoo's sketches displayed in a crescent of easels. Mark Ellison stood by his side. "Tattoo, this is Mr. Alfred Gérard, general manager of the Traditional Dance Company of Paris. He wants to buy some of your sketches."
"My honor," Tattoo exclaimed, shaking hands with Gérard.
"It is my honor, I assure you. And this…this is really extraordinary work." Gérard swept his hand to indicate the easels, then began to move along the line of them, examining individual sketches here and there. Tattoo, thanking him, hesitated when he paused in front of the third sketch from the end. "And this young lady: is she one of our dancers?" he asked of Ellison. It was a color sketch of Solange.
"Uh, no sir…not exactly," Ellison began, sounding flustered.
"But she's a better dancer than I am a painter," Tattoo spoke up.
"I would like to see her," Gérard said expectantly.
Roarke smiled. "You are about to, Mr. Gérard." He indicated the latticework set up on a portable wooden flooring unit nearby; for the first time Tattoo noticed Leslie and Michiko sitting together, one on either side of a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder. A flash of yellowish-orange caught their eyes then and they all turned to see Solange Latignon emerge from behind the latticework, clad in a sunflower-colored silk dress.
"Many happy returns, Tattoo," she said softly. "This is for you." Roarke gestured at Leslie, who switched on the tape player. A tune with a leisurely beat was broadcast across the yard, and Solange began her performance as the men took seats at a table to watch. Ellison, left standing, looked on, his face gradually becoming more and more consternated as Solange proved her talent. And she danced—for Gérard, for Tattoo, but most of all for herself. All eyes were on her, unable to tear themselves away till the music ended and Solange had completed her dance.
Applause broke out, and Tattoo stood up to deliver his ovation. Leslie stopped the recorder, exchanging a grin with Michiko, and then got up to stand beside her guardian's chair, clapping as she did. Michiko followed her that far before going off to get a share of the birthday cake.
Solange curtseyed in response and then approached the table, where Gérard arose and smiled at her. "Young lady, that was an astounding display. You have a rare and natural talent. What's your name?"
"Solange Latignon, m'sieur," she answered politely.
"Enchanté," Gérard said with a nod.
Roarke spoke up, a deliberateness in his voice: "Mr. Ellison has had his eye on Miss Latignon for some time, I understand." Abruptly caught out, Ellison stared sullenly into the near distance.
Gérard turned to him and inquired in a chilly tone, "Why didn't you tell me this, Mark?" Ellison shifted his gaze with obvious reluctance.
"Well, actually, sir, I was waiting for her to, uh…" He hesitated, fielded the icy stare Tattoo was drilling him with, and finally said, "Honestly, sir, I was not aware of what I had." Tattoo sighed, looking disgusted; Leslie and Roarke looked at each other.
"I see," murmured Gérard and focused on Solange. "Well, Miss Latignon, we must discuss your future over breakfast tomorrow…right, Mark?" This last was directed over his shoulder at Ellison, who could do no more than mumble agreement. Gérard smiled at Solange, then nodded at Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie. "Excuse us. Coming, Mark?" He departed without checking to see if Ellison followed; the latter man gave Solange a polite nod and left them without another word.
Solange looked hopefully at Tattoo and pleaded, "Tattoo, could we talk?"
"Sure," Tattoo agreed, the warmth reentering his eyes and face. "Excuse me, boss, Leslie." Roarke nodded and Leslie smiled, both watching them retreat to sit on a bench some distance away. They could, however, still hear the conversation, though they didn't actively try to listen.
Solange picked up a flat handbag and opened the flap. "Tattoo, I found this," she said, withdrawing a sheet of paper that had been folded over a couple of times but still bore creases, as if from a crumpling. "That's why you didn't show up today—you saw me with Mr. Ellison."
"You don't have to say anything," Tattoo told her gently, making Leslie smile a little to herself. Maybe my words were right after all and he's giving her the benefit of the doubt!
"But I want to," Solange protested. "He tricked me. I was trying to get rid of him so I could be with you. Please believe that."
"Solange, I believe you," Tattoo assured her with a tiny smile.
She looked relieved, then drew in a breath. "You know how much I want…need to dance," she began, as if unsure where to start.
"Well, it's your big chance now," Tattoo said brightly.
"No," she said, shaking her head, surprising Leslie into gazing openly at them. "I'm not going on the tour. I'd like to stay here—with you."
Startled and touched, Tattoo seemed to consider her words for a long moment before smiling ruefully and looking back at her. "Solange, I cannot let you do that. Give up your career for me?"
"Tattoo, I happen to think you're more of a man than anyone else I know," Solange said fervently. "And with a paintbrush in your hand, you're a giant." Leslie blinked, her eyes beginning to sting; it was clear to her that Solange had developed feelings for Tattoo as well, and it thrilled her for her honorary uncle's sake.
"No one has ever made me feel that way before," Tattoo admitted, gazing at her, all too plainly tempted to give in. But his conscience won out again and he murmured gruffly, "It's not gonna work."
"Don't say that," she pleaded.
Tattoo insisted, "Solange, you were born to dance. I cannot let you waste such a gift. You must dance for the world. And when you perform in the big city, I'll be dancing beside you." She gave him an odd look, and he clarified, "Not this me…but the me inside." He placed both hands over his chest and smiled at her. "He's a terrific dancer," he kidded gently when he saw Solange's sorrowful expression, and she let out a tiny huff of amusement, tears sparkling brightly in her eyes.
"Oh, Tattoo," she said wistfully.
Someone tapped Leslie's shoulder and she twisted guiltily around, staring up at her guardian. "Come here, it's time we brightened the mood a little," he said and grinned at her. Relieved, she stood up and accompanied him and one of his employees over to where Solange and Tattoo sat. "Mademoiselle, Tattoo, I hope we're not intruding."
"Not at all, boss," Tattoo assured him.
"Miss Latignon tells me you wish to paint her portrait, Tattoo, in oil." As Roarke spoke, the native man began setting up an easel and outfitting it with a canvas and Tattoo's paints, brush and smock.
Tattoo eyed him in surprise. "You mean, now?"
"Well, she's leaving tomorrow," Roarke pointed out, "am I correct?" Solange turned and looked at Tattoo, who gazed steadily back; finally she looked back at Roarke and nodded, the wistful quality of her voice still lingering in the motion.
"Well, then! Toulouse-Lautrec often worked throughout the night, and I can't think of a lovelier setting, Tattoo! Would you mind coming here, Miss Latignon?" Solange got up and crossed the dance floor she had earlier made such grand use of, and Roarke stopped her in front of some broad-leaved bushes and a torchière, examining the scene. "Yes…yes, I think that's ver y nice. Tattoo?"
Silence fell, broken only by the distant chee-chee of crickets, as Tattoo got up and went to stand behind the easel, gauging the setting with his own critical artist's eye. Roarke glanced at Leslie, who stood watching with her hands clasped behind her back, and prodded, "Well, Tattoo, what do you think?"
Tattoo's dark eyes twinkled and he said with a grin, "Toulouse-Lautrec, eat your heart out!" Roarke, Leslie and Solange burst into laughter, and Tattoo beamed back at them before lifting the palette and preparing to mix the paints he needed.
"Oh!" Leslie blurted, coming suddenly to life. "Wait before you start doing that, Tattoo. Mr. Roarke, we almost forgot!"
Roarke's eyes widened as he realized what she meant. "You're right, Leslie! Go ahead and get the packages."
"I'll bring you a piece of cake while I'm doing that," Leslie added to Tattoo, who was staring questioningly at her.
"I don't know that Toulouse-Lautrec ate cake while he painted," Roarke teased her.
"You never know," Leslie replied with a grin, "but even if he didn't, Tattoo should at least have some of his own birthday cake." The adults laughed agreement and she rushed off to get the items in question.
"Boss, what's she talking about?" Tattoo asked.
"Just wait," Roarke said with a smile. "I think you'll like these gifts."
Several minutes later Leslie came back carrying a plate of cake and two boxes; Roarke pulled a table over to stand near the easel, and Leslie set her burden down on it. "There," she said. "Go ahead and open them."
"Right this minute, huh?" Tattoo said with an indulgent grin. "Okay, if you insist." He read the card on the top box, which happened to be Leslie's, and chuckled when an entire sheet of paper fell out. She went pink and glanced at Solange and Roarke.
"What would that be?" Roarke queried with interest.
"I just wrote him a little letter, that's all," she said and stared at her shoes for a moment, adding, "You might want to wait and read it later on, Tattoo."
"If it's as mushy as I think it is, I probably should," Tattoo joshed her with a wide grin. Her look of relief made him laugh before he turned his attention to her gift and removed the paper. His expression was priceless when he saw what lay inside. "Sacre bleu! The Swiss Special paints! Leslie, this is perfect! These things cost a fortune…and you were willing to go to all that trouble for me?"
"I just figured it was time you finished all those half-done paintings in your studio," she kidded him back, and again everyone laughed. Tattoo was equally delighted with the colors Roarke had given him.
"I'll break them in right now," he said and promptly made good on his word, busily mixing paint and taking the occasional bite of cake in between. Roarke and Leslie watched for a while, themselves having some cake; Michiko wandered over and looked on as well, met Solange, and talked with Leslie for some time before Sheriff Tokita came to get her while Tattoo was painting Solange's face. A few minutes after he and Michiko had left, Roarke decreed that Leslie needed to get some sleep as well, due to the next day being a school day. Before going in for the night, Leslie brought Solange a slice of cake, then hesitated.
"Is something wrong?" Solange asked.
"No," Leslie said, quickly shaking her head. "It's just…" She leaned over and whispered in Solange's ear: "I hope you come back someday. I've never seen Tattoo look so happy."
Solange smiled at her, a little misty-eyed. "Merci beaucoup, Leslie."
"All right, Leslie," Tattoo called out then, "I'm not painting the back of your head. Do me a favor and move out of the way, please?"
With a laugh, Leslie skipped aside. "Sorry! Well, good night, everybody…and happy birthday again, Tattoo." He smiled at her before returning to his painting, and she grinned and headed into the house.
§ § § -- February 23, 1981
"What can I possibly say, Mr. Roarke?" Jerome Pepper said, coming to shake Roarke's hand at the plane dock the following morning. "You have a rare talent for turning losers into winners."
"Well," Roarke said, "as Mr. Frank Sinatra says, all of us can be winners."
Thalia sighed softly. "To think that Jerome and I wasted seven precious years afraid to talk to each other." She leaned her forehead against his.
"Emmett and I wasted a lot more than that," confessed Amelia Selby.
"All the more to make up for, Amelia, with our merger," Latham said with a smile.
Tattoo smiled too. "It just goes to show you—never fear to speak what's in your heart."
"That is the only way that lonely people can truly find each other," Roarke concurred with a nod. Everyone shook hands before the four guests headed for the landing dock, and the next rover pulled up bearing Solange. Roarke stepped aside to let Tattoo assist her out.
"Thank you, Tattoo," she said and paused in front of them. "Mr. Roarke, I feel like a thief. You gave Tattoo a fantasy, and I took it over—used it to make my dream come true."
"You did not take it, Miss Latignon," Roarke said. "Tattoo gave it."
"A fantasy is always better when you can share it with someone," Tattoo said, and Solange smiled wistfully at him.
"Tattoo, please, don't forget me," she requested softly.
"Never," he replied and smiled. "Adieu, Solange." And once more he kissed her hand. Solange smiled at Roarke and Leslie, then walked slowly toward the plane dock, pausing once to turn and gaze back. Tattoo waved, and she waved back, a sad little smile on her face, before retreating into the charter's cabin.
"Perhaps one day, she will return to the island," Roarke said.
"I hope she does," Leslie agreed.
Tattoo gazed after Solange. "Maybe not, but she will never leave me."
"Because of the painting?" Leslie guessed, and Tattoo nodded and withdrew the completed canvas from the back of the station wagon that would shortly take Leslie to school. It was a wonderful, lifelike rendering of Solange, and Leslie had no doubt that it would be mounted in a prominent place in Tattoo's cottage. Silent for several moments, each with private thoughts, they watched the pontoon plane taxi across the lagoon on its way toward takeoff from the open ocean.
Only then did Tattoo speak. "Thank you, boss," he said with solemn feeling. "You gave me a fantasy I can keep my whole life." They all smiled at one another and let their gazes stray back to the lagoon.
§ § § -- July 4, 2006
Rory looked decidedly disgusted when they wrapped it up. "Yuck! Falling in love with some gross girl!" he snorted, screwing up his face. "I'm never doing that."
"That, me boyo, is because you're but six years old and a long way from thinkin' that the lasses are anything but necessary annoyances," Rogan said indulgently. "Just you wait, maybe seven or eight years. Maybe not even that long, nowadays."
"Please," Julie begged, "let me have the illusion for a little longer that I have a nice, sweet little boy who goes around telling everybody that the only girl he likes is his mother." Everyone laughed, and she grinned a little sheepishly. "Well, what else can you tell us about? I'm up for a good action story, and I'll bet Rogan and Christian and especially Rory here are dying for something similar after this nice romantic love story."
Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "You want action, do you?" Leslie said and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Brace yourself, my love, here's another little danger-and-adventure tale. Father, remember the weekend that madman came to the island and spent the entire two days trying over and over again to do you in?"
"Ah yes," Roarke said and shook his head. "Perhaps she's correct, Christian, you'd better brace yourself." He grinned at Christian's dubious expression and, along with Leslie, proceeded to relate the story.
§ § § -- March 4, 1982
"You don't mind if I bow out this weekend, do you, uncle?" Julie asked two days beforehand, looking hopeful. "I know you assigned me to that special fantasy and I'm really looking forward to seeing what a billion B.C. was like. But once that's been done, I need to work on some finances. I think it won't be long before I've got enough money to open up my house as a bed-and-breakfast inn, and I need to tally up how much more I've got to go."
"Oh, that's fine, Julie," Roarke said absently, his primary attention centered on a letter that lay on the desk in front of him. "Go ahead."
"Thanks," Julie replied. "See you later." She hurried out of the house, and Tattoo, who stood by the desk as well, squinted at the object of Roarke's scrutiny.
"Boss, you did hear her, didn't you?" he asked.
"Of course, my friend, of course," murmured Roarke. "Oh, uh…when Leslie returns home from school, would you accompany her to the dentist's office? She has a four-o'clock appointment for a cleaning, and I am afraid I can't go with her."
"Sure, boss," Tattoo said, giving the letter one more dubious look before shrugging and changing the subject. "By the way…Jean-Claude wants fugu this weekend."
That got Roarke's attention, and he looked up in disbelief. "You can't be serious, Tattoo! Are you quite sure that's what he said?"
"Positive, boss," Tattoo replied with a nod. "What's wrong with it?"
"Doesn't he realize that fugu can be poisonous unless prepared with the utmost care?" Roarke demanded. "That fish is a Japanese delicacy, and it is my understanding that even the most experienced Japanese chefs cannot escape the possibility of accidentally killing one of their diners, for that fish is invariably fatal if the poison is ingested! I suggest you tell Jean-Claude in no uncertain terms that I refuse to fill his request. It's simply too risky."
"Weird," Tattoo muttered. "You know, now that I think about it, it did seem to me as if Jean-Claude had designs on someone." He sighed, shrugged and left the house. Roarke watched him go, shook his head incredulously and went back to the letter on the desk, giving a deep sigh. This weekend was going to be a particular challenge, and he was more than a little worried. But he felt obligated to try to defuse the situation he knew was in the offing, and that meant he must grant the fantasy, no matter how reluctant he might be.
§ § § -- March 6, 1982
Roarke and Leslie emerged from the main house together and paused at the top of the porch steps; Roarke eyed his watch while Leslie cursorily checked the weather. A few seconds later Tattoo crossed the porch and said cheerfully, "Good morning, boss and Leslie!"
"Good morning, Tattoo," Roarke said. "Have you seen Julie?"
"Remember, she's working with Mrs. Brannan on her one-billion-B.C. fantasy," Tattoo told him.
"Oh, yes," Roarke said. "As I recall, Julie was going to help Mrs. Brannan introduce women's lib into that ancient society." Following Leslie's gaze skyward, he snapped his pocket watch shut and replaced it.
"Right, boss, but I don't think Julie is doing too well," Tattoo remarked. His words drew Leslie's attention back from the sky, and Roarke eyed him quizzically; Tattoo gestured to the clearing, and they all watched as a primitive man wielding a gigantic club chased a similarly dressed woman our of the trees.
"Now you listen, Molog," the woman yelled. "That club is not the answer to every suggestion I make—!!" The last word came out in a shriek as the man swung the club at her with deadly intent and she ducked it. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie all winced in unison, watching the two race out of sight again.
"Well, obviously that culture isn't quite ready to adopt women's rights yet," Roarke observed dryly. "Shall we go?" Leslie and Tattoo shared a glance full of wry amusement as they followed Roarke to the car that pulled up.
At the plane dock Roarke carried out the usual ritual of calling for smiles and signaling the band and dancers into motion; he buttoned his jacket just before the first guest stepped out of the plane. It was a dark-haired man standing there staring into space and fussily smoothing the suit he wore. A moment later a woman with short brown hair climbed out to join him. "Mr. Jack Hecker," Roarke introduced him, "a successful clothing manufacturer."
"He's here for the fashion show, right, boss?" Tattoo prompted.
"Quite right, Tattoo," Roarke said.
Tattoo grinned. "I bet I know who she is," he said.
"All right, go ahead," Roarke said indulgently.
"She's Mr. Hecker's top fashion model," Tattoo said.
Leslie shook her head. "No, I think she's his secretary."
"I'm afraid you'd both lose your bets, although you were close, Leslie," Roarke said. "Actually, she is Miss Suzi Swann, Mr. Hecker's assistant—his girl Friday for the last five years—and she is hopelessly in love with him."
"What is her fantasy?" Tattoo provided the usual question on cue.
"Miss Swann's fantasy is to fall out of love with Mr. Hecker."
Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other. "Out of love?" Leslie echoed.
"Boss, that's a new one for us, right?" Tattoo observed with a grin.
"Indeed," Roarke said and left it at that—for at that moment, a tall, solidly built man exited the charter plane. He had the cruelest face Leslie had ever seen on any human being, with a large lantern jaw and an ice-blue glare under a perpetual scowl. She edged a step or two closer to Roarke, instantly nervous for no reason she could name.
Clearly Tattoo had the same impression. "Boss, what a cold-looking face! Who is he?"
"Mr. Frank Barton," Roarke said, "formerly a demolition expert, now a world-famous hunter." Leslie scowled; she had heard a few mentions of the man, but had never seen what he looked like till now.
"What's his fantasy?" asked Tattoo again.
"His fantasy is to have the most exciting hunt of his life."
That didn't surprise either Tattoo or Leslie; the former contemplated the man whose face looked as if someone had inexpertly chiseled it from stone and said, "That's not gonna be easy."
Roarke shook his head once or twice. "It will be quite a challenge to provide Mr. Barton with what he wants."
"Well, I'm betting on the hunter," Tattoo remarked with a grin.
Roarke looked contemplative. "You may be right, Tattoo," he said, half to himself. At which point his drink arrived and he greeted his guests as always; but Leslie couldn't shake a feeling of severe dread. She glanced at Frank Barton and shivered violently, all but hiding behind her oblivious guardian.