§ § § -- February 2, 1979 – Fantasy Island

Roarke shuffled aside a pile of unanswered mail, looked through the bills and set them in a desktop file, and deftly filed away a couple of dozen letters that had already been answered. He was checking through a huge stack of brand-new fantasy requests when Tattoo came in with that day's mail, announcing, "Here's some more, boss."

Roarke barely glanced up. "Would you please go through that for me, my friend? I've fallen much too far behind, and I must get caught up." He continued working without pause even as he spoke.

"Okay, boss," Tattoo said agreeably, stopping for a moment to marvel at the speed with which Roarke worked. He'd worked for this man for some twenty years, and still seldom failed to be impressed by Roarke's abilities—but it would be ninety-five degrees in Antarctica before you'd get him to admit this anywhere but privately.

After a moment he settled into a chair and went through the some-two-dozen envelopes that had arrived a few minutes before. One of them looked as if it had been through the wringer; it was creased and bent, torn in a couple of places, and there was a rip through the return address. Tattoo studied it in curiosity; the postmark was almost three months old. He frowned when he noted this and set aside the other items in order to give this one priority. Obviously it had been lost in the mail, which actually wasn't especially unusual; but something told him this deserved attention first.

From the envelope he withdrew a single folded sheet of letterhead sent by an attorney with an address in Connecticut. Tattoo peered at the postmark again and scowled even more; it was from a place in California. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the letter, which was typewritten and dated November 18, 1978.

What he read made him blink. "Boss," he said in a stricken tone.

"Yes," murmured Roarke distantly.

"Boss, I think you'd better take a look at this," Tattoo persisted gently, displaying the letter at Roarke, who finally paused and looked up. "This one's pretty old—it must have gotten lost in the mail. It's from a lawyer in Connecticut, or California, or somewhere, I'm not sure which. Here, maybe you'd better read it."

His curiosity getting the better of him, Roarke took the letter and read it, smoothing out some of the wrinkles. After a few minutes he folded the letter once and opened a date book on the desk, making a notation therein. "Where did I leave the passes for the charter?" he murmured at Tattoo.

"Top drawer on your right," Tattoo told him. "It's locked."

Roarke opened a small filigreed gold box that sat beside the desk lamp, extracted a very old-fashioned brass key and inserted it into the lock of the drawer Tattoo had indicated, pulling it open. He took out a small green piece of paper a little larger than a ticket and gave it to Tattoo. "Send this with a reply to this attorney by return mail," he directed, "and make sure it goes out today. This matter has already been delayed too long." With that, he returned to what he had been doing.

"Right away, boss," Tattoo said, wondering just what was going on. It didn't bother him too much; he knew he would find out sooner or later.

Once Tattoo had departed the room, Roarke stopped working and slowly sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his waistcoat and thinking. It had been a very long time since he'd had reason to think of that fantasy, almost fourteen years ago now, and the baby whose desperate mother had entrusted him with her care. That child would be a teenager now, he realized, and smiled a faint, wry smile to himself. The last time he'd taken in a child had been some ten years before, when he'd given the fifteen-year-old daughter of some dear friends a place to complete her growing up after her parents' deaths. Raising Cindy had been a challenge despite the girl's studiousness and good nature. She'd been an adolescent, after all, and nothing about bringing up teenagers was easy.

Now he was about to become guardian to another teenage girl, and a much younger one at that. He knew nothing about Leslie Hamilton, but from what he recalled of her mother, he had reason to believe that she would be a good girl, raised as well as she could be by a woman whose husband was so hostile to his offspring. If Shannon Hamilton had instilled her surviving child with even half the capacity for love that she herself had unwittingly displayed to Roarke on that April weekend over a decade ago, then he and Leslie would be off to a good start. He could only hope that Leslie's experience with her father hadn't made her completely distrustful of all men, and that she would be able to work her way through her grief and fulfill the potential he had sensed in the unborn baby the day her mother had returned to Connecticut, fiercely ready to set in motion her plans to protect the child who would outlive her.

§ § § -- February 14, 1979 – Susanville, California

Leslie had grown used to returning home alone from school. Well, it wasn't really home; it was just to the Brookses' house. It could never be home, not after these last few disastrous months under their roof. Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks were nice enough, and Melinda treated her pretty decently for a snooty teenager. But Cindy Lou had changed drastically since Leslie had been forced to share quarters with her. They'd never exactly been best friends, but whatever bond they did have had been thoroughly destroyed by their constant proximity. They'd learned within a week or so that they had less in common than they thought, and began drifting apart.

By now, she had learned to hold everything inside her and to keep her belongings close at hand at all times. She didn't have much, but there was no way in the world she was going to lose sight of what she did have; so she took her duffel to school with her, slept with it under the covers of the camp cot she slept on, even hung it on a hook on the bathroom door whenever she took a shower. Her two surviving sets of clothing and her nightgown were showing signs of wear, but she resisted all attempts by Mrs. Brooks to replace them. They were all she had left that belonged truly and exclusively to her. Eventually she'd compromised and started wearing some of Melinda's outgrown clothes to school, but that was as far as she was willing to go. She was too embarrassed to let Mrs. Brooks buy her new underwear or even the bra she had finally started to need this school year. Sometimes her classmates looked at her funny, but she ignored them and kept to herself, stoically waiting.

Waiting, just as she'd been waiting ever since her mother's will had been read in November. What was taking so long? She was convinced that stupid lawyer had put her out of his mind the second he'd walked out of the courthouse and had never written, much less sent, the letter that would get her out of this place. The Brookses were only her temporary caretakers, after all; they weren't equipped to take her on as a foster child till she turned eighteen, and even if they were, she wouldn't want to be here. Not after the way Cindy Lou had turned traitor on her and started running around with that group of fast kids she often saw outside the windows of her science classroom, lurking in the trees around the school property and smoking or drinking within plain view of anyone who happened to look. She skipped more classes than she attended and Leslie was sure she'd have to repeat eighth grade. Not that she cared; in fact she hoped that was just what happened. Cindy Lou was nothing like she used to be. At first, when Leslie had nightmares, she was concerned, asking if Leslie was okay and if she'd be able to get back to sleep. But after a couple or three of these instances, Cindy Lou had gotten impatient, then disgusted, and now just rolled over in bed, complaining about how Leslie was always waking her up with "those stupid dreams of yours." Leslie still had the nightmares, but somehow she'd managed to train herself not to wake up screaming or sobbing anymore.

She trudged into the house, clinging tightly to the fraying strap of her duffel, and made her way to Cindy Lou's room. It was weird, she spent more time in Cindy Lou's room now than Cindy Lou did, though she would far prefer to have slept in the Brookses' unfinished cellar. At least that way she might have just a tiny bit of privacy. But that wasn't an option, so she had resigned herself.

She peeled off the out-of-style jumpsuit that had once belonged to Melinda and pulled on one of her own sets of clothes from the duffel. Just as she finished, the kitchen telephone rang; she paid it no attention, pulling a textbook and spiral notebook out of the duffel and preparing to start her homework.

She'd completed only a few of the exercise questions when Mrs. Brooks appeared in the doorway. "Leslie, dear, I have good news for you," she said brightly. Leslie looked up in surprise and stared at her, and she nodded. "That lawyer, Douglas Welles, called."

Leslie tried to remember who Douglas Welles was. "Huh?"

Mrs. Brooks smiled. "The one who was helping your mother's lawyer, Henry Fields. He got a registered letter from Connecticut this morning, and he's going to drop by this evening to give it to you personally." She must have finally registered Leslie's confusion, for her smile became a grin. "Leslie, you're about to leave for Fantasy Island, finally."

She sat still for a moment, going hot and cold by rapid and dizzying turns, before she could grasp the idea that deliverance was at hand. "You mean Mr. Roarke got that lawyer's letter and wrote back?"

"That's right! Mr. Welles should be here before dinnertime tonight to give you the letter. Apparently there was something in it that you'll need for your trip to Fantasy Island. Make sure you have all the things you want to take with you…" Mrs. Brooks paused, then shook her head. "We wouldn't want Mr. Roarke to think we haven't been taking proper care of you, dear. I'm going to clean out Melinda's closet so you'll have a nice wardrobe to take along with you." She smiled at Leslie and left.

Leslie slammed the textbook and notebook, abandoning the homework; if she was leaving, there was no point in doing the assignment. It couldn't be possible—was she finally getting out of here? The thought brought her a nauseating mixture of relief and trepidation. She was glad to be leaving Susanville, leaving this street where she could still see the scorched remains of her house from Cindy Lou's window and be constantly reminded that she was an orphan; glad to be escaping the cloying attempts of Mrs. Brooks to console her and to foist Melinda's old clothes off on her; especially glad to be getting away from Cindy Lou, who was about the farthest thing from a friend she could imagine by now.

But she was scared. All she had to go on was mormor's long-ago description, sketchy as it was, of Mr. Roarke and Fantasy Island. She knew only what Mr. Roarke could do; what she really wanted to know was what he was like, what sort of person he was. Would he be one of those gruff old bachelors who had no idea how to relate to a lonely, confused teenage girl? Would he be strict and stern and humorless? Would he live in the kind of house that was full of priceless antiques and fragile, expensive décor, where she'd have to tiptoe every time she crossed a room? She wished she had asked mormor those questions way back when they'd come across that old brochure; she hadn't even asked why mormor had it in the first place. Had she planned to visit the island sometime? Leslie sighed softly, trying to still the abdominal butterflies. She was going, that was all there was to it; she just wished she knew more about her destination.

Both Melinda and Cindy Lou had come home by the time Douglas Welles stopped over to drop off the letter he had received that day. He smiled kindly at Leslie as he gave her the envelope. "All yours, Miss Hamilton," he said. "Good luck. I hear Fantasy Island is an amazing place—I bet you'll love it there." He wished the Brookses a good evening and departed, and Leslie slowly turned over the envelope in her hands, dipping a thumb and finger inside and withdrawing a letter. A small green piece of paper fell out of the folds and landed on the floor, and she snatched it up, afraid Cindy Lou would somehow grab it. Cindy Lou had turned into a real bully lately.

"So you're really going to Fantasy Island," Melinda remarked, voice dripping with envy. "Lucky you. I sure wish I could go with you."

"It's about time you got out of our hair," muttered Cindy Lou, rolling her eyes. "Now you can be a burden on somebody else, and I can have my room back."

"Cynthia Louise, I think I've heard about enough of your smart mouth," Mr. Brooks warned her. "You've really been pushing your luck lately, young lady. Leslie didn't ask for her situation, and the least you could do is be generous about it."

But Leslie hardly heard anything else that went on around her. The letter she held was only a couple of brief paragraphs in length, and it wasn't even addressed to her; but all the same, it contained the magic words of deliverance. "…Thank you for notifying me in regard to the matter of Leslie Susan Hamilton. As requested, I am enclosing the pass she will require in order to enter our territory. In accordance with the wishes of her late mother, please see to it that she is sent on her way at the soonest possible date.…"

The pass was just a green piece of paper like an oversized ticket. All it said was, "Bearer is granted permission to enter the sovereign territory of Fantasy Island, by mandate of owner and island lord mayor." A machine-printed signature, reading only "Roarke", was under that. This was the ticket to the rest of her life, she realized, and looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. "Can I leave tomorrow?"

"Well, the letter said 'the soonest possible date'," Mr. Brooks observed; Welles had read it to them before handing it to Leslie. "Tomorrow would fit the bill, I guess. Louise, go ahead and take her to the airport in the morning. I'll handle the situation with the school and let them know what happened. Cindy Lou, you can take Leslie's textbooks back to her teachers."

"Fat chance," said Cindy Lou scornfully. "I'm not doing anything for her."

"You're a king-sized snothead," Melinda remarked, with the lofty superiority of the older sibling. "Like I said, Leslie, I wish I could go with you."

Scared as she was, Leslie was elated all the same. I'm getting out, I'm getting out, she couldn't stop thinking. Anything had to be better than this. She curled up on the cot in Cindy Lou's room and was settling down for the night when she realized her duffel, safely under the blankets, seemed to be stuffed much fuller than usual. It was all but impossible to wait till she heard Cindy Lou snuffling the way she did in her sleep before sitting up and rooting in the bag. Sure enough, it was packed full of clothes that had belonged to Melinda. Oh no you don't! Working by the faint glow of the streetlight that filtered in between the closed slats of the Venetian blinds, she pulled out every single article of clothing, folded and stacked it carefully, and then stashed the whole kit under the cot, as far back as she could reach till she hit the wall. She sorted out her own belongings, checked twice to be sure she had all her meager possessions, and repacked her duffel, then shoved the bag under her pillow and finally fell asleep.

In the morning she was so nervous that she couldn't eat breakfast; she was afraid Mrs. Brooks would notice the lack of fullness of her bag, and wanted to get to the airport and on her way as fast as humanly possible. She did consent to drink a glass of orange juice, but her jittery stomach wouldn't allow any more than that. It was perverse fun to watch a glowering Cindy Lou board the bus for school and Melinda leaving to catch her own bus amidst envious good-luck wishes; and it was a relief to get on the road to Susanville's little regional airport. She would fly to San Francisco on a commuter plane, then board a jet to Honolulu, and finally catch the Fantasy Island charter plane.

"I just can't imagine what your mother must have been thinking," Mrs. Brooks said wonderingly on the drive to the airport. "Sending you to someone she had never met and didn't know at all. But I guess if she had to do that, she made a good choice. I understand Mr. Roarke is quite a man—Fantasy Island has a very good reputation. I can't blame Melinda for being envious. Are you looking forward to it, dear?"

More than you know, thought Leslie, feeling trapped somehow. She was terrified of what lay ahead of her, but looking back wasn't even an option anymore, for she was scared yet worse of that. Better the devil you know, they say, she reflected. Well, not for me. This is what Mom wanted for me, and Mom would've never put me in a place where she knew I was in danger. So I gotta try to trust her judgment and just tell myself it's gonna be all right.

Within half an hour she was watching Mrs. Brooks, still standing beside her car waving goodbye, as the commuter plane gathered speed for takeoff. Determinedly Leslie clutched her duffel bag and turned her face away from the window, forward to where she could just see the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot therein, at the very moment the little plane lifted its nose into the morning sky. Despite her nagging fears, she even managed to smile. Okay, Mom, I'll do it for you. Fantasy Island, here I come…

For those of you who haven't read any of my Fantasy Island work under my MagicSwede1965 account, and might be interested, the story continues there in "Trial by Fire". For those who are familiar with Leslie and her subsequent adventures, I hope you enjoyed having some more of the backstory filled in! Thanks again to Misheemom for the idea!