White Sands of Summer Read online

  Also by J.H. Fletcher

  Claim the Kingdom

  The Burning Land

  View from the Beach

  Keepers of the House

  A Far Country

  Fire in Summer

  Wings of the Storm

  Sun in Splendour

  Voice of Destiny

  Dust of the Land

  The Governor’s House

  A Woman of Courage

  Land of Golden Wattle

  In the Valley of Blue Gums

  As Maggie Shannon

  Eagle on the Hill

  As Fletcher Anthony

  Gods of the Inferno

  Eye of Stone

  Spirits of the Earth

  White Sands of Summer

  J.H. Fletcher

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To Rebecca Kingsbury

  and to

  Elizabeth Fletcher

  loved and respected as she was in life

  Contents

  Also by J.H. Fletcher

  July 1983

  September 1983

  July–September 1983

  1925–31

  1928–33

  September 1932–March 1936

  March–August 1936

  1936–39

  July–September 1939

  November 1939

  1940–42

  September 1983

  1941–42

  1944–45

  1983

  1945–49

  September–December 1948

  1949–51

  1951–52

  1952–54

  1955

  1956–57

  September 1957

  1962

  1964–67

  June 1968

  May 1969

  1969–70

  December 1970–February 1971

  September 1971

  November 1971

  1972–73

  1974–77

  1978

  1982

  1983

  1984

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In the Valley of Blue Gums

  Dust of the Land

  The Governor’s House

  A Woman of Courage

  Land of Golden Wattle

  This precious stone set in the silver sea

  —William Shakespeare

  The blue sea dances

  So gently;

  The island’s mountains

  Reach the sky

  —Cao Cao

  The long-case clock in the corner of the air-conditioned bedroom was chiming eleven as Shannon came out of her bathroom and crossed to the bed Abby had turned down two hours before. Before getting under the sheet she paused and examined the mariner’s chart spread out on the mahogany table at the foot of the bed. The chart was of the Whitsunday archipelago, a cluster of emerald islands that lay off the north Queensland coast and extended more than twelve nautical miles into the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

  Beyond the window the starless night was dark. The wind was rising; somewhere in the house a loose shutter rattled.

  Shannon’s eyes, as blue as the Pacific, studied the chart, the tip of one thoughtful forefinger tapping the island that lay at the archipelago’s outer limit.

  The island had been named Charles Green by Captain Cook, in honour of his astronomer, during his epic voyage of exploration up the east coast of Australia in 1770. Seven square miles of rock and mangrove fringed by beaches of white sand, it lay exposed to cyclones, the monstrous tropical storms that exploded regularly out of the north, ravaging everything in their path.

  Now Charles Green was home only to seabirds, yet Shannon had coveted the island for nearly half a century.

  She got into bed, turned off the light and was soon asleep.

  JULY 1983

  Shannon

  She had promised her husband she would retire in September, on her sixty-fifth birthday, but in July that changed when a contact in the public service phoned Shannon to say that Charles Green island might be on the market.

  He told her the present owners, the Hennessy family, were strapped for cash. It wasn’t surprising; seven years before, the whole clan had been on the island celebrating patriarch Dominic’s seventieth birthday when cyclone Daphne, bringing winds of two hundred kilometres an hour, had scythed through the Whitsundays. By a miracle the family had survived but the resort had been shredded. The old man, always a fool, had previously declared cyclone cover too expensive, so after the storm there’d been no funds for rebuilding. Dominic was seventy-seven now and as stubborn as ever, but even he could deny the arithmetic no longer and her informant told Shannon that, barring a miracle, the family would have to sell.

  ‘I’ve wanted that island all my life,’ she told Hal. ‘I’m not going to walk away if there’s the slightest chance of getting hold of it now.’

  Shannon got her lawyer to contact the Hennessys; after two weeks ducking and diving, they agreed to a meeting.

  Before getting together with them, Shannon phoned her half-sister Jess, based in Hong Kong, to put her in the picture, only to find that Jess had news of her own.

  Jess

  Shanghai Street, like the rest of Kowloon, was its normal frenzy of traffic, but in the windowless chamber adjoining the main boardroom the air was still, the silence absolute. The walls were bare, the only furniture a plain wooden desk and two straight-backed chairs, one on either side of the desk. One chair was empty; on the other sat a man in his mid-forties wearing a well-cut tropical suit. He waited and did not move; in this job you waited until told to jump, then you jumped.

  The door opened and another man came in. He was perhaps twenty years older than the man at the desk but was still upright in his stance, his chalk-white face giving no hint of his thoughts or feelings. He walked to the desk and sat down; the current of chill air that seemed always to accompany him settled in the silent room.

  ‘Well?’

  The younger man cleared his throat. ‘I spoke to the minister personally and there is no doubt about it; the Hennessys are bankrupt, or as close to it as makes no difference.’

  ‘So the island is on the market?’

  ‘Not officially. But the minister said the family would definitely be open to offers.’ Again he cleared his throat. ‘The figure of twenty million US dollars was mentioned.’

  The older man’s eyes were a brilliant blue, startling in the white face, and as cold as ice. ‘Let me remind you that we do not wish to buy the island, but simply utilise a portion of it.’

  ‘Which may mean having to buy the island altogether. However, the minister gave me some useful information. There’s a rumour someone else may be interested in the island. An Australian woman called Shannon Harcourt.’

  For a fraction of a second the stillness in the air intensified. The change was barely perceptible, but it was the younger man’s job to notice such things.

  ‘Managing director of the Maitland Group,’ the older man said. ‘People say she’s formidable. Do we know why she wants it?’

  ‘She’s into hotels and property development. Among other things. I assume she’s planning to build.’

  ‘In a cyclone area? Isn’t that how the Hennessys lost their money, when their resort was wiped out?’

  ‘Why else would she want it?’

  ‘I wonder. What else do we know about her?’

  ‘About your age. Started with nothing. Now rich and powerful. Tough as old boots, what I hear.’

  ‘Tough as I am?’ There might have been the shadow of a smile in the pallid face.

  ‘Nobody is as tough as you are, Mr Black.’

  ‘Any way of getting to
her?’

  ‘Perhaps through her sister Jess.’

  ‘I believe they are half-sisters.’

  It was like playing chess blindfolded; impossible to guess how much the older man knew. ‘Half-sister, of course.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Honours graduate of the Singapore culinary school. Manages the Lotus Flower restaurant in the Golden Phoenix Complex, here in Hong Kong. Has a ten per cent holding in the Maitland Group.’

  ‘The restaurant’s reputation?’

  ‘The best Cantonese restaurant in the colony.’

  ‘There are hundreds of Cantonese restaurants. Why do people say it’s the best?’

  ‘Because she’s tried a new approach and it works. Jess Harcourt studied under a French chef at one time. Now she’s introduced the concept of fusion cuisine into what has traditionally been a very conservative market.’

  The older man said nothing; no way to know whether he was aware what fusion cooking was.

  ‘Fusing the cultures of two cookery traditions: in this case a marriage of French and Cantonese dishes. The restaurant’s combination of beef kway teow with a delicate French truffle sauce, for instance, has received top marks from the critics. There is also a fish dish –’

  A hand waved away talk of fish. ‘They are still able to provide traditional Chinese food? Without any of this so-called fusion?’

  ‘Of course. She has the finest Cantonese chefs in the colony working with her and she’s no slouch herself.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I’ve dined there. Her food is remarkable.’

  Silence; probably Mr Black was thinking. Or perhaps plotting: you could never be sure.

  ‘You want us to sound out the Hennessys?’

  ‘We’ll wait a while, see what develops.’

  ‘And if this Shannon Harcourt makes an offer?’

  ‘She’ll need government approval, whatever she decides to do. Get the minister to drag things out for a month or two. In the meantime…’ Again a few moments’ silence. ‘When are we seeing our Chinese friends?’

  ‘We have meetings scheduled for this coming Friday and Saturday.’

  Black stood and walked to the door. ‘I don’t want you involved at this stage. Tell Weiss to come and see me in my room.’

  Jess was in the gleaming kitchen of the Lotus Flower, known locally as the Hua Sing Yun, or Fortunate Flower restaurant, in the Golden Phoenix Complex in Harbour Road. She was listening to the principal chef berating a member of the kitchen staff over a spoilt Szechuan sauce. She had been living in Hong Kong for many years and had become adept at the Cantonese dialect.

  ‘Fire and spice,’ Chef Chan shouted. ‘Fire and spice. Dung hill! Imbecile! More chili garlic sauce. This Szechuan cooking, not Harbin porridge!’ He turned to Jess. ‘Very foolish man,’ he said in English, which Jess knew the culprit did not speak. ‘But he will learn. I teach!’

  A wall phone pealed. Another staff member answered, then came to Jess. He bowed his head deferentially. ‘General Manager Wong requests honour of speaking with you.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be up directly.’

  General Manager Wong was in charge of the Golden Phoenix Complex and occupied a suite of offices on the fourteenth floor of the central tower. On the walls of his sanctum were reproductions of landscapes by Chu Tuan and Shih-Tao, and the picture windows afforded a fine view of the harbour with the mainland on the far side.

  ‘Dermot Black,’ he said when Jess came in. ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘Only what’s common knowledge. Australian. Mega rich. Reclusive. I’ve heard he maintains a permanent suite in the Peninsula Hotel which he uses as his main base.’

  ‘You’ve never met him?’

  ‘Has anyone?’

  ‘You are right. Very private man. From what I hear, very few outside personal circle have set eyes on him in recent years.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘His aide phoned half-hour ago. Man called Weiss. Mr Black wishes Lotus Flower restaurant to arrange special banquet for ten people in his suite for Saturday evening.’

  Good heavens.

  ‘Only three days to prepare?’

  ‘Is sufficient time?’ Mr Wong asked anxiously.

  ‘It’ll have to be, won’t it? Did his aide give any indication of his preferences for the menu?’

  ‘Mr Black is happy to leave choice of dishes to us.’

  So if his guests don’t like what we give them he can blame us.

  ‘I had better get together with Chef Chan,’ Jess said. ‘See what we can dream up for the old hermit.’

  Wong attempted an invisible smile. ‘Black’s decision reflects great credit on Lotus Flower. On you too, of course.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can live up to it,’ Jess said.

  Jess’s brain was scrambling as she took the lift down to the kitchens. Century egg with pickled ginger; charcoal grilled beef in Szechuan sauce; king prawn with mushroom; the iconic Cantonese roast goose in a brine of mixed spices… Peking duck? Normally yes, but not with the goose.

  Should they go for a traditional menu or dare she include some of the modern refinements she’d been trying out? Innovation combined with tradition was always a tricky mix, but one whose importance had been stressed over and over again during her studies at the culinary school. She would have a war on her hands with Chef Chan if she did. Too bad. His culinary heart might yearn for the glory days of the Manchu, but the world had moved on since then.

  So much at stake… Who would have thought that the future of her career might depend on a roast goose, with or without spices, or the special flavouring she had devised to accompany century eggs?

  If she mucked up Shannon would have her liver.

  The lift door opened.

  ‘Chef Chan,’ she said. ‘A word. If you please.’

  Jess went into the little cubicle that served as her office. She wrote a few notes while she waited for Chef Chan to join her. A banquet for one of the world’s richest men… Her mind took her back to her earliest days. How could she have risen to the position she now held after such an unpromising beginning? Two siblings climbing the greasy pole together… Shannon would always have made it to the top; she was not so sure about herself.

  The nine years between them might have prevented their being close when they were children, but that had changed one winter’s evening when she was seven years old and returned to an unexpectedly empty house. The whole of her life had changed that day; she would never forget the experience, the most traumatic she had ever known, yet at the same time opening the door to what had become her future. Shannon had been there; not for the last time in Jess’s life, she had lifted her out of the depths. Jess would always owe her for that.

  Shannon

  Jess sounded flabbergasted by Shannon’s news. ‘You’re planning to give three million bucks for some uninhabited island and turn it into a national park?’

  ‘Not any island. This one.’

  ‘It must mean a heck of a lot to you.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘You astonish me. I would never have said you were the sentimental type.’

  ‘Hidden depths,’ Shannon said.

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  It wasn’t Jess’s decision – she wouldn’t be putting up the money – but she did own ten per cent of the group; Shannon thought of them as partners and liked to keep her informed about what was going on.

  ‘Charles Green island is important to me, never mind why. I don’t want to see the Hennessys sell it to some developer who’ll slap houses all over it, which is what’ll happen if I don’t stop them.’

  ‘You’re planning to offer the Hennessys three million? With no prospect of a return? What will the outside shareholders say about that?’

  ‘It’ll be my own money. Nothing to do with the outside shareholders.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me either, then.’

  ‘That’s different. You and I are family. We�
��re special.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. As it happens, I’ve news for you, too. Yesterday I was asked to lay on a very special banquet, for a very special customer, this coming Saturday. No expense spared. If it goes well I’ve a hunch something more may come of it.’

  ‘A very special customer? Tell me more.’

  ‘Not yet. It may not mean anything. But I have a feeling…’

  All her life Jess had had feelings but when it came to talking about them she was as secret as a locked safe. Shannon knew there was no point trying to weasel anything out of her now.

  ‘Let me know how it goes. And I’ll keep you in the picture about my talk with the Hennessys.’

  As she had planned, Shannon offered three million, subject to the ministry agreeing to her proposal; Dominic Hennessy, sulky at having to sell at all, said he would consider nothing less than fifteen. They settled on five. Shannon warned that the discussions must be kept confidential; one word in the media, she told him, and the deal would be off. For his part Hennessy said that until matters were finalised he would consider himself free to accept a better offer, should one come along.

  Jess

  The banquet was over and in the Peninsula Hotel Jess was dancing. After the tantrums and hysteria, the evening had been a great success. Proof? None, but she knew. She always did.

  She’d seen none of the guests, who’d arrived and left by a private door connecting with a private lift, but Gilbert Weiss, Dermot Black’s aide, said they’d been delighted. And these, judging by the gun-toting guards around the hotel, were important men. From Guangdong? Beijing, even? Rumours flew like migrating birds but no one knew anything for certain.

  There was no word from Dermot Black. Jess had expected nothing else but then Gilbert Weiss came to her with a surprising message.

  ‘Mr Black would like to congratulate you personally. I’ll take you to him. If you’re free.’

  A summons from Dermot Black was like a summons from the Almighty; it had clearly not entered the aide’s head that she might not be free.

  She followed him through one door and across what looked like an anteroom to another door. Beyond that, a hallway hung with chandeliers led to yet another door, fashioned like the wooden front door of an old-fashioned house, with stained-glass panels set in its frame. From Gilbert’s demeanour they might have been about to enter the inner sanctum of God. Or, at least, of a god.