Inconsolable

3: Unlikely

Foley wasn't making the same mistake as yesterday. She'd ruined a suit, given herself a case of sunburn that still glowed through makeup, and had to slink back to the office, gaffer tape her pants back together and admit to Gabriella that she'd failed.

Today was going to be different. She staged a pre-work raid. Early enough to catch a hermit squatter at his camp site before he went wherever a hermit squatter went during the day. She also wore clothing and footwear more suitable for scrambling over rocks. Plus she had an offering. Today she wasn't going to be Frustrated Foley; she was going to be a winner.

She saw him the moment she ducked under the railing and stepped out on the first ledge. He stood one level down, right on the edge of the cliff face, looking out towards the beach. He was sipping from a mug, casual as Sunday morning, with death at his toes. She gasped aloud, then slapped her hand over her mouth because what if she startled him and he fell. But he turned her way anyhow and surprise made her shout through her hand again.

It was the bluebottle man. The man from last night who'd helped out those tourists.

She held her hand up in greeting. "Good morning. How are you?"

Was he visiting Mr Drum too? Foley had heard him speaking what sounded like Japanese. Hermit squatter men didn't speak difficult foreign languages, did they? Maybe she needed a third bacon and egg roll.

"Can I come down? Is there a special way to do it? I brought breakfast." Hell, she was prattling, but she'd only caught a glimpse of him last night and he was covered in screaming kid. He wasn't covered in much at all now. A faded pair of board shorts and an expression of disbelief. He was tall, built, deeply tanned, bearded and heavily muscled.

"Are you Mr Drum, uh, is he here? I'm Foley." I feel like a dope. "I brought bacon and egg rolls."

He stared at her as if she was cloud that might burn off in the sunlight and he was waiting for her to disappear. And she stared back. If he was Mr Drum, he was one sexy homeless guy. Neither the rangers, nor the lifeguards who knew of him, had bothered to mention that.

She raised her hand with the cardboard tray. "I brought coffee too."

He moved quickly then, as if coffee was abracadabra, disappearing under the top ledge. Before she could think about taking another step away from the railing he was standing on the level with her.

He was barefoot, his hair was long, grown out of a once decent cut, curling about his ears and neck and sun-bleached in a paint chart of variable caramels, sands and honeys. His beard and mo were neat, clipped, not hipster, 1800s, Ned Kelly.

He had the palest eyes, grey as if the sun had stolen their depth and faded them to half-strength. She took a step towards him and he lowered them, embarrassed maybe. She didn't want to make him feel that way. He was down on his luck. She wanted to help him.

"Hi, I'm Foley." She should've said where she was from, but those lowered eyes cut. She didn't know who this man was, but he was big and beautiful and reticent, and she'd done nothing to threaten him except arrive.

His chin came up. He held out a hand to shake. "Hello Foley. I'm Drum. You don't need to come down, but if you want to I'll help you. There's an easy way when you know it."

He spoke softly, politely. Correctly, like a man who'd had a good education, a man who didn't need to live in a squat on a cliff top. She would feed him first, talk to him, and then help him.

She put out her hand and they shook, as though they were both wearing suits, in a meeting room with walls and air conditioning, bad filter coffee and uncomfortable chairs. She watched their joined hands. His was big and calloused, dry, it swallowed hers up, but there was no power there. No I'm the boss of you inappropriate squeezing, no hand on top rolling to demonstrate dominance. It was handshake of equals.