Your Heart Belongs to Me

disability, Down syndrome rooms with paraplegic, so they can learn to appreciate one another’s special strengths.”
    St. Christopher’s accepted orphans and abandoned children with special needs of all kinds. The younger ones eventually might be adopted, but those over six, who were harder to place, most likely could expect to live at the ranch until they were adults.
    The brothers’ several enterprises included the breeding and raising of show-quality dogs. Although this work produced a profit, the unsold dogs ranked as important as those who went on to show-prize glory or to happy homes, because these remained on the ranch and were not merely companions to the children but were also trained to socialize them and to help them learn confidence.
    Beyond the park, wide paved pathways led to stables and riding rings, to more fenced pastures, to the convent, and to service buildings, one of which contained the on-site veterinary office and the dog-grooming facility.
    Father Tim escorted Sam to the dog-wash, opened the door, and said, “I’ll not intrude upon your reunion. You’ll recognize Binny—as the kids say, if he had one more floppy ear, he would be just like the dogs.”
    The big room included bath sinks, grooming tables, and dog dryers. One golden retriever sat in a dryer, gazing out mournfully, as if imprisoned. Ryan, assisted by a Down syndrome boy of about fifteen, administered astringent gel to the ears of a black Lab who had already been dried.
    Not having noticed Samantha yet, Ryan said to the boy, “Find his collar there, Rudy, and take him back to Sister Josephine.”
    Rudy said he would, then saw Sam and smiled. Ryan knew the meaning of the smile, and turned.
    He wore rubber boots and a rubber apron over khakis and a green knit shirt. Sam had never seen him dressed with such disregard for style—nor had he ever looked more elegant.
    Because she had not been sure how this would unfold, she was moved and happy to see that at the sight of her, his face brightened with unmistakable delight.
    “There you are,” he said. “My God, there you are.”
    The way he looked at her brought tears to her eyes, and seeing this, Ryan busied her with an introduction to Rudy and then to Ham, the Labrador who needed to be returned to Sister Josephine.
    “Rudy here,” Ryan said, “is going to be a great dog groomer.” The boy ducked his head shyly. “He’s already pretty good except he doesn’t like the part where you have to express their anal glands.”
    “Yuch,” the boy said.
    As Rudy left with Ham, Ryan said, “Let me get out of this gear, wash up. We’ll have lunch. I made it. The lunch, I mean.” He shook his head. “You’re actually here. Don’t go anywhere. Let Tinker out of the dryer, she’s done. She’s mine. She’ll be going to lunch with us.”
    The retriever was grateful to be paroled and doubly grateful for an ear massage and a chin scratch.
    Ryan took off the apron, hung it up, took off the boots, laced on a pair of running shoes, and then scrubbed his hands and forearms at one of the long, deep dog-wash sinks.
    “Tinker is wonderful,” Sam said.
    “She’s the best. She wonders why she’s stuck with me instead of with a kid who’ll throw the ball all day for her.”
    “I’m sure she adores you.”
    “Well, yes, ’cause I’m the one with the cookies.”
    Ryan took her hand so naturally that it seemed they had never been apart, and Tinker led them outside, around the building, and up a set of exterior stairs to a second-floor porch.
    His apartment was smaller than the one that she’d had on Balboa Peninsula: kitchen and living room in a cramped space, the bedroom positively tiny.
    Lunch consisted of cold chicken, cheese, potato salad—“I make a killer potato salad”—fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. Together Ryan and Sam prepared the table on the porch.
    Unlike the porch she’d had on Balboa, this one enjoyed no all-embracing pepper tree, but it had a roof. The view was of a baseball diamond and fenced pastures beyond.
    “How’s the book doing?” he asked.
    “Fastest-selling yet.”
    “Fantastic. I told you. Didn’t I tell you? You’re no one-hit wonder.”
    They talked about the book business, about what she was writing now, and about St. Christopher’s, of which it seemed he might be able to talk for days and never exhaust his supply of charming stories.
    She had come to see if he was well and happy, for it mattered very much to her that he should be both.