Your Heart Belongs to Me

wouldn’t need a wet suit.
    He pulled on a pair of baggies with a palm-tree motif.
    His collection included a pair with a shark pattern. If he wore them, she would kick his ass. Figuratively speaking.
    For later, he took a change of clothes on a hanger, and a pair of loafers.
    Of the five vehicles in his garage, the customized ’51 Ford Woodie Wagon—anthracite-black with bird’s-eye maple panels—seemed to be best suited to the day. Already stowed in the back, his board protruded past the lifted tailgate windows, skeg up.
    At the end of the cobblestone driveway, as he turned left into the street, he paused to look back at the house: gracefully sloping roofs of red barrel tile, limestone-clad walls, bronze windows with panes of beveled glass refracting the sun as if they were jewels.
    A maid in a crisp white uniform opened a pair of second-floor balcony doors to air the master bedroom.
    One of the landscapers trimmed the jasmine vines that were espaliered on the walls flanking the carved-limestone surround at the main entrance.
    In less than a decade, Ryan had gone from a cramped apartment in Anaheim to the hills of Newport Coast, high above the Pacific.
    Samantha could take the day off on a whim because she was a writer who, though struggling, could set her own hours. Ryan could take it off because he was rich.
    Quick wits and hard work had brought him from nothing to the pinnacle. Sometimes when he considered his origins from his current perch, the distance dizzied him.
    As he drove out of the gate-guarded community and descended the hills toward Newport Harbor, where thousands of pleasure boats were docked and moored in the glimmering sun-gilded water, he placed a few business calls.
    A year previously, he had stepped down as the chief executive officer of Be2Do, which he had built into the most successful social-networking site on the Internet. As the principal stockholder, he remained on the board of directors but declined to be the chairman.
    These days, he devoted himself largely to creative development, envisioning and designing new services to be provided by the company. And he tried to persuade Samantha to marry him.
    He knew that she loved him, yet something constrained her from committing to marriage. He suspected pride.
    The shadow of his wealth was deep, and she did not want to be lost in it. Although she had not expressed this concern, he knew that she hoped to be able to count herself a success as a writer, as a novelist, so that she could enter the marriage as a creative—if not a financial—equal.
    Ryan was patient. And persistent.
    Phone calls completed, he transitioned from Pacific Coast Highway by bridge to Balboa Peninsula, which separated the harbor from the sea. Cruising toward the peninsula point, he listened to classic doo-wop, music younger than the Woodie Wagon but a quarter of a century older than he was.
    He parked on a tree-lined street of charming homes and carried his board half a block to Newport’s main beach.
    The sea poured rhythmic thunder onto the shore.
    She waited at “the place,” which was where they had first surfed together, midway between the harbor entrance and the pier.
    Her above-garage apartment was a three-minute walk from here. She had come with her board, a beach towel, and a small cooler.
    Although he had asked her to wear the red bikini, Samantha wore yellow. He had hoped for the yellow, but if he had asked for it, she would have worn red or blue, or green.
    She was as perfect as a mirage, blond hair and golden form, a quiver of light, an alluring oasis on the wide slope of sun-seared sand.
    “What’re those sandals?” she asked.
    “Stylin’, huh?”
    “Are they made from old tires?”
    “Yeah. But they’re premium gear.”
    “Did you also buy a hat made from a hubcap?”
    “You don’t like these?”
    “If you have a blowout, does the auto club bring you a new shoe?”
    Kicking off the sandals, he said, “Well, I like them.”
    “How often do they need to be aligned and balanced?”
    Soft and hot, the sand shifted underfoot, but then was compacted and cool where the purling surf worked it like a screed.
    As they waded into the sea, he said, “I’ll ditch the sandals if next time you’ll wear the red bikini.”
    “You actually wanted this yellow one.”
    He repressed his surprise at her perspicacity. “Then why would I ask for the red?”
    “Because you only think you can read me.”
    “But I’m an open book, huh?”
    “Winky,