Your Heart Belongs to Me

restaurant patio for crumbs, numerous breeds of dogs on leashes and each one grinning with delight at every sight and scent, a tandem stroller with two pink babies in crocheted yellow tams and yellow-and-blue suits and yellow booties with blue pompons on the toes.
    Putting aside for the moment the troubles of the last two days, he was glad for life, and he tried not to worry about how much more—or little—of it might be coming to him.
    At 2:40, Samantha stepped out of the bookstore in the company of a cheerful-seeming woman in red shoes and a tartan-plaid dress, with jubilant masses of bouncing chestnut-brown curls and a way with extravagant gestures that, from a distance, made her appear to be declaiming Shakespeare.
    Ryan’s courage sank at the prospect of approaching Sam when she was in the company of a publicity agent or a publisher’s rep. But evidently, the gesticulating woman was the bookstore manager, or at least a clerk, for after shaking Sam’s hand, clapping her twice on the shoulder, and seeming to pretend for a moment to whirl a lasso above her head, she went back inside.
    Not yet having seen Ryan, Sam walked in his direction, digging in her purse for something, perhaps car keys.
    She wore an exquisitely tailored black pantsuit and white blouse with black piping. Trim, lithe, fashionable, she moved with the brisk confidence that would have identified her if he had unexpectedly seen her at a distance in the street.
    Approaching her, he forgot every opening line he had practiced and could say only, “Sam,” and she looked up as her right hand came out of the purse with a bristling bunch of keys.
    They had not seen each other in more than ten months and had not spoken in seven.
    He did not know what her reaction would be, and he was prepared for a strained smile or a pained grimace, a few impatient words and a brisk dismissal.
    Instead, he saw something in her eyes that hurt him more deeply than would have anger or loathing. Although it might not quite be pity with which she regarded him, it was close.
    He was grateful for her smile. As lovely as it was, however, it had an unmistakable melancholy aspect. “Ryan.”
    “Hello, Sam.”
    “Look at you. How are you doing?”
    “I’m all right. I feel good.”
    She said, “You look like always.”
    “Not if you could see the humongous scar,” he assured her, tapping his chest. He realized at once that he had said the wrong thing, so he quickly added, “Congratulations on the book.”
    She ducked her head almost shyly. “All I’ve proved so far is I’m at least a one-hit wonder.”
    “Not you. You’ve got the right stuff, Sam. You’re working on a second, aren’t you?”
    “Sure. Yeah.” She shrugged. “But you never know.”
    “Hey, number nine on the list.”
    “We’ve learned it rises to seven next week.”
    “That’s wonderful. You’ll go to the top.”
    She shook her head. “John Grisham doesn’t have anything to worry about.”
    Holding up the copy he had brought with him, he said, “I’ve read it twice. I’m reading it again. I knew it would be good, Samantha, but I didn’t expect it to be such—”
    As he reached for words of praise, he discovered only surfing lingo would be adequate to express his admiration.
    “—such a fully macking behemoth, pure rolling thunder.”
    The melancholy in her smile remained in her soft laugh. “We’ll have to quote that on the paperback.”
    Although he yearned to put his arms around her, he restrained himself, unwilling to risk that she would stiffen in the embrace or shrink from him.
    Trying for a smaller grace, indicating the bench flanked by ivy geraniums, he said, “Could we sit for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you about it.”
    He expected her to plead an imminent appointment, but she said, “Sure. The sun is so nice.”
    On the bench, they sat angled toward each other and, riffling the pages of the novel, he said, “You never showed me this in progress, so I never could have anticipated…”
    “I never share what I’m writing while I’m writing it. Not with anyone. I wish I could. It’s a lonely process.”
    “I’ve been thinking about subtext.”
    “Never think about it too much. The magic goes.”
    “This book is phyllo pastry,” he said.
    “You think so?”
    “Totally. Implicit meanings. I’ll never see them all.”
    “Feeling them’s enough.”
    “Forget the phyllo.”
    “It’s a flaky analogy anyway.”
    He said, “It’s more like the