Georgie's Heart (5 page)

Not, Georgeanne thought, an uplifting view of the future.

She gulped and wondered once more what had possessed her to write that book. She must have been a lot more devastated by her late, great marriage than she'd let herself believe.

Maybe she ought to go ahead and reveal her identity.

Georgeanne let herself contemplate that for about one second before a shiver of horror swept through her. She hated being in the limelight, especially when she thought about revealing the intimate details of her former marriage. Imagine having everyone know she hadn't been woman enough to keep her husband. As for facing talk show hosts full of intimate questions, she couldn't even bring herself to contemplate it.

Thoughts of curious talk show hosts added extra energy to Georgeanne's whisk broom, almost as much as fantasizing about the color of Zane Bryant's eyes.

When the entire clinic floor had been raked and swept, Georgeanne marshaled her small crew into order and passed out stepladders, scrub buckets, sponges, and brushes. While Vijay and Raza Baghri started on the big waiting room, Georgeanne began on the laboratory and assigned Zane one of the examining rooms.

“Do you store all this equipment yourself?” Zane asked in belligerent tones. “It's obvious you're used to directing cleaning crews. You've got everything down to a fine art.”

Georgeanne, balanced upon a stepladder with a brush in her hand and a bucket of hot water liberally laced with cleaner sitting on the ladder's platform, laughed down at him. He stood in the center of the old laboratory with both fists planted on his lean hips. His smoky eyes were dark with concern, as if he feared she would fall off the ladder, she realized, astonished.

“I'm friends with the owner of a rent-all store,” she said. “He advises me about what I need for different jobs.”

“Now I see why you bought a four-wheel-drive with a roomy back end,” Zane said. “Do you do this every weekend?”

“Heavens, no. If I did, I'd quit my job and open a professional cleaning service.” Georgeanne dipped her brush into the lemon-scented water and applied it vigorously to a patch of mildew on the ceiling.

Zane dodged aside as water flew in all directions. “I want to know one thing, Georgie. What do you do for relaxation?”

Georgeanne laughed. “My idea of relaxation is a good book and a fresh cup of coffee. Why do you think I'm so easy-going and even-tempered?”

“Is that what you are?” Zane moved a little further away. “I thought I was working for one of those guys on a slave ship who walks up and down with a whip.”

As Georgeanne knew her cleaning style tended to be vigorous and involved lots of water, she couldn't blame him for keeping his distance.

She dipped her brush in the water again. “I'm a sweet-tempered, laid-back person. Everyone says so.”

“Is that right? When does a laid-back person such as yourself take a break?”

Georgeanne checked her watch. “In exactly one hour.”

“You'll stop now. You've been going like a steam engine for over two hours. The doctor has spoken.”

Georgeanne's brush never paused. “Doctor, it's time you learned something.”

Zane advanced to the center of the room once more. “Call me Zane. What is it I'm to learn?”

“When I'm outside the office, I have no respect for medical degrees.” She leaned over her bucket and smiled at him. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm running the show around here. In short, I'm the boss.”

He stared up at her. “Are you trying to tell me something that might be disastrous to my medical ego?”

“That's right.” She dipped her brush once more. “Until this clinic is open, everyone in here, doctors included, does what I say, and I say I am not taking a break for another hour.”

Zane retreated when she reapplied the brush to the ceiling. “What you need is a lesson in how to treat a doctor with delicate sensibilities.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “That will probably require more work than you care to undertake, Doctor.”

Zane's voice held enough silky threat to speed Georgeanne's heart up once more.

“Don't bet on it,” he said. “It's going to give me great pleasure to be your instructor, Georgie Hartfield.”

“Wait till you hear this,” Denise said.

“I do not want to hear it, Denise.” Georgeanne set another envelope into her printer and tapped out an address on the keyboard. “I have my regular work to do plus addressing these announcements for Dr. Baghri's press conference.”

Denise ignored this. She strolled into Georgeanne's small office with her fingers marking a place in Fritzi Field's book. “This sounds just like something you'd say, Georgie.”

Georgeanne's blood ran cold. The telephone erupted and she pounced on it with relief, then buzzed Dr. Gant's office.

It was Friday, and Georgeanne had finally finished the major scrub-work on the new clinic building late the night before. Thinking about tonight made her heart beat faster, and she couldn't kid herself that her excitement stemmed from the fact that the clinic was almost ready for next weekend's opening ceremony. She knew she hoped to see Zane Bryant, who had promised to come to Fannett that weekend and help with the painting.

Denise waited, fingertip on the relevant passage. “All right, Georgie. The sooner you listen, the sooner I'll cease and desist.” She grinned. “I know you'd rather sit there and daydream about that handsome hunk Dr. Bryant, but look at it this way. Fritzi Field might have some advice you can use.”

“Denise … ” Georgeanne gave up. Her co-workers claimed Dr. Zane Bryant looked at her the way he'd look at a choice
hors d'oeuvre
. Georgeanne considered that unlikely, but wonderfully exciting to think about all the same. “All right. Go ahead.”

Denise cleared her throat and held the book out like an actor declaiming a monologue.

“‘Once a woman has chosen acting as a profession within her marriage, she can never turn back. If you are wise, you will edit your brain cells so that when you are angry, the truth will not spill out. In short, if you decide you're justified in faking it, don't think you can yell the truth at him every time you get mad and your marriage will survive.

“‘Nothing infuriates a man more, or destroys his trust more surely than discovering his wife has lied to him about a matter so intimately connected with his ego.

“‘Ladies, let me assure you of one thing. If you get nothing else out of this book, get this:
If you decide to fake orgasm, you'd better plan to keep on faking it, because this is a case wherein honesty will NEVER be the best policy.
'”

Georgeanne recalled the passage well. She had underlined it, set it off in italics, and bolded that passage in a way she hoped would call a reader's attention to the seriousness of the idea expressed.

She cultivated her face into an expression of mild interest in spite of the color she knew flared in her cheeks. “Well, I'd say Fritzi Field has stated the case with exactitude. That's one point I wouldn't dream of arguing with.”

Denise looked over the top of the book at Georgeanne in a searching way.

“When you get through with that book, Denise, may I borrow it?” Sandra asked.

Georgeanne turned with gratitude. The small blonde leaned over the back counter, listening in apparent fascination.

“Dare we ask why you want to borrow it?” Angela asked in teasing tones. She joined Sandra in leaning against the back counter.

The three women had just returned from lunch, a lunch Georgeanne had declined on the excuse of addressing those press notices. Georgeanne realized with some horror that Denise had improved the lunch by reading aloud educational passages from
Faking It
.

“I'm interested in what else she has to say,” Sandra said. “Fritzi Field is probably going to save a lot of marriages.”

“That's what I think,” Denise said. “Do you know what's weird?”

Too suffocated to reply, Georgeanne fastened all her attention on the envelope she had just laid in her printer and hoped her hair screened her face. Thank goodness her natural modesty had kept her from showing her colleagues her published magazine articles. They thought she wrote a few things here and there as a hobby — if they remembered she wrote. She sincerely hoped they didn't remember she wrote.

“What?” Angela asked. “Other than Fritzi Field's screwball method of saving marriages, I mean.”

“When I read that passage, I can almost hear Georgie talking,” Denise said.

The bottom dropped out of Georgeanne's stomach. Everything in front of her eyes went momentarily dark.

“You're right.” Sandra tapped the counter in agreement. “Georgie sounds exactly the same way when she's trying to make a point. One minute she sounds like a doctor, and the next minute she sounds like your mother.”

Georgeanne smothered a soft moan and prayed for strength. When she had finished writing
Faking It
and submitted it to an agent, she'd honestly thought that if the book got published, it might make her a tidy little advance she could donate to the Humane Society. She never thought to see so much as a single copy of her book in a local bookstore.

“Thanks a lot.” She could hardly speak, she felt so dismayed.

“You know, you're absolutely right.” Angela narrowed her eyes on Georgeanne, who knew she resembled a ripe tomato in spite of her best efforts at ordinariness. “The way that woman writes sounds exactly like the way Georgie talks.” She tossed her fuzzy red hair back and intoned, “Hello, Mr. Leno, this is Angela Porter, freelance agent. For a small fee, I can arrange an introduction to that reclusive author everyone is chasing, Ms. Fritzi Field. You can be the first — ”

“Cut it out, Angie,” Denise said. “You're embarrassing poor Georgie.”

“Can't you just see me on the Jay Leno show?” Georgeanne managed. “I'd say about two words and freeze into a neon-red block of ice.”

Angela studied Georgeanne. “Actually, you look like the perfect, professional guest.”

Georgeanne glanced down at her new yellow jersey dress. She loved yellow, but the color was much too bright to wear for a public appearance. Whenever Georgeanne had to appear on a stage, she took care to dress in something brown. Otherwise, she dominated the stage, thanks to her height.

“My dream is to be interviewed by Oprah Winfrey,” Denise said. “Wouldn't I have a fantastic time telling everybody how the world ought to be? Lord, I wish I'd thought of
Faking It
first.”

At the moment, Georgeanne wished Denise had, too.

“Oh, not me,” Sandra said. “I'd just die if anyone thought I had written that book, much as I agree with what it says. Everyone would assume I was writing about myself.”

Georgeanne sucked in her breath. From the way her skin prickled, she knew her complexion turned white, then red.

Angela leaned across the counter and peered at Georgeanne. “Now that I think about it, Georgie has been acting weird ever since Denise started bringing that book to work. She never used to blush this much.”

Georgeanne hurried into thoughtless self-defense. “I just don't think sex ought to be discussed in public the way all these shows and books seem to be discussing it these days. It's a private thing between the two people involved.”

“That's not what you said last week.” Sandra bent her fair head and wrinkled her brow. “Last week, you said it was a good thing that people these days are more open about sex. You said it would prevent lots of bad marriages.”

“Well, this week I've changed my mind.” Georgeanne knew that if she didn't get control of her complexion and her voice, not to mention her common sense and her memory, her secret would be out. “It must be Denise's habit of reading bits of Fritzi Field to me at odd times. Obviously, it's affecting my brain.”

She needed to get herself hypnotized. Anything that might turn off the blushes.

Angela laughed. “It's affected all of us. Why are you so interested in that stupid book, Denise?”

Denise closed the book. She drew her perfect figure to its full height and assumed every bit of the dignity that she could assume when necessary. “If I'd had this book before my husband left me, I'd still be married.” She marched out of Georgeanne's office, leaving dismayed silence behind her.

“Oh, wow.” Angela stared after Denise. “Denise is one of the sexiest-looking women I've ever seen. Is she telling us she was frigid? That that's why her husband left her?”

“There's no such thing as a frigid woman,” Georgeanne said in choked tones. “At least, not many. There are, however, lots of ego-involved men who'd rather blame the woman than their own technique.”

“That's exactly what Fritzi Field says,” Sandra said.

Georgeanne's breath stopped once more. She needed to muzzle herself. Or else.

“She also says sexual incompatibility is a major cause of trouble between couples.” Sandra sounded as shocked as Angela. “She says that the woman is the one who is expected to fix everything, while the man keeps on thinking he's Mr. Super-Stud. That's why Fritzi feels a woman is justified in faking orgasm. She says that if orgasm is all it takes to soothe his ego and make him happy, then why not give it to him?”

Georgeanne debated whether she wanted to sink through the floor or allow herself to feel the satisfaction only an author could feel when a reader agrees with her.

On the whole, she thought sinking through the floor was the better choice. Having her private opinion was one thing, but advising other people was quite another. Georgeanne hadn't discovered until too late that giving public advice carried great mental and emotional responsibility.

She wasn't suited for this. Georgeanne covered her burning face with her hands and wished for oblivion.