by Bird, Peggy
Georgeanne gulped. Denise had no idea how accurate that statement was.
“She believes that if she’d had this knowledge during her marriage, she’d still be married,” Denise continued.
“The question is, would that be what she really wants today?” Georgeanne asked quietly. “Now that her marriage is over, Fritzi is free to find a man who does make her heart beat faster, and whose lovemaking would cause her to feel all those things she wasn’t feeling during her marriage.”
Georgeanne had a strange feeling that she was not the person saying these words. They poured out of her, and she felt as if she was listening to the thoughts for the first time.
When she heard her own words, she knew this was the realization she’d been waiting for, the key idea that an entire new way of thinking would be based upon. Zane Bryant had been the catalyst that crystallized the idea — for every woman there existed a man whose touch could make her forget the world around her.
Or maybe he was the creator of the entire idea, Georgeanne thought wryly. Such an idea had never crossed her mind before without being followed immediately by the thought that such a man obviously didn’t exist for her. She had gotten to where she had refused to even entertain such a thought any longer.
“That may not be possible,” Denise said, in such positive tones, Georgeanne had a peculiar sense of deja vu. “What if you’re a person who just doesn’t … feel all that stuff during sex that everyone else is claiming they feel?”
Georgeanne took a moment to answer. It was a surprise to learn that Denise, of all people, had felt exactly as she had felt when her marriage ended — that something was wrong with her.
Denise went on, “Don’t you remember how hard you and I laughed over the way women these days are so careful to make sure everyone knows they have no trouble reaching orgasm? Well, when I read a passage about that very phenomenon in Fritzi’s book, I knew I had found another kindred spirit. You have no idea what this book has meant to me.” She clutched the book against her starched white cotton-covered breasts.
Georgeanne winced. “Denise, believe me when I say you just haven’t met the right man yet. As beautiful as you are — ”
Denise’s face took on a sardonic expression. “Now, Georgie, you sound just like my mama.”
Georgeanne laughed. “This is between you and me. When my divorce became final, I felt exactly the way you feel right now. Sex was one of the biggest problems my husband and I had. It wasn’t the only problem, but it seemed to me to be the biggest. Anyway, if I’d read Fritzi Field’s book before my divorce, I might have made a terrible mistake. What if I’d put into practice the ideas she gives, and kept my marriage alive?”
Denise tilted her head to the side and studied her friend. “Do you know, I’ve always suspected your marriage ended for the same reason mine did. You always looked so peculiar every time we spoke of Fritzi Field’s book, I knew there was something behind it.”
“Can you blame me?” Georgeanne moved toward the door. “But this past week, I’ve met someone who — who — ”
She couldn’t go on, since she didn’t know how to tell Denise that Zane Bryant made her feel the way Tony Rollins never had.
“Who makes you feel all warm and womanly?” Denise knew anyway.
“That’s right.” Georgeanne let her breath out. “I realized last night that I should never have married Tony. I never felt about him the way I now know I should have before I married him. His kisses left me cold. There’s no other way to say it.”
Denise studied her face. “Georgie, that’s all very well when there aren’t any children involved. It’s easy to just pull up stakes and move on.”
“You don’t have any children.” Georgeanne knew what was coming, but that didn’t stop her from trying to head it off.
“What if I had? Children are damaged by divorce,” Denise announced. “No one wants to admit it, including all the psychologists who have been advising everyone to please themselves and to heck with self-sacrifice.”
“We’re talking about you and me. Neither of us has any children that need to be considered.”
“Well, Fritzi Field considered the children. I’m telling you, Georgie, that woman knows the score and she doesn’t mind laying it on you. I agree with her. If a pretense of sexual enjoyment is all it takes to keep a husband and wife together long enough to get the kids raised, then whose business is it?”
Georgeanne tried for dignity as she edged once more toward the door. “If children are involved, and lack of sexual enjoyment is the chief impediment to a happy marriage, then maybe Fritzi Field is right. Maybe saving the marriage in a case like that would be worthwhile. But — ”
“Come on, Georgie.” Denise tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the book. “Look at what it’s like out there now for a single woman. What with all the possible diseases, I’m scared to death to kiss a man, and that’s assuming I can find one who’s worth kissing. Now don’t you think it would be better to hold onto your husband rather than try to find another man these days?”
“What would life be without something to strive for and to look forward to?” A purely female smile curved Georgeanne’s lips as she opened the office door. “Especially when you consider the delights in store for you if you happen to find your Mr. Right.”
Chapter 8
Georgeanne peeked into the examining room of the newly operational Saturday Children’s Clinic and experienced a peculiar fluttering of her heart. Perhaps she was developing an arrhythmia. She saw no other reasonable explanation why a woman her age would suddenly be experiencing such agitation in her chest.
The weird behavior of her heart had nothing to do with the fact that Dr. Zane Bryant was bending over a boy who huddled timidly on the examining table. Absolutely not. After all, she’d spent the last two years since her divorce watching doctors bend over children. There was nothing unusual about the sight.
“That’s the best looking doctor I’ve ever seen,” one of the mothers had exclaimed earlier, upon catching sight of Zane. “Are you sure he’s a doctor?”
Georgeanne gave a crisp reply. “He’s one of the top pediatricians in Houston. We’re very lucky to have him.”
The woman made a sound — something like “Va-va-voom” — swiveled her hips, and sashayed to a chair with her baby on her hip. Georgeanne smothered her jealousy and laughed with the other mothers. After all, she agreed thoroughly with that assessment.
It had been two weeks since Zane had kissed her in the woods, and not a day went by that Georgeanne didn’t relive the experience. Looking at the white cloth of his jacket straining across his shoulders as he pulled up a stool and sat down facing the child on the examining table, Georgeanne longed to slide her hands inside his shirt and jacket and feel the movement of his muscles beneath her palms.
Her mental state deteriorated by the day. As a psychologist, Georgeanne thought she recognized the signs of approaching insanity. If constantly imagining what a man looked and felt like without his clothes wasn’t insanity, then what was?
Zane looked up as if he knew she was there. “Come in, please, Georgie. Eric needs someone to make sure I don’t get carried away with needles.”
Georgeanne knew this meant Eric badly needed someone to hold his hand. No matter how streetwise and cocky a boy might be, a visit to the doctor’s office made him feel his mortality. Eric was only nine years old and hadn’t been particularly cocky to begin with after stepping on a rusty nail.
“Hello, Eric,” she said softly. Zane was paying attention to his patient and didn’t notice her embarrassment at being caught loitering in his vicinity. “Dr. Bryant is only joking. He never gets carried away with needles.”
Eric watched Zane suspiciously. “He’s going to give me a technic shot.”
“A tetanus shot? Well, what’s one shot among friends?” Georgeanne took Eric’s hand. “You know how it is when you go barefoot during the summer. Nails are an occupational hazard.”
“Smart w
oman.” Zane filled a syringe as he spoke, and Eric’s eyes followed it with fascinated terror. “Eric is one smart fellow himself. He rode his bike out here on his own because he knew he needed treatment. Not many boys his age would have had the sense to do that.”
“No, indeed.” Georgeanne squeezed Eric’s hand gently while Zane swabbed a spot on his skinny arm with alcohol. “Riding five miles on a bicycle with a sore foot is no little accomplishment. We’re very proud of you, Eric.” She had interviewed the child and knew exactly where Eric lived and how far he had ridden to get to the clinic. “Stop by my office as soon as you’re through, and I’ll give you a donut and milk. You’ll need some energy to get home on.”
Eric’s thin face lit up at the mention of the donut. Although he kept a close eye on Zane’s activities, he hardly jumped when the needle pricked his skin because Georgeanne was directing his attention to the front office, where an appetizing spread of donuts and juice and milk had been set up beside her desk.
“Tell me more about your bike ride, Eric.” The glance Zane gave Georgeanne expressed his appreciation of her help. “No wonder you were limping a little when you came in.”
Much gratified, Georgeanne listened in admiration while Zane questioned the child. He used a circuitous approach that extracted the necessary information from the most secretive children. Eric, for instance, knew he needed a tetanus shot, but he wasn’t about to admit that his foot showed symptoms of infection and needed treatment also.
Within minutes, Zane had the boy’s left shoe off. Eric clutched her hand, and Georgeanne obligingly remained beside him in spite of the over-filled waiting room.
“Did you ever have to go to the doctor after stepping on a nail, Georgie?” Zane turned away and readied another syringe.
“I got a huge splinter in the bottom of my foot once when I was eight.” Georgeanne admired the sure, deft motions of Zane’s big hands. “The main thing I remember about it was that I was terrified Daddy would find out, so I kept quiet for almost a week. He’d have used his pocketknife to dig out the splinter.”
That got Eric’s attention. “His pocketknife? Gee.”
“That’s what I thought,” Georgeanne agreed. “When I finally had to tell him, Daddy took one look and didn’t bother with the knife. He hauled me straight to the emergency room.”
“I hope they lectured you for an hour about the folly of letting a splinter remain in your foot for a week,” Zane said.
Georgeanne laughed. Eric took comfort in her laughter and barely noticed that Zane was using a needle to deaden the injury before probing the area with a metal instrument.
“I was so relieved to have the operation over with and the splinter out, I didn’t mind.” She patted Eric’s shoulder, and Eric glanced away from Zane’s ministrations for a moment. “Fortunately, Eric is smarter than I was. He got here soon enough to be still walking.”
Zane looked up, grinning. “And you weren’t?” He swiftly cleaned Eric’s wound.
“I’m afraid not,” Georgeanne squeezed Eric’s hand. “I was scared to death.”
“You couldn’t walk?” Eric asked, interested. “It hurt that bad?”
Georgeanne nodded solemnly. “I kept waiting for it to go away on its own. Instead, it got infected. By the time I had to tell Daddy, it hurt so much, I couldn’t touch my foot to the floor.”
Zane applied anesthetic. “Shame on you, Georgie. You’re a bad example to children everywhere.”
“I’m afraid so,” Georgeanne said. “The thought of Daddy and his pocketknife effectively sealed my lips.”
“I don’t blame you.” Eric’s spirits appeared to lift magically when he saw that Zane had finished and was applying a bandage to his foot.
“I’m going to give you another shot, Eric.” Zane bagged some sample packets of antibiotics and handed the bag to the boy. “Then I want you to take one of these pills every morning, and one every evening until they’re all gone. Do you think you can remember to do that?”
Now that his ordeal was almost over, Eric’s bravado returned. “I can count, can’t I? Sure, I can remember.” He turned to Georgeanne. “Miss Georgie, can I have another donut if you have any left over? It’s for my little sister.”
“Certainly, Eric.” Georgeanne took his hand and helped him down from the examining table. “Do you think she’d like some orange juice or milk to go with it?”
Eric brightened still further, even though Zane approached with another loaded syringe. He nodded vigorously. “I had to use all our money for the shot,” he confided.
Georgeanne and Zane exchanged glances while Eric concentrated on the needle. Georgeanne had written inside Eric’s folder that Eric and his little sister lived with their father, who was an alcoholic. When their father remembered they existed, he gave Eric money for food. At the age of nine, Eric was an expert at stretching a dollar.
Georgeanne smiled at Eric. “We’ll see what we can do about some donuts. But tetanus shots don’t cost the whole twenty dollars, so you’ll probably get some money back.”
*
Zane went through preparations for his next patient on autopilot while surreptitiously watching Georgeanne’s graceful exit. Her hand lay protectively on Eric’s shoulder, and Zane knew she would see to it that Eric left the clinic with most of his twenty dollars — not to mention his pride — intact.
Georgeanne was priceless. Without her, Zane thought he might have run from the subdued pandemonium of the waiting room. Just glancing out there was enough to exhaust a doctor, but Georgeanne had the patients assessed, interviewed, and sorted. He didn’t have to do anything but examine and treat.
Zane went to the examining room door and stood where he could watch Georgeanne. While she had been in the examining room with Eric, four more patients had arrived and stood patiently in line before the receptionist’s desk.
Georgeanne didn’t become flustered or annoyed. She merely packed four donuts and two cartons of milk in a small sack and handed them to Eric, then she collected his twenty dollars and carefully wrote him out a receipt before handing him back seven dollars in change. Eric’s ego probably rose ten notches, judging from his important posture before Georgeanne’s desk. He marched out with his bag of pills and his little sister’s lunch, very much a man who was capable of going to the doctor on his own besides managing to feed his little sister.
“That man’s got the lovesick blues,” a woman called.
Too late, Zane noticed a group of mothers staring at him. He ducked back inside. He had no business spending valuable practice time gazing at Georgeanne.
He’d resorted to letting her get to know him by telephone during the past two weeks. It was all he’d been able to manage, thanks to his grueling schedule. Zane figured wryly that he probably ought to be ashamed of himself. Talking to Georgeanne every night about the events of his day had been so soothing, he probably ought to pay her for acting as his therapist.
Watching her today as she took patient information, sorted patients between examining rooms, handed out donuts, and answered the telephone, Zane wondered how much longer he should wait before making his intentions very clear to her.
Georgeanne directed the next patient to the examining room Eric had just vacated and filled out forms on the newly arrived patients, while at the same time keeping her eye on the unruly group of children watching Saturday cartoons on the banged-up television set someone had donated. Zane found that he could keep up with her activities by walking back and forth across the examining room.
At half-past noon, Georgeanne left one of the two examining rooms empty and took a sandwich and a soft drink to Zane, who ate it while a young patient waited in the next room.
“Sorry about the lack of help,” she said. “We’re still getting started, and none of our lab techs or nurses were available today.”
“I understand, Georgie. I offered to let the other two doctors rest, since they’ve been carrying the load all this time.” He drank deeply of the soft drink without ta
king his eyes off Georgeanne. “Has it been like this every Saturday?”
“Actually, it gets a little worse every passing Saturday.” Georgeanne glanced around the room in a proprietary fashion. “More people are finding out about the clinic, people who desperately need its services.”
“What’s Dr. Baghri’s plan for getting more nurses and lab technicians?” Zane asked. “I’m having to rely on my instincts rather than bacterial cultures or blood counts.”
Georgeanne turned and cast him a glowing smile. “Dr. Baghri has a plan.”
“I might have known.” Zane had been around Vijay Baghri long enough to realize the man was full of ideas and impetuosity for carrying them out.
“He’s got a plan to lobby the president and Congress to pass laws that will allow retired doctors and nurses and lab techs to work in the clinic without having to carry malpractice insurance,” Georgeanne said with enthusiasm. “He says we’d have more doctors and nurses than we need if it weren’t for malpractice insurance. So he’s come up with an idea.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear this,” Zane said, grinning.
“Sure, you do. It involves sending Dr. Baghri and a couple of local retired doctors to meet with the President’s health care committee.”
“Are you planning on going along?”
If she did, he might figure out a way to invite himself along. Zane watched Georgeanne fidget slightly as she became aware of his steady regard. That, more than anything, told him she was unused to being the object of a man’s intense attention.
“Not me.” Georgeanne shook her head. “I’m not very good at public presentations.”
“Why, Georgie? You’ve done more work than anyone to get the Saturday Children’s Clinic going. I have a feeling you’d make a beautiful speech on the subject.”
“It’s Dr. Baghri’s idea.” Georgeanne fidgeted with the neat packets of sample medicines stored in a cabinet. “Let him do the public speaking about it.”
