The Counterfeit Cowgirl (24 page)

“That’s what I say,” Sandra declared. “A man like that deserves whatever he gets.”

Angela snickered and flipped her red hair off her shoulders. “Are you kidding? He’s getting a heck of a lot more than he deserves. Anyone following Fritzi Field’s instructions will have the idiot thinking he’s God’s gift to womankind.” She stretched out long, white polyester-clad legs and leaned back on Georgeanne’s desk. “Fritzi Field is going around telling women to award those stupid men some sort of bad-behavior prize if you ask me. She ought to be ashamed of herself.”

Georgeanne bit her full lower lip. A strange, empty feeling attacked her heart, almost as if she had stepped off a porch and found no step where one should have been.

How ridiculous. Not even she agreed with everything Fritzi Field said, so why should she feel upset when someone else didn’t either?

“That isn’t what Fritzi is saying — ,” Denise began.

Georgeanne heard with horror the respectful tone in which Denise said “Fritzi” and rushed into speech. “Fritzi Field isn’t trying to say anything. She’s interested in creating a controversy, because controversies sell books.” She added, in a barely audible voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Fritzi Field turns out to be a man.”

“Boy, is she — or he — selling books,” Denise agreed. “They’re trying to line her up for all the talk shows, but her agent says she wants to remain anonymous. If I had written
Faking It
, I’d go on every single talk show that would have me.”

Guilt, liberally mixed with fear, attacked Georgeanne like a battering ram to the solar plexus. She paled and stared down at the report in her hand.

Angela grinned. “Oprah Winfrey, here we come.”

Denise picked through the book and opened it at another marked spot. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t think of writing
Faking It
first. I know I am.”

Georgeanne suppressed a gasp.

“Yeah,” Angela said. “You’re right about that much.” She folded her hands behind her frizzy red hair and gazed at the ceiling. “Do you know what I’d do if I had all that beautiful royalty money pouring into my scrawny little bank account? I’d buy myself a green Mustang convertible. That’s what I’d do.”

“With that red hair and pale skin of yours?” Georgeanne looked up and focused on Angela’s milky, freckled skin. “You know what Dr. Gant said to you about getting in the sun ever again in your young life.”

Angela ignored this comment. “I’d lose five pounds, and I’d buy a tiny black bikini with those high-cut legs, then I’d go cruising down the beach highway with the top down.”

“Four walls and a roof,” Georgeanne said. “That’s the kind of sunscreen Dr. Gant told you to use.”

“If you ever made that much money, you’d gain five pounds celebrating at the nearest bar, Angie,” Denise countered. “Do you know what I’d do? I’d buy myself a lot and build a beach cabin in the ritzy section of the beach. Then I’d lose five pounds and put on my red bikini with the high-cut legs and get a tan out on my own deck.”

“Yeah, Denise,” Angela said, laughing. “Now that you mention it, you are looking a little pale.”

“I was making a point.” Denise glanced at her own dark-coffee arm with dignity. “With that kind of money, why cruise the beach in a hot car? Buy yourself a big piece of the beach.”

“Not me,” Sandra said in dreamy tones. “I’d buy Bobby a new car to drive to work in. His old truck is about to quit, and when it does, he’ll have to use my car until we can afford a new truck.” She straightened and pushed her wispy blonde hair back beneath her nurse’s cap. “What about you, Georgie? What would you do if you had big royalty checks rolling in?”

Georgeanne, cheeks flaming, looked up from her documents. She let her brown gaze drift back to the sheets of paper on her desk in a suggestive way. “You already know what I’d do with it. I’d make a big donation to Dr. Baghri’s Saturday Clinic. We need more medicines — ”

“Puh-leeze,” Angela said. “You’re such a sucker, Georgie. When Dr. Baghri talks about the poor little children, you just fall all to pieces and start volunteering. When do you have time for yourself? When do you date?”

“I don’t,” Georgeanne said, without rancor. She never wanted to date again. After her ex-husband had proved she wasn’t woman enough to hold a man, Georgeanne figured she was better off avoiding trouble. “I’m too busy with the clinic.”

“Well, the Saturday Clinic is a wonderful idea,” Denise said. “But you can mark my words, it’s going to fail. Charity clinics always fail because doctors hate to work for them.”

“Not the way Dr. Baghri has it set up,” Georgeanne said. “If he gets just forty doctors lined up, each doctor would only need to work one Saturday a year in the Clinic.”

A brooding silence reigned.

Georgeanne glanced at her friends and couldn’t resist a grin when she took in their serious faces. “What is it with you all? Are you trying to tell me I’m getting to be a bore on the subject of Dr. Baghri’s Saturday Children’s Clinic?”

The other three women chuckled and said in unison, “Who? Us?”

“Be reasonable, Georgie,” Denise said. “I’ll agree that Dr. Baghri’s idea is brilliant. If every doctor around here who wants to do a little charity work would donate one Saturday a year, the Saturday Clinic would be a model for the rest of the United States. The problem is getting the doctors to sign up so the Clinic can get off the ground. Right now, it’s only Dr. Baghri and Dr. Gant who are carrying the load. And you.”

Georgeanne had been thrilled several months before when one of the doctors she worked for had come up with a plan to help children whose parents had too much money and pride to go to the free county clinics, but not enough money to afford regular medical care. Using the Gant Clinic’s facilities, Dr. Baghri had created the Saturday Children’s Clinic where office visits cost only twenty dollars per visit on Saturdays.

Dr. Baghri’s plan involved having each doctor in the surrounding area donate one Saturday per year of his time. The twenty-dollar charges helped offset the expenses of keeping the clinic open, and the medications were mostly free samples donated by drug companies. Community response threatened to overwhelm the clinic, thanks to local layoffs and a generally poor economy, but doctor-response so far had been less than enthusiastic.

“I’m working on that,” Georgeanne said, “and so is Dr. Baghri. We’ll get more doctors signed up soon. The problem is, no one quite understands how Dr. Baghri’s plan works. As soon as I get my sales pitch worked out, things will be different. And I’m thinking about a web site — ”

“It isn’t your fault, Georgie.” Denise folded her arms, book still in hand, and studied Georgeanne in a knowing way. “If that clinic fails, don’t you go convincing yourself it failed because you didn’t talk it up good enough.”

“That’s for sure.” Angela pushed off Georgeanne’s desk and brushed down her clinging white trousers. “You’ve worked as hard for the Saturday Clinic as Dr. Baghri has. Harder.”

“It won’t fail,” Georgeanne said. “Not after Dr. Scott’s widow just donated her husband’s old clinic building to the cause. Which reminds me.” She turned a stern gaze on her co-workers. “This weekend Dr. Baghri and I are going to be cleaning out the building and doing some painting. We’re going to need a little slave labor.”

Good-natured groans arose, but Georgeanne smiled with satisfaction. No matter how much her co-workers might gripe about the encroachment of the Saturday Clinic upon their free time, each and every one of them would be present for the great paint-in Georgeanne planned.

“Do you know what I wish?” Angela gave Georgeanne an affectionate grin. “I wish that just once when we talk about winning the lottery or getting big royalty checks, you’d say you’re going to lose five pounds and buy a yellow bikini and a yellow convertible.”

Georgeanne laughed at that. “Come on, dreamers. Five pounds won’t make a dent in this body, and you know it. As for bikinis, I think I’d feel more comfortable in one of those boy-leg swimsuits.”

Good-natured hooting arose. Georgeanne smiled on her friends and shook her head when they proclaimed her figure perfect as it was. A woman who stood six feet tall and who was built on a grandiose scale to boot didn’t go around kidding herself about yellow bikinis. She bought a black boy-leg suit and she draped a dark towel around her overly curvaceous body.

Still, she liked knowing her friends appreciated her as she was. She certainly wasn’t likely to change, not when her every effort in that direction had met with total and complete failure.

“Honey, you aren’t meant to be a skinny bean pole,” Denise said. “You were born with curves, and you’re going to die with curves. Unless you do something stupid.”

“Like get the curves liposuctioned off?” Georgeanne asked in the meek tones of one seeking information.

Denise frowned at her. “Like develop anorexia or get that weight-loss surgery. You wouldn’t look right if you starved yourself down to nothing.”

“Oh, give us a break.” Angela walked over to gaze idly out the tall window facing Georgeanne’s desk. “You’re beautiful as you are, Georgie. And if you weren’t so busy being soft-hearted, you’d take pity on some of the men who keep falling all over themselves trying to get you to notice them.”

“What men?” Georgeanne asked. “If you’re talking about poor Mr. Spector, who tripped over his little boy yesterday — ”

“Brent Spector is just one of them,” Denise said. “You don’t see all these single fathers gazing at you when you aren’t looking, but we do.”

Since the Gant Clinic specialized in pediatrics, any man old enough to be gazing at Georgeanne was a father. As for men falling all over themselves to gain her notice, Georgeanne found that ridiculous.

“Let me demonstrate the way they look at you.” Denise leaned forward with a sheeplike expression so full of wide-eyed longing, Georgeanne almost burst into laughter. “They’re all dying to stroke those curves of yours, honey. Men think you look like a real woman.”

“That’s probably because I look like the motherly type. Single fathers don’t need wives. They need mothers for their children.” Georgeanne gathered up her papers once more.

“You don’t see yourself, Georgie,” Sandra said. “Men love the way you look.”

Georgeanne reflected that if she had a nickel for every time she’d heard that statement or one like it, she’d be able to buy herself that yellow convertible.

“If I listened to my loyal friends, I’d be impossible to live with.” She stood, papers in hand. “I’d better get these into the mail right away, or Dr. Baghri will have no one present when he dedicates the new Saturday Clinic building.”

Angela pulled aside the translucent curtain and peered out the window. “Dr. Gant and Dr. Baghri just drove up. Who’s that with them? Oh, my God. I’m having a heart attack.” She grabbed at her chest. “Serious hottie alert, ladies.” She fanned her face. “Now there’s a man a woman could have an orgasm just looking at.”

“Where?” Denise rushed over to join Angela at the window. “Oh, wow. He looks like a movie star. Say, I think he is a movie star. I know I’ve seen that face before. Isn’t he the guy who played Tanner Colt in
Deuces High
?”

Sandra joined the group. “It is him. It’s Hunter Howell.”

“I expect it’s Dr. Zane Bryant,” Georgeanne said. “I’ve been writing him on Dr. Baghri’s behalf.” She went to the counter separating her cubicle from the waiting room and began folding letters and slipping them into envelopes. “Haven’t you heard the story? Hunter Howell and Dr. Bryant are identical twin brothers. They were separated at birth and adopted out to different families. They found each other several years ago when Dr. Bryant saw Hunter Howell in a movie and contacted him.”

“I don’t care if he is just a doctor,” Angela declared. “If he’s coming in here, I’m going to get his autograph. He’s seriously, seriously hot.”

“He’s coming in here.” Georgeanne went back to her desk and rustled through her top drawer for stamps. “He practices pediatrics in Pasadena, and he’s very interested in Dr. Baghri’s idea. He wants to learn firsthand how the Saturday Clinic operates.”

Pasadena was a suburb of Houston within easy driving range of Fannett. Georgeanne smiled with satisfaction, recalling the regular letters and emails she had written on Dr. Baghri’s behalf to Dr. Zane Bryant over the past few weeks. She had been as thrilled as Dr. Baghri when Zane Bryant asked for an appointment to view the new clinic. The request meant her skills in coaxing reluctant doctors into donating time to charity showed improvement.

“Oh, please,” Angela groaned. “Don’t tell me all he’s going to be talking about is charity clinics. What a waste.”

“You don’t mean that,” Georgeanne said with gentle reproof. “You were the first person to volunteer when Dr. Baghri couldn’t get a lab tech for the Saturday Clinic.”

“Well, tell the world, why don’t you?” Angela stared out the window. “If a woman was married to a man who looked like that, she wouldn’t need Fritzi Field’s advice on how to fake it.”

Georgeanne’s face flamed, and she wished for the millionth time that she wouldn’t blush every time anyone mentioned Fritzi Field. One of her friends might draw the correct conclusion any day now: Georgeanne Hartfield had a guilty conscience.

Two years ago, Georgeanne’s handsome husband left her for another woman. During the period immediately after her divorce, Georgeanne had produced a book. The writing had assuaged her anguish and helped her come to terms with her dead marriage.

The book had blessed her in more ways than one. It had been excellent psychological therapy, and the money from its sale helped finance Dr. Baghri’s clinic and bought dog food for the Humane Society, among other things.

Georgeanne simply hadn’t expected the book to take off the way it had, much less that it would be waved in her face every day at work.

Lord help her if anyone ever realized Georgeanne Hartfield was the reclusive, controversial author, Fritzi Field. Everyone would know she had lost her husband because she was lacking as a woman, and Georgeanne didn’t think she could stand that.

The group at the window scattered. Angela hustled back to her lab and the two nurses scurried off in opposite directions.