Georgie's Heart by Kathryn Brocato Page B

a boiled lobster. Her face spoke eloquently of a desire to vanish into the woodwork.
    She said in choked tones, “Really?”
    â€œYou’re a psychologist, too,” Denise reminded her. “You know as much as Fritzi Field does. What do you say, Georgie?”

Chapter 5
    Georgeanne felt Zane’s hand tighten on her shoulder. Where were lightning bolts and quicksand floors when you needed them?
    â€œWhy are you asking Georgie when there is a roomful of doctors standing here just dying to give you a technical opinion on the matter?” Zane asked.
    Denise looked scornful. “Anyone who works for doctors knows they don’t know anything about sex. I want somebody’s opinion who’s qualified. Georgie, what do you say?”
    There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone burst into laughter.
    Georgeanne laughed with them in spite of her strong urge to bolt from the room. “I may be qualified as a psychologist, but I think that particular question ought to be answered by someone with a lot of training in anatomy and physiology.”
    â€œYou’re just trying to get out of answering,” Denise accused. “You’ve been taking evasive action ever since I started talking about Fritzi Field’s book. Well, you aren’t getting out of it this time. Speak, oracle. Tell us the truth about men’s much-vaunted perspicacity when it comes to reading women.”
    All too conscious of the many pairs of male eyes upon her, Georgeanne produced a great, universal truth. “I think it depends on the particular man involved.”
    Denise, joined by Angela, groaned in loud disgust.
    â€œTalk about a cop-out,” Angela said, snickering.
    â€œI don’t want another one of your evasions,” Denise said. “I want an answer. What do you say about most men? Do they, or don’t they, know when a woman is faking it?”
    Georgeanne wished in vain for an earthquake. Or better yet, a meteor. Anything spectacular that would make everyone forget about Fritzi Field’s sexual advice to women and Georgeanne Hartfield’s psychology degree.
    When nothing spectacular happened to save her, Georgeanne cleared her throat. “I … Well, since I haven’t personally — er — tested a viable sample of men, I can’t speak with any authority.”
    â€œNo one’s asking you to,” Denise pointed out. “All I want is a psychologist’s learned opinion on the subject. Now speak up, Georgie. Do they or don’t they know?”
    â€œThey don’t,” Georgeanne said and wished she’d answered the opposite. She broke free of Zane’s grasp and snatched up her purse. “Excuse me, please. The pizza delivery is here.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of bull.” Bobby Whitney looked through the doors toward the waiting room, where his wife, Sandra, painted a wall. “I’d sure know if my wife faked it. There’s no way I could help knowing.”
    â€œNow you just hold it right there, Georgie Hartfield.” Denise grabbed for her. “You’ve got to explain that answer.”
    â€œNot me.” Georgeanne made a break for the door. “The mark of a truly learned psychologist is that she knows when to flee the scene.”
    â€œMaking love is an obsessive American topic,” Dr. Baghri observed. “Everyone has an opinion. Everyone wants to go on television and talk about his opinion. When do they have time to actually make love?”
    Georgeanne heard this with relief as she fled toward the waiting room and the front entrance. Dr. Baghri was sure to favor the group with an Indian male’s position on America’s idea of sex as public recreation. If that didn’t put everyone back to work, nothing would.
    â€œHere, Georgie, let me get that,” Zane said from just behind her. “Since I’ve usurped your position as official slave driver, I may as well pay for the