"In the end—all he could say was, 'Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!'"
"And you feel like hurrying?"
She spoke reproachfully. "Wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"I want to have eighteen kids," she said. "And I want them all to grow up florists and nurserymen and horticulturists. I understand me. Us. He had to spend all his time in the greenhouses because I spoiled the whole rest of his world. I'll get him out oftener, now. Not too much. Enough."
I looked at her—the clear amethyst irises, the gilded cascade of her hair, the expectation of her body. "You sure will."
"I'm so—full—so—complete. So—ready."
"There are other girls like Gwen," I said. "Some."
"I'll be busy. Don't you think? The children, for one thing. And my libido will be preoccupied, I imagine. Don't you? And suppose I had a small emotional accident some foggy afternoon at Malibu?"