“Children? Oh, boy, how many are we having?”
“Two, maybe three. More if you’d like, but I’d hate to think of your being torn between your work and a whole brood of kids. I’m told that working mothers suffer a certain amount of guilt even with one child.”
He was right, but she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “I read.”
“What?”
“Oh … lots of things.”
She couldn’t contain a grin. His cheeks were a dead giveaway, suddenly redder in a way that couldn’t be from the cold. “Women’s magazines?”
“Hell, my photographs are in them. Okay, sometimes one article or another catches my eye.”
“And how long have you been reading about working mothers?”
“One article, Marni, that’s it. It was—I don’t know—maybe six or seven months ago.”
“Did you know then that you wanted to have kids?”
“I’ve known for a long time, and when I read the article it was simply to satisfy an abstract curiosity.” Smoothly, and with good humor, he took the offensive. “And you should be grateful that Idoread. I’m thinking of you, sweet. Anything I’ve learned will make things easier for you.”
“I’m not worried,” she hummed, with a smile on her face.
They continued to walk, neither of them bothered by the cold air, if even aware of it. They were wrapped up in their world of dreams, a warm world where the sun was shining brightly. They talked of what they’d do in their leisure time, where they’d travel for vacations, what their children might be when they grew up.
The mood continued when they returned to the cabin. Marni sat on a barrel in the carport watching Web split logs for the fire. He sat on a stool in the kitchen watching her prepare a chicken-and-broccoli casserole. They sat by the fire talking of politics, the economy and foreign affairs, dreaming on, kissing, making love. Arms and legs entwined, they slept deeply that night—a good thing, because Sunday morning they awoke with the knowledge that before the day was through they’d be back in the real world facing those problems neither of them had been willing to discuss before.
Web lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Marni was in a nearly identical position by his side. They’d been awake for a while, though neither had spoken. A thick quilt covered them, suddenly more necessary than it had seemed all weekend, for now they were thinking of an aspect of the future that was chilling to them both.
“What are we going to do about your parents, Marni?” Web asked. He’d contemplated approaching the topic gradually, but now he saw no point in beating around the bush.
She didn’t twist her head in surprise, or even blink. “I don’t know.”
“What will they say if you announce that we’re getting married?”
“Married. Funny … we haven’t used that word before.”
He tipped his head to look at her. “It was taken for granted, wasn’t it?”
She met his gaze and spoke softly. “Yes.”
“And you want it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So—” his gaze drifted away “—what will they say?”
“They’ll hit the roof.”
He nodded, then swallowed. “How will you feel about that?”
“Pretty sick.”
“It bothers you what they think?”
“Of course it does. They’re my parents.”
