Dirty Little Secret

4. Magnus

magnus

. . .

The scent of jasmine tea and freshly baked scones permeates the cozy living room as I step inside. I am reminded once again of childhood Sundays spent under the watchful gaze of my mother's ceramic figurines. She’s rearranged the furniture again—or perhaps the sofa has just given up and shuffled a few inches to the left to better catch snippets of neighborhood gossip.

"Darling!" Mother exclaims, erupting from her chair like a jack-in-the-box with too much spring. "You remember Miss Cilla Barton, don't you?" Her eyes twinkle with unspoken plots. These are the type of visits I dread.

Cilla, a woman I’ve never met, is perched on the edge of her seat. She is a vision of floral anticipation, her smile as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. "Of course he doesn't, Elaine." She chuckles, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her skirt. We've never met before."

Mother gives me that look—the one that manages to keep me in line more effectively than any scolding could. "Magnus, sit. You two must catch up! Or get to know one another. It doesn’t matter."

I obey, sinking into an armchair that feels suspiciously like sitting on a cloud or perhaps a giant marshmallow. "Actually," I start, clearing my throat while my mind races for a diversion. Anything to derail Mother’s matrimonial train before it leaves the station with me as its unwilling cargo. “I’ve been meaning to tell you?—”

But Mother waves me off with a practiced flick worthy of a Broadway curtain call. “Later! First, you and Cilla must discuss!” She beams at us as if she's already hearing wedding bells.

Cilla leans forward, earnestness replacing amusement. "So, Magnus," she begins in a conspiratorially low voice that perfectly matches her outfit's floral frenzy, "your mother tells me you're quite the expert on rare tropical fish?"

I blink. That's not where I thought this was going. But then again, with Mother as the conductor… “Ah, yes,” I recover, recalling my brief stint at the pet store during college summers—a job that Mother has inflated into marine biology. “The clownfish and their antics were particularly captivating.”

Cilla nods sagely, as if discussing the fate of nations rather than aquatic pets. "Fascinating creatures," she agrees solemnly.

As we chat about everything from Nemo to Neptune, I can feel my mother’s disappointment simmering like tea left too long on the stove. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she interrupts.

"But Magnus has news!" my mother announces dramatically, referencing our phone call earlier today.

Cilla turns to me expectantly while I scramble for something real and sufficiently distracting.

“I’m actually in love—deeply, truly, madly in love,” I blurt out without finesse but with enough sincerity to cause Cilla to sit back slightly.

Mother gasps audibly. "Why haven't you mentioned this before? Who is she? Do I know her?"

"It’s not something I want to discuss with an audience,” I say carefully, picking my words like navigating a minefield filled with floral landmines and ceramic explosives.

“Oh?” Cilla says, leaning in once more—curiosity now piqued beyond matrimonial prospects.

“Who is she, Magnus?” My mother struggles to maintain the volume of her voice.

“The thing is,” I continue, heat rising in my cheeks as both women hang on my following words. “Cilla is here. You two should continue your previous conversation, and I’ll come back later.”

“Magnus Alfred Larsen, don’t you dare move. Cilla, we’ll speak later. Show yourself out.” My mother points to the door but never takes her eyes off me.

“What’s wrong with her? Why have you been hiding her from me? You know how long I’ve waited for you to fall in love and marry, yet you keep this woman all to yourself? Something’s amiss.” Mother guesses correctly, but it isn’t about what’s wrong with Tessa.

It’s about what’s wrong with me. Am I a fiend for falling for a teenager? There’s no denying I’ve kept the best thing that’s ever happened to me a secret because people will judge me for it.

And no one will judge me as harshly as my mother.

“She’s younger than me, and I suspect you’ll have difficulties accepting the legitimacy of our relationship,” I say, gauging her immediate reaction before continuing.

“Younger than Cilla? Is she in her early thirties? That’s not too scandalous. I suppose there will be some whispers about the age gap, but men who want children typically marry younger. You do still want children—don’t you?” Mother seems more concerned with that than my choice of bride.

“She’s younger than Cilla. Her name is Tessa Mills, and she’s nineteen.” As soon as I speak, I look away and unable to meet her gaze head-on. “She’s Conrad Mills’s daughter. You met him a few years ago at your charity gala.”

I can tell by Mother’s eyebrows darting toward the sky that she's preparing a lengthy speech. I brace for impact, reaching for my cooling cup of tea as a mild shield.

“I mean, Magnus, a teenager? Really?” she finally gasps out, as if the age gap is some exotic disease I’ve casually announced I contracted. “What will people say?”

Her pale hand flutters to her chest dramatically, briefly reminding me of a distressed damsel in a black-and-white film. I fight back a grin. Mother has always had a flair for theatrics.

“She’s quite mature for her age.” I try to soften the blow.

My mother arches an eyebrow so high it threatens to merge with her hairline. "Mature? She can't even legally drink, Magnus. "Darling," she gasps, visibly flustering herself into an even greater state, "Nineteen? Do realize that when you were nineteen, she was not even a concept!”

I wince a little. It’s never a good idea to bring in math.

"I understand it sounds… unconventional," I begin, trying to navigate through this verbal minefield. “Tessa's not just any teenager.” I set my teacup down with more force than necessary. It clatters on the saucer, echoing sharply in the quiet room. "Tessa is beyond her years, an old soul, beautiful and brilliant. She’s studying fashion.”

“Unconventional," my mother scoffs with an eye roll so dramatic it threatens to unhinge her eyelids. "When I was nineteen, I was dancing with dashing young men at balls—not dating men old enough to be my—” She cuts herself off, probably calculating whether it’s more scandalous to finish that sentence or not.

Mom's frown deepens as she considers the situation. "Does her father know about this? Because if you were sneaking around with my nineteen-year-old daughter, I’d have half a mind to?—"

"Not yet, but he will before the end of the week. I’m committed to being honest with everyone from now forward," I assure her quickly.

"He can’t be too angry with you since he counts on your business.” My mother is visibly struggling to align this new reality with her worldview.

“No doubt Conrad will be angry, but my intentions are honorable.”

For another long moment, there’s silence except for the ticking of the old cuckoo clock on the wall—another relic Mother refuses to part with—before it suddenly springs into action, startling us both as a tiny bird pops out, announcing the hour.

"You’re just like that cuckoo," Mother mutters under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“What was that?” I pretend I didn’t hear her insult.

“Nothing, dear.” My mother finally sits down again and stirs her tea mechanically. “We'll see how it goes then,” she says finally. "But you're bringing her over for dinner next Sunday. I need to meet the enchantress stealing my son’s sense out through his ears.”

“I haven’t lost my senses. I’ve found them. Tessa is my soul mate,” I say, suddenly feeling lighter now that this is out in the open.

“Oh my God, save it, Magnus. She’s nineteen, probably gorgeous, with a tight ass and boobs that defy gravity. Of course, you think she’s sent from heaven. This is a midlife crisis that you’ll probably live to regret. Why couldn’t you buy a sports car like every other man in New York?”

“I’ll never regret Tessa,” I explain with a sheepish smile.

Mom sets her cup down gently now—a sign she’s processing the serious undercurrent in my whimsical description. “And do you plan to propose marriage, or will you carry on with this scandalous fling?”

“I plan to marry her and have a house full of babies,” I affirm quietly. “If Tessa will have me.”

We sit there in silence for a long moment, the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantle seemingly louder than before.

Finally, Mother nods slowly. “Well then.” She exhales deeply, as if letting go of her bigger fears and reservations. “Well, at least I’ll finally get some grandchildren out of you.”

“If not, you always have Richard’s kids,” I tease, knowing how much she dislikes my younger half-brother, a child of my father’s affair with my former nanny. Richard’s mother had been under the impression that most of the family’s money stemmed from my father’s side, but she was tragically mistaken. My mother’s side, the Van Winkles, financed the entire show and left them penniless and broke after his affair.

In a moment of misguided empathy that haunts me to this day, I offered Richard a job in our Chicago office, purposely keeping him at a distance from me. Still, he clings to the hope that I will never marry or have children, leaving him as the sole heir to our family's fortune. This is just one of the many reasons my mother constantly pressures me for grandchildren.

“Don’t even mention that boy to me.” My mother still refers to him as a child, even though he’s nearly forty. “And beware of his shenanigans. If he finds out you’re possibly marrying and having children, he’ll lose his greedy mind.”

I shake my head, and we approach the door, eager to see Tessa and have a long-overdue discussion. “He’s harmless. You’ve never given him the benefit of the doubt.”

“For good reason,” my mother huffs and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Now hurry up and make me a granddaughter. There are far too many boys in this family.”

“I’ll try my best.”