Magnus and His Family Ch. 10

"Just like that?"

"Well, of course it'll take some time for everyone to get to know each other. But we're all nice people, so what's the fuss?"

Imogen shook her head despairingly. "I really don't think this is going to work."

"Well, just think about it, okay? I promised Kristen that I'd talk to you about this."

"Okay," Imogen said, exhausted by the discussion. "Just give me some time to mull it over."

In fact, it didn't take her much time at all: within a day or two she had phoned Magnus and set up the appointment to meet at that bar. The thousand memories of her life with him—the countless instances where they had shared intimacy (physical, emotional, spiritual)—and, perhaps, the rueful admission of the poverty of her life in the two years of her absence from his embraces, mollified only to some extent by her falling into the embrace of her son and his fine friend Curt—impelled her to wonder whether Magnus himself was also yearning for a reunion. Did his taking his own daughter to bed symbolize his yearning for his wife of two decades? While determined to maintain as much independence and self-respect as she could, she had to figure out whether Magnus had been as miserable as she was in those years of loneliness.

She had arrived first at the bar, claiming a booth far in the back as the most secluded spot for their rendezvous. And when he loomed up beside her, her heart flipped over. It was the same Magnus—or was it? Were there a few more wrinkles around the eyes, the result of both age and heartache? Did the sober, almost stolid expression on his face mask a welter of emotions buried beneath the surface—emotions that would surface when he laid eyes on her after so long? When his mouth worked and he swallowed hard, she began to think so.

He slipped in on the other side of the booth. They quickly ordered drinks, scarcely remembering what they ordered. Exchanging the most absurd small-talk until the waitress brought the drinks, they settled down to an intense discussion once she was out of the way.

"So," Magnus said heavily, "you and Paul . . ."

"And you and Kristen," she countered.

"She's an adult. She can decide what she wants to do."

"So is Paul." After a pause: "How did it happen?"

"It just happened. I think she recognized that I was—" But Magnus couldn't quite bring himself to say: She recognized that I was terribly lonely without you.

But Imogen knew. "I guess Paul did too."

They both gazed into their drinks without tasting them. In both their minds flashed the thought: Has a once-married couple ever faced a situation like this?

"And what about this guy Curt?" Magnus said.

"He's Paul's friend—a teammate on the football team. He's awfully sweet." She added with some hesitation: "He's African American."

Magnus smiled out of the corner of his mouth. "I'm glad to hear it. I hope they—keep you company."

"They're both good boys."

"Boys? You just said Paul was an adult, and I assume Curt is too."

"You know what I mean. Anyway, you—you seem to have taken a shine to Kristen's friend Adele, not to mention her mom." It was the first time in this strange conversation that a note of asperity entered her voice. "How did that ever happen?"

"It's hard to explain. It just kind of happened. She—she's also divorced."

"Is she? So you decided to give her some comfort too?"

Magnus scowled. "Look, Imogen, I don't think either of us is in much of a position to boast of any moral superiority over the other. We've done what we've done, and I for one don't see any need to apologize for it. No one's being forced to do anything against their will."

"I understand that. The question is: what do we do now?"

"I think that depends largely on you."

"Why me?"

Again Magnus gazed at Imogen with a frown. He didn't speak, but perhaps he didn't have to. Because you're the one who left me. So you have to decide whether you want to come back.

But in a gentler tone Magnus said, "Have you been happy? Do you feel you've found yourself? That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Imogen took the words as an implicit criticism, even a taunt. "Of course I haven't been happy! Do you think I'd have so readily slept with my own son if I had been?" She quickly peered around the room to make sure no one heard her appalling admission. "As for finding myself—I don't even know what that means."

"But that's what you said—"

"I know, I know," Imogen said, rapidly losing her composure. "I think I was an idiot."

"Don't ever say that about yourself," Magnus said with unwonted harshness. "Your feelings aren't stupid. You felt what you did at the time; I respected that, and you should too. I'm hoping"—and he got a little choked up also—"maybe now you feel differently."

"Oh, God!" she cried, and burst into tears.

Magnus had a feeling it might come to this. He knew that this conversation would be difficult for both of them, especially for his ex-wife; and he was ready to act. Sliding out of his side of the booth, he quickly moved over to the seat next to Imogen and wrapped her in his arms. All his primal male protectiveness emerged upon the appearance of those female tears.

Imogen had been sobbing as quietly as she could, her face in her hands. When she felt the strong arms of this gentle bear of a man holding her, as they had done so many times in the past, she instinctively reacted. Burying her face in his chest, she snaked her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly.

He let her cry herself out for a while. When he sensed that the cascade of tears was coming to an end, he tenderly lifted her face up to his and placed his lips on hers. And again Imogen remembered those fleshy lips, the hair of the beard and mustache that surrounded them, and the distinctive scent of the man who had been her husband for twenty years.

And yet, the kiss was strangely chaste. Neither of them made much of an effort to turn it into a passionate moment; their lips remained closed, and there was no attempt by either side to invade the other's mouth with a tongue. But, in spite of herself, Imogen let out a small cry—which seemed to proceed directly from her throat to his—indicating that she was feeling something in another part of her body.

Magnus knew that cry all to well. And in spite of their presence in this public place, he reacted instinctively. Continuing to hold her close with one hand, he slid the other down her body and, lifting the hem of her skirt, brought his fingers into contact with the moistening crotch of her panties.

She broke the kiss in alarm. "Magnus, for God's sake!" she whispered frantically. "We can't do this here!"

"No one can see us," he said in that deep, resonant bass voice. And indeed, his large frame covered her form so completely that someone looking in from outside the booth could hardly tell whether there was someone else there with him at all.

He pried away the cotton fabric from her crotch and encountered that all too familiar spot. A flood of memories—the sight, aroma, and taste of that delicate zone, the thousands of times he had manipulated it with mouth, fingers, and cock—overcame him, and he used all his skill to transform her from misery to ecstasy.

And he accomplished the trick. He didn't rush with his work, and Imogen could do little but keep her face fixed to his chest so that any cries or moans on her part would be muffled. Although she had become well accustomed to receiving sexual pleasure at the hands of her son and his friends, the naughtiness of experiencing it while dozens of other patrons were talking and drinking and laughing was so stimulating that in only minutes she was gasping out her orgasm while her mouth was still glued to his breast.

When she had recovered somewhat, she whispered in mock outrage, "Oh, you dreadful man!" But her broad smile revealed her delight at Magnus's boldness.

There was, of course, no thought of her reciprocating on him: it would have made too much of a mess. Anyway, there was something deeply symbolic about his servicing her in this open way; it was as if he were saying, I'm not the tyrannical ogre you may have thought I was; I'm here only at your pleasure.

But Magnus wanted to hammer the point home. "Imogen, darling, you're so precious to me. I love you so much."

"I love you too, dear," she said into his chest.

"Will you come back?"

Imogen hesitated only fractionally before saying, "Yes."

*

But it wouldn't be quite so easy, would it?

A reunion of Magnus and Imogen—and even of Paul and Kristen—was one thing. But what would the peripheral figures—Curt and Adele and Jenna—do? What would their function in the reintegrated household be? Their feelings counted for something—counted for a lot, in fact. And both Magnus and Imogen knew it.

When the couple each announced the potential restoration of the Larsen family, everyone appeared to be overjoyed; but the enthusiasm of those not named Larsen was quite a bit more muted than the others'. Kristen immediately saw that the two Whitmans—Adele and Jenna—were suddenly unsure of where they stood.

"Hey, you guys," she cried, "it'll be all right! Don't worry about a thing—you'll still be a part of everything."

But it was obvious neither of them was convinced of that. Jenna, in particular, felt like a third (or fourth or fifth) wheel. She was the most recent member of the unorthodox household; and, with Imogen's imminent return, she felt that her own position was pretty precarious. Didn't Magnus consider her merely an inadequate substitute for his ex-wife? With that ex-wife's return, what was to prevent him from casting her aside?

Magnus did his part to reassure both Jenna and Adele of their firm place in his heart, but both of them sensed that only time would tell whether they really were to have a place in the house.

Curt was a little less worried about his status, for Imogen had made it abundantly clear to him that he was going to remain by her side—and in her bed—no matter what anybody said. If anything, Paul wondered whether he would also be welcome in his mother's arms now that she had reconciled with her father.

So there was a lot of tension when the three of them—Imogen, Paul, and Curt—went to the Larsen house for a "getting to know you" session.

Imogen wrapped herself in Magnus's arms almost as soon as she had been let in the door, leaving Paul to embrace his sister and then, more reservedly, Adele and Jenna. The Whitman women's eyes shone at the sight of this prepossessing young man—strong and fit, but not at all the mountain of a man that Magnus was.

It was when Adele laid eyes on Curt that interesting things happened.

Both of them stood stock-still as they gazed upon each other. Adele couldn't quite remember if she had seen Curt on the football field in a game; even if she had, he would have been so far away, and so covered with all the protective gear that football players had to wear, that she would never have gotten a good view of him. Now, as he stood there shyly, she saw him for what he was: powerful, muscular, yet gentle and kind. Those deep brown eyes simultaneously radiated masculinity and tenderness, and their gaze sent a shiver through her.

And while Curt found not the remotest flaw in Imogen's physical or mental assets, he had always been taken with "big girls"—girls who wouldn't break into pieces if he held them tightly in his arms. And Adele seemed exactly that.

He approached her hesitantly and extended a hand. "Hi, I'm Curt."

Adele had to clear her throat before she could say, "I'm Adele."

But instead of meekly taking that hand, she rushed up to him and flung her arms around him, pressing her entire body against his and giving rapid kisses to his cheek and neck.

Kristen, still being held in her brother's embrace, whispered in her ear, "My God! Adele's making a spectacle of herself."

"I guess she's smitten already," Paul said quietly.

Jenna received hugs from Curt and Paul also; and although those hugs were warm and close, she still felt as if they were a bit formulaic. Her attention was fixed on Imogen.

Kristen introduced the two women to each other. It was obvious they were sizing each other up; each peered at the other's chest as brazenly as any man, and they tried to take covert looks at the other's bottom. They too embraced gently—but even that was just a continuation of their examination of the other's pertinent features.

Dinner was close to being ready—a huge beef stew with dumplings, artisan bread, a big salad, and other accoutrements—and everyone dived into it. Conversation was slow at first, but it became lively and a bit chaotic under the impetus of Kristen and Paul, who peppered everyone with questions about themselves.

It was no accident that this meeting happened on a Friday. By silent but mutual consent, it was generally understood that a number of pairings would occur. After dinner there was a token effort made to watch an old movie, but hardly anyone paid attention to it; and as soon as it was over, the delicate question of who was to sleep with whom had to be faced.

One pairing was pretty obvious. Curt and Adele had curled up together on the loveseat to watch the movie, and they remained closely intertwined afterwards. Curt whispered something in Adele's ear, and she at once got up, took Curt by the hand, and led him upstairs. Over her shoulder she said, "See you in the morning, guys."

The boldness of the couple's departure caused the others to lapse into stunned silence. One other pairing—Magnus and Imogen—could also be taken for granted. Without much ado, they drifted upstairs to the master bedroom.

That left Kristen, Paul, and Jenna. There was in fact a third bedroom—not much used up to now—that had been spruced up, with a queen-size bed all ready for use.

Kristen, her heart aching for Jenna's clear sense of being left out, said, "Why don't you and Paul . . .?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," she said. But then, as she contemplated the alternative—Paul bedding down his own sister!—she had second thoughts.

"Sure, you can!" Kristen cried. "This couch folds out into a sofabed. I'll stay down here. You guys have fun."

"No, no—" Jenna protested, although she wasn't clear what she was protesting.

"I'd be honored, ma'am," Paul said, gallantly standing up and extending a hand to the older woman.

In a daze she took the hand, got up, and let herself be led upstairs.

Kristen smiled to herself as she unfolded the sofabed. I'm not worrying. There'll be a lot of musical beds going on here for a while, and I'll get in my cuddling with whoever wants me.