Brian packed the last of the boxes – twenty-seven boxes of piano music. He had no idea where he’d put all his music at Agnes’s house, but she told him not to worry, they’d find space. She said something scatter-brained about putting a new bookcase in the music room, but said don’t worry, Brian, we’ll make room for you. You’ll be one of the family.
He had a hard time with this job. When had he last moved? He didn’t exactly remember, but it was after he and Arthur had parted company – that was 1909 or 1910, he believed. More than thirty years ago. Yes, he’d been living in Mrs. O’Toole’s house since then. He remembered reading about the Titanic’s sinking. He remembered the Great War – now people were calling in World War I – and he remembered Woodrow Wilson’s arsenal of democracy. He remembered the 1920s when Prohibition made it a lot of fun to drink. Just like having sex with men: in the closet, risqué, something forbidden. Something daring and exciting.
Brian groaned. Suddenly he realized he wouldn’t have his freedom any longer. He’d be living with Agnes, her mother-in-law, and her two children. Little Grace, not yet twelve, and little Harold, not yet eight. Norman hadn’t even been dead for a month, so he was moving into a house of mourning. No freedom to go out late at night, no freedom to bring a gentleman caller up to his bedroom? What would Agnes say, having her children exposed to that? Mrs. O’Toole had always gone to bed early and slept too soundly to know when a “friend” was coming over. But Agnes … she was a night owl, he knew from what she’d said. And then there was the grand matriarch, Old Mrs. Balmoral. He had no idea what to expect of her.
Brian had made his decision, however. Moving in with Agnes he would do. And he’d turn sixty in less than a month. How much longer could he seduce gentlemen callers and bring them to his bedroom?
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