Agnes and the children departed for the train station five minutes ago – and that Brian Larney she’d invited to live here. He went with them. Thank the Lord. Thank the Good Lord in all the heavens they were going to New York City for the weekend. Victoria could have peace and quiet. She could have the house to herself. She didn’t have to clean her bedroom. She didn’t have to wipe up the sink or the stove. She could cry all she wanted.
She walked downstairs to the kitchen and left her bedroom door open – the first time since she’d taken to her room after hearing the news. She prepared herself some blueberry scones with strawberry jam, and a stiff pot of tea. She sat at the kitchen table. The drapes were open and the sun shone in her eyes, but she got up and closed them. It would be a dreary November day for her, even with the sun out.
Victoria rather enjoyed this moment, but she told herself no, she cannot enjoy these moments. She cannot enjoy any moments anymore. Her youngest son was dead. And here she was, living with his wife, their children, and her piano teacher. Why’d she have to invite the piano teacher to live here? All he did was bother Victoria with his bubbly laugh and his limp-wristed girly voice.
Hungry now that no one was at home, Victoria wanted to have some oatmeal and scoured the kitchen. In the last two months since Norman died, Agnes had taken over the kitchen again. She’d moved everything around. Ah, there it is, she told herself, on the top shelf of a cabinet – but Victoria couldn’t reach for it. She needed Brian Larney’s height to get to the oatmeal.
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