Gardner picked up Rose about six o’clock that evening and drove her to the mysterious old Georgian mansion in old Palo Alto, following a curved drive through the manicured garden up to a porte cochere that couldn’t be seen from the street.

Rose was wearing a simple lilac cashmere dress for this blessed evening, with black stockings and black leather shoes, her hair free down her back, with a small diamond clasp over one ear. The soft leafy grounds of Gardner’s house were beautiful to her in the gathering darkness.

It had been a splendid place once, that was obvious, with old creaking hardwood floors, richly paneled walls, and a broad central stairway. But now it was littered with Gardner’s books and papers, the huge dining room table a glorified desk with his two computers and various notebooks strewn about.

Up the stairs they crept, over old worn red carpet, and down the long dark hall to the master bedroom. A fire blazed in a stone fireplace, and candles burned everywhere. Candles on the mantel, candles on the old high-mirrored dressing table, candles on the night tables. The bed itself was a delicate antique four-poster, with an old “rice design,” Gardner explained, which his mother had inherited from her mother.

“Just a full bed, a small bed,” he said. “They didn’t make queen and king beds in those days, but this is all we need.”

Rose nodded. On a long coffee table before an old red-velvet couch sat trays of French cheese, crackers, black caviar, and other choice tidbits. There was wine there, uncorked, waiting for them.

This was Rose’s dream, that this, her first experience, would be one of the highest love, and that everything would be perfect.

“I take Holy Communion,” whispered Gardner as he kissed her, “my innocent one, my sweet and gentle one, my flower.”

They had taken it slowly, kissing, tumbling under the white sheets, and then it had been rough, almost divinely rough, and then it was over.

How could anything have been so perfect? Surely Aunt Marge would understand—that is, if Rose ever told her. But perhaps it was best to tell no one ever. Rose had kept secrets all her life, kept them close, sensing that to divulge a secret could be a terrible thing. And perhaps she would keep this night secret all her life.

They lay together on the pillow, Gardner talking about all that Rose had to learn, all that he wanted to share with her, how much hope he had for her. Rose was just a child, a blank slate, he said, and he wanted to give Rose all he could.

It made Rose think of Uncle Lestan. She couldn’t help it. But what would Uncle Lestan have thought had he known where she was now?

“Can I tell you things?” Rose said. “Can I tell you things about my life, about the mysteries of my life that I’ve never told anyone?”

“Of course you can,” Gardner whispered. “Forgive me that I haven’t asked you more. Sometimes I think you’re so beautiful that I can’t really talk to you.” This actually wasn’t true. He talked all the time to her. But she sensed what he meant. He hadn’t said much about wanting to hear her talk.

She felt close to him as she’d never felt close to anyone. Lying beside him felt so perfect. She could not tell whether she was sad or supremely happy.

And so she told him what she’d never told her friends ever. She told him about Uncle Lestan.

She started talking in a low voice, describing the earthquake and that sudden ride up into the stars, and into the Heavens. And she went on to describe him, and the mystery that he was, and how her life had been guided by him. She said a little about the horrid Christian home, skipping quickly to the night she was rescued—again, the dramatic ascent, the wind, the clouds, and those stars again above her in the naked sky. She spoke of Louis and Uncle Lestan and her life since … and how she sometimes thought about her mother of long ago, and that island, and what an accident it was that Uncle Lestan had saved her, loved her, protected her.

Quite suddenly Gardner sat up. Reaching for a white terrycloth robe, he stood, wrapped it around him, and walked away towards the fireplace. He stood there with his head bowed for a long moment. He put his hands on the mantel and he let out a loud groan.

Cautiously, Rose sat back against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts. She could hear him continuing to groan. Suddenly he cried out, and as she watched, he rocked back and forth on his bare feet with his head thrown back. Then came his low, angry voice:

“This is so disappointing, oh, so disappointing! I had such hopes for you, such dreams!” he said. She saw him trembling. “And you give me this, this stupid, ridiculous cheap high school vampire babble!” He turned around and faced her, his eyes wet and glittering. “Do you know how you’ve disappointed me? Do you know how you’ve let me down?” His voice grew louder and louder. “I had dreams for you, Rose, dreams of what you might be. Rose, you have such potential.” He was roaring at her. His face had grown red. “And you feed me this foolish, pedestrian schoolgirl trash!”

He turned to the left, then to the right, and then went towards the bookcase on the wall, his hands moving like big white spiders over the books. “And for God’s sakes, get the damned names right!” he said. He drew a large hardcover book down from the shelf. “It’s Lestat, damn it,” he said, coming towards the bed, “and not Lestan! And Louie is Louis de Pointe du Lac. If you’re going to tell me ridiculous childish stories, get it straight, damn it.”

He hurled the book at her. Before she could duck, the spine caught her in the forehead. A fierce stabbing pain spread through her skin and gripped her head.

She was stunned. She was maddened by the pain. The book fell down on the comforter. The Vampire Lestat was the title. It was old, and the paper jacket was torn.

Gardner had gone back to the mantelpiece, and once again he moaned. Then he began again. “This is so disappointing, so disappointing, and on this night of all nights, Rose, this night. You can’t begin to know how you’ve failed me. You can’t begin to know how disappointed I am. I deserve better than this, Rose. I deserve so much more!”

She sat there shaking. She was in a rage. The pain went on and on in her head and she felt a silent fury that he had hurled this book at her, hurled it right at her face, and hurt her in this way.

She slipped out of the bed, her legs wobbling. And in spite of her trembling hands, she pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could.

On and on he spoke, down into the crackling fire, crying now. “And this was to be a beautiful night, such a special night. You cannot imagine how you have disappointed me! Vampires carrying you up into the stars! Good Lord in Heaven! Rose, you don’t know how you’ve hurt me, how you’ve betrayed me!”