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!"
She grabbed her shoulder bag and tiptoed out of the room, rushing down the stairs, and out of the house. She had her iPhone out before she hit the long dark driveway, calling for Murray.
The headlights soon appeared in the deserted street as the big limousine coasted up to her. She had never been so glad to see Murray in all her life.
"What's the matter, Rose!" Murray demanded.
"Just drive," she said. In the big black leather backseat of the car, she put her head down on her knees and cried. Her head was still aching from the blow, and when she rubbed her forehead she felt the soreness there.
She felt stupid suddenly for ever trusting this man, for ever thinking that she could confide in him, for ever allowing herself to be intimate with him. She felt like a fool. She felt ashamed and she never, never wanted anyone ever to know about it. For the moment, she couldn't understand the things he'd said. But one thing was clear. She'd trusted him with the most precious secrets of her life, and he'd accused her of borrowing stories from a novel. He'd hurled that heavy book at her, not giving a damn whether he hurt her with it. When she thought of herself naked beside him in that bed, she shuddered.
The following Monday, Rose dropped Professor Gardner Paleston's classes, giving family problems as a reason for having to cut her schedule. She never intended to see him again. Meanwhile, he was calling her constantly. He came by her house twice, but Aunt Marge agreeably explained that Rose wasn't home.
"If he comes again," Rose told Murray, "ask him please to stop bothering me."
It was a week later, on a Friday night, in a bookstore downtown, that Rose saw a paperback book with the title: The Vampire Lestat.
As she stood in the aisle examining the book, she saw that it was number 2 in some sort of series of novels. Quickly, she found several others. These books were called the Vampire Chronicles.
Halfway home, she was so upset thinking about Gardner again that she was tempted to throw the books away, but she had to admit she was curious. What were these books about? Why did he think she was repeating stories from them?