an entire section of poetry by T.S. Elliott. For a reader like myself, it was mesmerizing, and I must have looked intrigued because William broke the silence with an offer to let me borrow anything that interested me.
From there, we toured the rest of the house. There were two bedrooms on the main level, both decorated to look like guest rooms. On the floor above, there was a large loft space with an enormous round bay window in the center of the room, and surprisingly, several skylights had been cut into the ceiling. There were lovely blackout shades made from a rich fabric bolted into the skylights. But for now, because it was evening, the blinds were open, leaving us a clear view of the full moon in the night sky. There was no bed in the room, just an old drafting table that had been converted to a desk. There were more bold rugs on the floor, and a set of leather chairs that looked to be companions to the one in the library.
The most striking aspect of the room was the collection of guitars and banjos on display. He had at least five acoustic guitars sitting on stands in the room, as well as three or four more banjos, also on stands. A brand new Denon turntable on a small table sat next to the instruments. A series of storage racks with hundreds of vinyl albums was nearby. Like his library, William’s taste in music looked to be varied and wide-ranging. John Coltrane, Zeppelin, and Willie Nelson were sitting side-by-side, along with Serge Gainsbourg, the Jam, and the Clash. I smiled inwardly at the depth and variety. This was clearly the room where William spent most of his time. The space was full of his calm energy and it was obvious to see from the design that he did everything in his power to create and maintain that sense of peace.
We walked back downstairs and into a kitchen that could have passed muster with any editor at Sunset magazine. The sunken white porcelain sink and 6-burner Wolf range complemented the large stainless steel refrigerator, which most likely would be empty.
“Cook many big meals?” I teased.
“As you know, I am not much of an eater,” he drawled back. “I have a small property management business, and over the years, I have acquired a few investment properties in San Francisco and other cities. One day I might sell or rent this house. It will be more valuable with a working kitchen.”
“I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave here,” I said, thinking of the beautiful home my grandmother had given me. “I have a nice old house, too. My grandmother left it to me in her will. I hope to live in it until I …” I was about to say more, but then I stopped.
“It’s OK,” William coaxed. “You want to stay in the house until you die. You are human, Olivia. You can discuss your life in a normal way.”
“I didn’t want to seem insensitive. I have no idea how you feel about being a vampire.”
“Living forever has many advantages,” William remarked thoughtfully. “I have amassed a lot of interesting objects and wealth. But there are moments when time does drag on.”
“Are you going to tell me how you became a vampire?” I asked, hoping there was a bottle of wine and a fireplace in my future. I must have pushed that wish out very strongly because William immediately followed up with “red or white?” I chose red, a lovely 2008 Pinot Noir from the Russian River, and we went back to the living room to sit down.
“The fireplace doesn’t work,” William said. “And now there are so many laws about when you can burn wood that I have not bothered to have it repaired. The last thing I need is someone knocking on my door to cite me for burning wood.”
We sat down on a very comfortable chocolate brown leather couch—I was beginning to detect a theme in his tastes—and he poured us both a glass of wine. I was using all of my self-control not to blurt out the long list of questions I had for him: How old are you? Where are you from? How did you come to live in San Francisco?
I was sitting at one end of the couch, using the corner as a sort of brace. I had no idea what to do. Should I sit closer to him? Should I stay away?