When the Stars Come Out (26 page)

Authors: Rob Byrnes

R o b B y r n e s

Noah stopped him. “You had a decent career, but Jimmy is right.

I was just making a comparison. I’m sorry, but you were no Richard Chamberlain. You were . . . you were . . .”

Be careful
, he told himself.
Very thin ice here
.

But Jimmy again came to the rescue. Of sorts.

“You were more like the gay Darrin on
Bewitched
,” he said. “Whichever Dick that was . . . I can never keep them straight.” He paused, adding, “Pardon all the totally intentional puns. So very Paul Lynde of me.”

Noah waited for Quinn to explode—to go all Philly Cop on

them—but he shocked him by laughing.
Laughing!
Noah said another silent prayer to St. Jimmy.

“Let me tell you something, son,” Quinn said when that laughter

subsided, which didn’t take long. He looked Noah in the eye and

tapped the tabletop for emphasis, making the coffee cup and iced

tea glass shake. “I’ve spent more than thirty years on the outs with Hollywood, and I have a very realistic sense of my place in the

world. This world and that world. I know that Katherine was—
is
—

the meal ticket here, and that idiot I fathered is the gravy. I know that, from your perspective, they are the story.”

“Well . . .”

“Let me finish. I know I’m not Chamberlain or Hunter or

Hudson or Perkins or . . .” He turned to Jimmy’s chair before con-

tinuing, his raised voice aimed at the figure who was now once

again hidden behind the back of the chaise. “Or even the
goddamn
gay Darrin
. But there’s still a story to tell, without bringing all the rest of them too deeply into the mix.”

“Go on,” said Noah. He was unconvinced, but curious.

“Love.”

“Huh? Love?”

“Exactly. Here’s the story we’re going to tell: a love story span-

ning almost forty years. A story about how a young actor and a very attractive young dancer found each other in their youth, when it

was a much harder time to be gay. And a story about how they

stayed together into old age.”

“Old age?” said the chaise. “Speak for yourself.”

“I always do.” Quinn turned back to Noah and, as he began ris-

ing from his chair, said: “That’s the story. Katherine and Q. J. are W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

173

the icing, not the story. And they will be treated as icing. Their presence will be sweet . . . and spread thinly. Very, very thinly.

“Well, of course it will be
your
story. But . . .”

“I’ve told you the rules,” he said. “Take them or leave them.” Without another word, Quinn walked into the house, leaving his half-

empty iced tea glass behind for someone else to bus.

Noah sat in relative solitude—relative in that Jimmy was there,

but largely unseen—and thought about Quinn’s rules. Maybe just a

hint of the ex-wife and son would be enough for the readers . . .

maybe the story of an enduring gay romance would have popular

appeal . . . maybe it was workable . . .

But he knew the story would be so much better—and
sell
so much better—with more than a hint of Kitty and Q. J. The coming-out story of Quinn Scott could—
would
—be workable, and the romance between him and Jimmy would be sweet and life affirming.

But its appeal outside the gay ghettoes would be another story altogether. A few literary body slams on Kitty Randolph could make all the difference between that all-important book review and entertainment industry buzz and a quick trip to the remainder bins.

His only hope was that Quinn Scott would eventually see the

light. And even on such short acquaintance, he didn’t peg him for

the type of man who changed his mind.

Noah returned to Manhattan for clothes and supplies, and was

back in Southampton for the following week, logging difficult hours of conversation with Quinn, then carefully transcribing the tapes.

After thirteen hours of transcripts, he had mentioned Kitty Randolph only four times—all in passing—and he had yet to mention his son.

And as far as Hollywood went, his most revealing true confession

was his anger over being abruptly dropped from casting considera-

tion as the doomed captain in
The Poseidon Adventure
, an event he refused to attribute for the record to Kitty, even though it occurred in the wake of their divorce.

Noah tried to draw him out . . .
oh, how he had tried
. But with every probing question, Quinn became more difficult. Their personal

chemistry was nonexistent, and Noah was beginning to think that

even the completelashuels had been more forthcoming with him.

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R o b B y r n e s

It was Saturday night, as they talked in the living room after Bart and Jimmy had excused themselves for bed, when the explosion finally came. For days Noah had been listening to Quinn reminisce

about gripping details such as how he and Jimmy had come to live

in the Hamptons, and how they had quit smoking, and how he de-

signed his house, and what it was like to have hip-replacement

surgery, and now it was time for some meat.

“Tell me about your marriage,” said Noah, sliding the microphones

attached to the mandatory two tape recorders a bit closer to Quinn.

“It was brief.”

“Talk about the day she caught you with Jimmy.”

“This is bullshit,” said Quinn, and he knocked the tape recorders

off their perch on the ottoman. Noah jumped back. “That is
not
going in the book!”

“But, Quinn . . .”

His eyes burned a hole through Noah. “I thought we had an under-

standing.”

“But there’s got to be color.”

“Fuck this book.”

With that, he lurched from his recliner, pausing only to remove

both cassettes, and stormed out of the living room.

Noah climbed into bed fifteen minutes later, silently drawing

himself up against Bart’s warm, muscular body. He felt Bart’s hand reach for him . . . a welcoming touch. Still, he pulled away.

“What’s the matter?” Bart whispered.

“I’m sorry. I’m . . . I’m feeling a bit deflated.”

Bart pulled up the covers, flashing an impish smile. “Deflated?

Let me see.”

“Stop,” said Noah, a laugh unexpectedly escaping from his lips

despite his sour mood. “I’m . . . I just can’t do it tonight, okay?”

“No problem. There will be plenty of other times.” Bart rolled

over on his back and stared at the ceiling. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t know . . .” Noah hoped that Bart would respect his de-

sire for solitude, but he didn’t, and when asked again he gave him an honest answer.

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175

“It’s Quinn. I don’t know if I can work with him.”

“Why?”

“He hates me.”

“No.” Bart’s voice was soft. As he spoke, his soft hands slowly, reassuringly worked their way across Noah’s chest, brushing against

the black curls. “Quinn doesn’t hate you.”

“The way he snaps at me . . . he won’t cooperate. Maybe another

writer . . .”

Bart shifted, propping himself up on an elbow. “What other writer

would take on this book?”

Noah sighed. “I think this was a mistake. Maybe I should try to

hang in there with my other project.”

“It’s not you, Noah. It’s Quinn. That’s just the way he is. There’s more to him, though, and if you give this a chance . . .”

Noah felt a dull pounding in his head. “More to him? What,

does he
kick
, too? Come on, Bart, I know the guy is your boss, but face it: he hates me.”

“Hang in there. This will pass. He’s . . . well, yes, he’s a bit ornery, but he’s a sweet guy. Really.”

“I like Jimmy,” Noah continued, not really answering his bed-

mate. “He’s a nice guy. But how he’s put up with Quinn for thirty-

some-odd years is beyond me. And the way he treats
you
. . .”

Bart’s hands slid off Noah’s chest. “Me? What do you mean?”

“Bossing you around . . . Complaining about everything . . .”

“Your problem,” he said, and Noah could tell by the tone of his

voice that he had crossed a line, “is that you take everything too personally. With a man like Quinn, you’ve got to let it roll off of you, because that’s his public face. If you had ever seen the private face—and you will, Noah; someday, you will—you’d have a completely different opinion of him. And as for the way he treats me, you’re wrong. But even if there were a problem, that’s for me to determine, not you.”

“Sorry.”

The apology softened him a bit. Bart’s voice was once again re-

assuring. “Just hang in there, okay? You’ll see.”

Noah sighed. He really had no choice. “Like it or not, I’m going

to have to hang in there. I don’t see how I can cancel this. Not

now.”

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R o b B y r n e s

“Oh, right,” he said. “You’d have to return the advance money . . .”

“No, that’s not it. Fortunately, money isn’t one of my worries.

But if I don’t turn in a manuscript, well . . . it won’t look good for me as a writer if I pull the plug on two straight projects with PMC.

I’ve got a reputation on the line here.”

Bart smiled. “All the more reason to give Quinn a few more

chances.”

“I suppose.” Noah sighed and settled back into the bed, knowing

that he not only had to give Quinn a few more chances, he also

owed himself a few.

And, through Bart’s best efforts, his deflation problem was soon

corrected, too.

“Noah?” Bart’s voice, barely a whisper, was close to his ear.

Noah stirred slightly before answering, catching a bleary glimpse

of the alarm clock. It was 1:08 AM.

He finally managed to utter a “Huh?”

“Listen.”

Noah closed his eyes again and listened. At first, he heard noth-

ing but the vague sounds of nocturnal life outside the windows; the rustling of leaves in the breeze, a barking dog. When he concentrated, though, he could hear faint strains of music from some-

where in the distance.

“Do you hear it?”

“The music?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear it. Why?”

Bart silenced him with a finger placed on his lips. “Come with

me.”

They put on robes and slippers and, leaving the lights off, navi-

gated by moonlight filtered through the windows, creeping out of

the bedroom and across the hall. They stopped when they reached

the top of the staircase leading to the kitchen, Bart tugging on

Noah’s sleeve as if it were reins.

“I have a little something to confess,” Bart said, his voice hushed in the darkness. “You know, I’m very loyal to Quinn and Jimmy . . .

but I also violate their privacy from time to time.”

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177

“I’m not sure I understand,” Noah said, hoping he was not

about to confess to, say, wearing their underwear or anything of

that sort. Or, worse, peeping while they had sex.

He wasn’t.

“A few months ago I heard that music and went to check it out,

and . . . well, ever since, I’ve come back whenever I hear it. It’s always late at night, and it’s always the same, and every time I see it—

no matter how bad my day has been—well . . .”

“What is it?”

Without another word, Bart took Noah’s hand and led him

through the dark down the stairs. On the ground floor, Bart con-

tinued to guide Noah, leading him past the kitchen and into the

inky blackness of the dining room. They only stopped when they

reached a window overlooking the back lawn.

“This is the best vantage point. Stand back from the glass, so they don’t see you.” After delivering those instructions, Bart pointed out the window.

Out in the gazebo, lit only by the moonlight, Quinn and Jimmy

danced slowly in each other’s arms, smiling and oblivious to any-

thing and anyone else.

“That’s the side of Quinn you haven’t seen,” said Bart, his voice

lost in a dream. “Until now.”

Noah watched the men as they danced in the cool night air. “It’s

very romantic.”

“It is.” They watched in silence for several more minutes until

Bart added, “That’s happiness. True happiness. To be with some-

one you love . . . You know, I stand here and watch them and won-

der if I’ll ever be that lucky . . . to love someone, and love them for so long that even in the older years, it’s all still fresh and . . . and joyful.”

“I wonder if Quinn and Jimmy know how lucky they are.”

“I’m sure they do. Look at them.” Bart paused for a moment be-

fore again saying, “I’m sure they do.”

They watched them for a while longer, until Bart gently pulled

on the sleeve of Noah’s robe and said, “Let’s go back upstairs. I

don’t want them to catch me being a voyeur.”

“Do you think they’d mind?” Noah asked, as he followed Bart

back through the dark dining room.

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R o b B y r n e s

“Probably not. But they have their private moment, and they do

it so well. And it’s all theirs. Why let them know I intrude on it?”