When the Stars Come Out (33 page)

with twenty-five dollars, come September.”

Noah didn’t reply, so it was up to David to draw him out.

“So what is this story he wants to tell? Okay, somehow you got

him to mention Kitty Randolph, and good for you, because
that
is the story here. But there will only be so much play in that. Some

national publicity—book reviews and all that—should take care of

that. What else is on his mind?”

“
His
story,” said Noah. “Not so much Kitty’s, but his.”

David sighed. “In other words, we’re back to square one. If he’s

all excited about being another retired actor to come out of the

closet, that’s admirable. But that story has been told. Richard

Chamberlain . . . Tab Hunter . . .”

“That’s not the story. He wants to tell a story of . . .” Noah paused, closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and forced the word out. “Love.”

“Love? So we’re back to that again!”

“Yes. Love.”

David stared at Noah, searching for words. When they came, his

voice was strangely lyrical, although accompanied by the dripping

sarcasm he had really hoped to avoid on his very pleasant walk to

the office.

“Yes, of course. Love is a beautiful thing, isn’t it, Noah? Love,

well . . . love makes life worth living. Love makes even the harshest aspects of life tolerable. It makes the world go ’round, they say, and it’s also a many-splendored thing. And for Quinn Scott to know

love is . . . well, it’s as if Quinn Scott has personally, with his own two hands, reinvented the universe. I daresay that the world will

never be the same, now that Quinn Scott has written the story of

love!”

“I know, I know—”

“I think I’d better order extra printings of his book right away!

This will outsell the Bible! And please tell Quinn that I will now personally make arrangements for his book tour. Not just twelve

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

219

cities, either. Will fifty cities be enough? No, of course not. How about eight thousand?”

Noah held up a hand to stop him. “David, I’m on your side . . .”

“Do you think he’ll write me another book, Noah? I could really

use a how-to on world peace.”

“David . . .”

“If we’re going to give him a major tour to promote his book on

wrinkly, naked, old-guy gay love, it’s the least I can do.”

Noah sat back, wishing the stream of sarcasm would finally end.

Which, abruptly, it did.

Unfortunately for Noah, David only stopped to lean forward

across his desk, his eyes blazing. One pudgy finger jabbed across

the desk, punctuating each clipped syllable. He was now solidly in a black mood, having done a complete emotional U-turn in a few short minutes.

“Noah, I would like you to take a message back to Quinn Scott.

Feel free to be blunt, or feel free to be diplomatic, but—whatever you do—make sure that this gets through to him. PMC wrapped up

a lot of money in his biography, via his advance,
your
advance, advertising and publicity, and production, and we have received very little in return. When this book hits the shelves next month, I want him ready to get out there and talk.”

“Gotcha.”

“And not on my dime.”

“Gotcha.”

“And while he is free to talk about his love for Jimmy Beloit,

what the world
really
wants to know about is Kitty Randolph. He would be well advised to keep that in mind.”

“Gotcha.”

“I should have written this project off, but I am taking a chance

on his memoirs because, for some strange reason, I feel an obliga-

tion to his courage—not
unprecedented
courage, but courage—in coming out at his age. I hope that it will provide some comfort to other gay people, and help them find their own paths. But . . .” He stopped abruptly, then shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“I know,” Noah agreed. “Quinn has to get realistic about what

he’s accomplished.”

David nodded sadly, and rubbed his temples. “Don’t get me

220

R o b B y r n e s

wrong,” he added. “We’ve got a good book here, and I’m pleased

that PMC is publishing it. But Quinn Scott no longer controls the

agenda. The readers do.” He leaned forward. “More importantly,
I
do.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Noah, nodding sadly himself. “If he doesn’t

see the reality . . . ?”

“If it comes to that,
When the Stars Come Out
won’t be the first disappointing book to be remaindered and pulped a few months later.”

David lost himself in shuffling papers again for a few moments,

then looked back at Noah. “So tell me . . . just what is so special about his love? Longevity?”

“Well,
yeah
! Thirty-six years. The Stonewall Era. And they’re still together and going strong.”

“Very sweet. And as someone who can’t seem to make it past the

two-week mark, let me add, that’s commendable. But I’m afraid it’s of limited appeal.”

“I know. But that was his incentive to write the book. He wants

people to remember the story of Quinn Scott and Jimmy Beloit.”

“I can’t sell the story of Quinn Scott and Jimmy Beloit.”

“I know.” Noah extended his hand. “I hope this doesn’t reflect

badly—”

“On you? Not at all.” His eyes brightened. “And you did, finally,

deliver me a publishable manuscript. Granted, it wasn’t that

Washington exposé I contracted for all those years ago, but I do

think this will sell well. At least, it will sell well unless your actor decides to bore prospective readers with talk about his relationship.”

David rose from his seat and began walking Noah to the door,

never taking a break in his monologue.

“Quinn’s book has enough dish to make it interesting. I would

have liked more, but I’ll take what I can get. He does narrate a

courageous, compelling story, and I do thank you for drawing it all together. But the relationship angle is . . . well, I know that was his incentive to make this very public statement, and—again—I think

it’s wonderful. For both of them. But it’s just not what’s going to sell the book. These men are not Bogie and Bacall; they’re not

Tracy and Hepburn; they’re not even Demi and Ashton. They’re

just two very nice old men living on Long Island who have shared a life together . . . which is nice, but not sexy.”

“I understand.”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

221

At the door, the men shook hands for what was supposed to be

one final time.

“If you want me to talk to him . . .”

“No,” said Noah. “It will be better coming from me.”

“If you need backup . . .” David stopped, looked over Noah’s

shoulder into the endless row of cubicles behind him, and mut-

tered, “Oh God,” as his normally limp handshake grew noticeably

weaker.

Noah turned and saw nothing at first, until he noticed a short,

well-dressed woman steaming toward David’s office, her head only

occasionally visible over the cubicle walls. Finally, she turned a corner and strode straight at them. In her wake, the PMC drones—the

people who did everything from answering phones to mailing out

review copies to copyediting—began to steal away to the other side of the office, as if seeking safety.

“Carlyle!” she snapped when she was just yards away from the

doorway. “We have an appointment!”

David glanced at his watch. “Yes, we do. In three minutes. Right

now I’m finishing my . . .”

She pushed past Noah into David’s office.

“. . . other meeting.”

“I have a plane to catch, so we’ll start now.” Her southern drawl

was all honey, even if her words were not.

“Margaret . . .”

The ugly grimace that had been her face softened, as did her

voice. Now she was a lady . . . although that was largely a matter of degree, since there was still a very hard edge to her.

“Who’s he?” she asked, pointing to Noah and trying to smile.

“Noah Abraham,” said David, “I’d like you to meet Margaret

Campbell. Margaret, Noah is cowriting the Quinn Scott auto-

biography that we’ll be releasing in a few weeks.”

“Who?”

“Quinn Scott,” Noah volunteered. “He was a big actor in the ’60s.”

She shrugged. “Norman, I do apologize for interrupting your

meeting, but I hope you won’t mind, since it was almost over. And I do have that plane to catch.”

“Uh . . . it’s Noah.”

“Of course it is. But David and I have some very important items

to discuss regarding my next book, so if you could just run along . . .”

222

R o b B y r n e s

When she trailed off, David saw an opportunity to jump in and

defuse things a bit by appealing to her ego. “Margaret probably

needs no introduction, but you might know her as the Grande Dame

of the American Mystery.”

“According to
People
,” she added, and Noah couldn’t be sure if she considered that validation, or was deploying self-deprecating

humor.

“Love your books,” he said, and hoped there was no follow-up;

because although he
had
heard of her, he had never read her books.

“Thank you. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us alone . . .”

David’s eyes pleaded with Noah to stay. But there wasn’t much

Noah could do about it, because Margaret Campbell was clearly

about to liberate a pound of flesh from his ass, and she would not let anyone stand in her way.

“I’ll just be going,” Noah said, nodding at David.

“Um, yes, I suppose.” They looked at each other, momentarily

ignoring the Grande Dame of the American Mystery, and said their

good-byes. “Give Quinn my—”

“Mmmm,” mumbled Margaret, loudly and impatiently, after which

she faked an exaggerated cough.

David walked Noah out of his office, then leaned close and whis-

pered, “You’d better get out of here. She’s about to blow.”

“She seems fine.”

“Trust me. I’ve published twelve of her books. I know the beast

quite well.” He stopped; then, swallowing his words, gasped, “Oh

God.”

Noah glanced behind him, scanning the office for the new in-

coming missile. And when he saw it, he, too, gasped.

The PMC office drones, chased away by Hurricane Margaret,

were now popping up from the cubicles, chattering in a hushed

but excited buzz, and craning their necks.

“What’s going on out there?” asked Margaret loudly, no longer

pretending to be a genteel southern lady.

In the doorway, ignoring her, David and Noah both whispered,

at the same time, “Kitty Randolph.”

“Who?” Margaret asked, not quite hearing them. David shushed

her.

Kitty Randolph—head to toe in Chanel, wrists adorned with

Cartier—sashayed slowly down the well-worn industrial carpeting

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

223

as if she were walking a red one. Though short—no taller than

Margaret Campbell, David thought—she commanded respect and

authority as she made her measured way down the aisle, smiling

ever so slightly.

A particularly brave editorial assistant popped up from behind

his cubicle wall, proffering pen and pad, and she stopped, bright-

ened her smile, and signed under the PMC logo. She had done it,

by her own estimate, twenty-two thousand times over a fifty-three-

year career, and she was proud of her ability to make each auto-

graph seeker feel like the first.

After signing her name, she walked determinedly but politely to

the doorway where David and Noah stood, frozen in what each

could not decide was awe, fear, or a little of both.

“Excuse me,” she said, smiling even as she stared down David.

“Would you happen to know where I could find David Carlyle?”

“That . . . that would be me.”

“Mr. Carlyle,” she beamed, taking David’s hand and making

every effort not to recoil when she felt the cold dampness. “I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Kitty Randolph.”

“You, uh, you need no introduction.”

“I hope you don’t mind me bothering you. That very nice re-

ceptionist asked me to wait in the conference room, but I wanted

to see the publishing world in action.” In reality, that very nice re-ceptionist was, at that moment, hiding in a bathroom stall, having been reduced to tears by the not-so-very-nice Kitty Randolph, who

would not take no for an answer. The office manager would find

her forty-five minutes later, still traumatized by the encounter. But, for this brief moment, upon meeting David Carlyle for the very first time, Kitty Randolph dripped more sweetness than she had ever

dripped on the screen, and that was saying a lot.

“Yes, well . . . welcome to the publishing world in action.”

“May I sit down?”

Noah came out of shock just long enough to realize that it was

the perfect moment to escape before he was detected, but was

swept along as Kitty backed the men into the office and, in an act she hoped was perceived as humble, in that it involved a tiny degree of manual labor, took the initiative to close the door. David didn’t quite know how to tell her that he had never closed the door in the thirty years he had had his own office at PMC.

224

R o b B y r n e s

“Who is she?” asked Margaret Campbell loudly, shocking David

and Noah, who had forgotten she was there.

“Margaret,” said David, with a hollow, nervous laugh. “You cer-

tainly remember the great star, Kitty Randolph.”

“Who?”

Kitty put another smile on her face, but this one was clearly