When the Stars Come Out (13 page)

I
. . .
uh
. . .
am I moving too fast?”

Noah reached across the table and put his hand on Bart’s fore-

arm. “You know how I feel. The geography is tough. But I’m trying

to keep an open mind. Especially . . .” He looked down at the fullness in his lap. “Yeah, I’m keeping a
very
open mind right now.”

Bart smiled
. . .
Noah smiled
. . .
The background music—something very operatic, heavy with strings—swelled. It was all very over the top and romantic, the way the realization that two people have just felt a mutual attraction is over the top and romantic, even when the food is hot dogs and the background music is traffic.

But, as he thought about what he wanted to say, Bart’s broad

smile wavered until it began to resemble a nervous tic. “Okay, I

need to tell you something. You’ve heard of Quinn Scott, right?”

“The name is familiar.” Noah struggled, then somewhat placed

it. “Isn’t he an actor? Umm, some television show?
The Brothers
, or something like that?”

Bart nodded, then shook his head in contradiction. “That’s

Quinn Scott, Jr: Q. J. He plays Mikey on
The Brothers-in-Law
.”

“I think I’ve seen that,” Noah confessed, with great humility.

“He’s one of the brothers-in-law who move in together when their

wives leave them, right? And the other one is
. . .
uh . . . Jason St.

Clair.”

“Right. Quinn, Jr.—Q. J.—is the son of Quinn Sr., and that’s who

I work for. You might remember him from television, too. Or one

of his movies.”

Noah drew a blank. “Refresh my memory.”

“
Philly Cop
?”

A ping sounded deep in Noah’s memory. Had he watched that

show in reruns decades ago, sitting cross legged in front of the

huge television console? Yes, he thought he had.

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R o b B y r n e s

“He was the detective, right? Tall, good looking, far-too-serious

guy? And almost every week he and his partner ended up chasing

some murderer over rooftops?”

Bart smiled. “That was the show. That was Quinn.”

“Wow,” said Noah, strangely comforted by those childhood

memories. “How long ago was that?”

“Late ’60s. Something like that.”

“And what has he done since?”

“Not much.”

“So he’s been retired for a while?”

“You could say that. But he and his—” Bart stopped abruptly,

thought for a split second and edited his response. “But he in-

vested wisely when he had money, so he doesn’t have any financial

concerns. He’s lucky. You know, a lot of actors blow their money

when they make it, thinking the bubble will never burst. At least he was wise enough to hold onto his paychecks. He’s sort of a financial genius.”

“Why isn’t he acting anymore?”

Bart, again, became thoughtful before speaking. “Let’s just say

that after
Philly Cop
went off the air
. . .
well, he went through a nasty divorce.”

“A divorce? A divorce killed his career? It’s Hollywood. I thought it worked the opposite way.”

“I guess it depends on who you divorce,” said Bart dryly. “In his

case, Quinn was married to a woman with a lot more star power,

and when things ended badly, she made him pay.”

“Who?”

Again, a pensive look crossed Bart’s face; but, again, he contin-

ued. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Kitty Randolph.”

“Oh my God!” Realizing he had squealed, Noah tried to modu-

late his voice. “She’s great!”

“I suppose. She’s also Quinn Scott’s ex-wife.
And
Q. J. Scott’s mother, which is one of the reasons Quinn doesn’t have much contact with his son.”

“And you work for him? What’s he like? He must have a lot of

stories.”

“Quinn is a very private man,” Bart continued. “He doesn’t talk

about his old career much. It was . . .” Bart paused, searching for words. “Let’s just say he has some painful memories.”

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Noah nodded. As the child of divorce—the child of several di-

vorces, if you added in his father’s second—he thought it only

proper to convey sadness over the bitter breakup. “I understand.

So tell me what he’s like.”

Bart shook his head. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,

but Quinn is very private, and I am very loyal, and I really don’t feel comfortable right now.”

Noah stiffened. Secrets had not been his friends recently. “Oh.

Okay.”

His mind began drifting back to the mess that was The Project.

There was something about the way Bart protected Quinn Scott’s

privacy that brought those closed mouths in Washington to the

forefront of his brain. He wasn’t happy about the way it was con-

suming him at even the most inappropriate times.

Bart took a sip from his wineglass. He wasn’t exactly sure what

he had said, but he could see Noah go to a dark place, and knew

that if the date could be rescued, it would have to be rescued quickly.

“So what are you thinking about?”

Noah snorted; an abrupt, derisive sound that he tried to pass off

as something upbeat, making it all the more unreadable.

“I’m thinking,” he said, “that I have a book to write, but nothing to write about.”

“The political book?” Noah nodded. “It sounds interesting to

me.”

“You’re just being nice.”

“No. I’d tell you . . .”

“It’s a mess. The only reason to write a book like that is to reach a conclusion
. . .
to make a difference. But I’m not learning anything, and if I’m not getting it, how can I expect readers to get it?”

“You’re getting that some people are still afraid to come out,

aren’t you?”

Noah shook his head. “That’s
not
news.”

“I guess not.”

Noah looked at Bart, determined to change the subject and get

away from The Project. Slightly.

“And how ‘out’ are you?” he asked, in a tone he hoped wasn’t

confrontational.

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t a deal-breaker,” Noah continued. “I’m just curious.”

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Bart smiled. “This is starting to sound like a real date.”

“Was I getting too personal? Sorry.”

“I’m out.” Pause. “Enough. As for my family, let’s just say that

everyone knows, but it’s sort of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.’”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“They know, and I know that they know, and we don’t really talk

about it. It’s too uncomfortable, so for all concerned it’s easier if it’s not discussed.”

“That must be difficult.”

“Surprisingly not. In fact, it’s quite easy. I suppose if I ever meet the right man, that will change. But that hasn’t happened yet, so

there’s no reason to make it a topic of conversation.” He leaned

forward, touching Noah’s hand across the table. “Let’s say, if you were the right man . . .”

Noah smiled. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? I don’t

know that we benefit from adding pressure to the date. Remember:

I’m from Washington, and you’re from the Hamptons.”

“Uh
. . .
you’re right.” And Bart knew that while Noah was, technically, right, he felt something. And he was certain that Noah did, too. The very fact that he had not yet walked away told him that.

But Noah had issued a warning to slow down, so Bart would have

to do his best to reel himself in.

“Sorry for bringing the topic up,” Noah said. “I didn’t mean to

make our date too serious. But it’s a subject that’s near and dear to my heart, after all these months of dealing with people who hide in the closet.”

“I know
. . .
I know
. . .
But maybe you’d be able to relate to them better if you had a little empathy.”

Noah was shocked. “I have empathy!”

Bart shrugged. “If you say so.”

“No,” said Noah, with more insistence. “I have a lot of empathy.

I really feel for those people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m trying to help them, Bart. Not hurt them.”

“I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s just that I don’t think you

know what it’s like to struggle with your sexual identity. I know

you’re trying to help the people you’re writing about, but I don’t think you know how to relate to them. And that’s why this is so frustrating to you.”

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Noah thought about that for a moment. “You sound like my fa-

ther,” he said.

“Just my two cents.” Bart smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“Take it or leave it. If I was that smart, I’d be writing my own book.”

Noah tried to shrug off the criticism. After all, Bart himself had noted that it wasn’t his area of expertise, and it certainly wasn’t his father’s, so their words carried only so much weight. Maybe, Noah

thought, he could glean a little insight from them
. . .
but only a little.

“So
. . .
Quinn Scott. Are you out to
him
?”

Bart smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, Noah. I am out to Quinn.

I am out to my family. I am pretty much out to everyone who would

care in any way about who or what I sleep with. Now have I an-

swered all your questions about this?”

“I’m just surprised that the macho Philly Cop would have an

openly gay personal assistant.”

“Why?” asked Bart. “He was an actor, after all. Even John Wayne

probably knew gay people. He just doesn’t care about these things.”

“Sorry,” said Noah, backing off.

“Ah, shit.” Bart tossed his napkin on the table and looked into

Noah’s dark eyes, realizing that he was going to have to explain

himself if there was any hope of
anything
transpiring between them.

He would have to trust Noah, and hope that trust was not mis-

placed.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” He paused, giving himself one last opportunity to back

out. He passed on it, forcing himself to forge ahead and trust.

“Sorry if I sound a bit defensive, but
. . .
here’s the deal. Quinn is gay.”

“
What
?!”

“Shhhh.” Bart looked around the immediate vicinity of the table,

only continuing when he was certain no one was eavesdropping.

“It’s sort of a secret, okay? He’s not very open about it. But that’s the reason Kitty Randolph divorced him and Quinn left Hollywood.”

“I can’t believe something like that is still a secret.”

“Well, it is.” Bart leaned closer. “Listen, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. So
please
don’t spread it around, okay?” Noah nodded a silent agreement. “So now at least you know why I was being secretive and defensive. Part of my job is to protect Quinn and Jimmy’s privacy.”

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“Jimmy?”

“Quinn’s partner. Quinn’s partner since 1969.”

“That’s commitment,” said Noah.

Bart smiled. “I think it’s great. And they’re good to me, so please don’t do anything that will cause me to lose my job.”

“I think I can make that promise,” Noah said, as he dabbed at

the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

After Bart’s revelation, any dark clouds that had threatened their date seemed to disappear, and, as both of them left their earlier

guardedness behind through confession and drink, the evening

continued on a much lighter note. Those touchy subjects—Quinn

Scott, the book, and even the logistical improbability of a second date—were soon swept away as they indulged in some Hell’s

Kitchen barhopping.

By the time they finished at the third and last bar of the evening, both men had grown giddy in each other’s company, to the point

at which it was no surprise that even Noah—wary, ambivalent

Noah—reached up, took Bart’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

“I’m having fun,” he said, after his lips left Bart’s.

“Me, too.”

Noah stared deeply and drunkenly into Bart’s brown eyes.
Was

he sure he wanted to say it? Yes, he thought he was.

“Come home with me tonight.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. Oh, God yes, okay!”

They walked through the lobby, their heels making the slightest

click on the polished marble floor. Gustav looked up from his

newspaper as they passed his station, smiled in recognition, and returned to the
Post
’s write-up of the previous day’s Yankees game.

After passing the desk, Noah took Bart’s hand and led him down

the central corridor to the bank of two elevators at the rear of the building. He pushed a button and the polished doors on the right

opened immediately, revealing a diminutive woman and her leashed

toy poodle.

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“Good evening, Mrs. Levy,” Noah said with a smile, as she stepped

out of the cage.

“Good
. . .
good evening,” she answered, first merely eyeing the two men suspiciously, then drawing a sharp breath when she saw

they were holding hands.

Noah held his smile and addressed the dog. “Have a nice walk.”

Mrs. Levy walked away, not quite comprehending what she had

just seen. All she could process was that Mrs. Abraham’s boy-toy was now holding hands with
another young man
, at which point her brain refused to work anymore.

When she was gone, Noah broke into drunken giggles, which in-

fected Bart as they took her place on the elevator.

“I suppose I should ask why we’re laughing,” he said, as the ele-

vator began to climb. “The hand-holding?”