When the Stars Come Out (17 page)

neuver.

Without bothering to flip the light switch, Bart opened another

door and stepped back as the door swung in, forcing Noah to wedge

himself against the door to the garage until they could progress

into yet another hallway.

“The kitchen,” said Bart, pointing right, at a door to the rear of the house, “is that way. Chances are good that’s where Quinn and

Jimmy are.” He pointed to the left. “So we’re going this way.”

Again, Noah trailed Bart as they walked down the long corridor,

their tread near-silent on the worn but elegantly detailed carpet.

No artificial lighting was needed now; sunlight spilled down the

hallway from a large window at the end of the passage, which Noah

assumed was the front of the house—an assumption that was con-

firmed when they reached it and he looked out over the front

lawn.

Bart turned right at the end of the hall and they entered the foyer.

The large room opened two stories to the roof, wooden beams criss-

crossing the vast emptiness above them.

“Nice, huh?” asked Bart.

Noah made a 360-degree inspection. The room was low on

décor: three small tables, each holding a vase of showy flowers but otherwise impractical; an intricate Persian rug covering roughly

half the floor space; and a half-dozen small, oval mirrors mounted on the walls that Noah instinctively knew were antique. Besides the minimalist decorating, the two men were the only things in the

room. But Noah had to admit that the foyer made for a grand en-

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trance into Casa Scott—for those people who, unlike him, didn’t

have to enter through the garage, that was.

He had seen his fair share of Hamptons mansions, and Quinn

Scott’s was impressive without being overwhelming. He liked the

openness and light in the foyer. There was that thirty-foot ceiling, for example, and the exterior wall with eight windows enhancing

the feeling of size in the room by flooding it in natural light. The foyer was framed by two wide staircases, curving slightly as they rose to a second-floor hallway overlooking the foyer, exposed behind a

wooden railing. Beyond that railing was a hallway into the build-

ing’s interior, mirroring a similar entrance off the ground floor.

“So
. . .
you like it?” Noah abruptly realized that Bart had been trying to get his attention while he studied the room.

“Nice,” Noah agreed. “It feels . . . airy.”

“It
is
airy. The entire house is airy.” Bart began walking toward the hallway off the foyer, and Noah followed. “Did I tell you that Quinn designed the place?”

“He’s an architect?”

Bart laughed. “No. But he sketched out a design and hired an

architect, in case you’re afraid it’s going to fall down on you.”

Noah shook his head. “I’m really not concerned.”

“Quinn and Jimmy had the house built in the early ’80s,” Bart

continued, as they walked. “They used to live about a half mile away, but this is their dream house. The only way they’re leaving here is feet first.”

Twenty feet off the foyer, the hallway split. To the right, it opened into a formal dining room, and Noah could see that there were other rooms—had they wandered back to the proximity of the kitchen?—

beyond it. To the left was the living room, decorated in neutral hues right down to the sand-colored carpet. It was into that room that Bart next led him.

“Wait here for a second,” he said. “I’ll find Quinn and Jimmy.”

Bart walked through the living room, then, sliding open a glass

door, stepped out onto the patio, leaving Noah behind. He dropped

his overnight bag and stood almost motionless, scanning the titles on a bookshelf until
. . .

“Who the fuck are you?”

Startled, Noah spun in the direction of the gravelly voice until

he saw a familiar face he had never seen before.

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113

Quinn Scott.

“I asked you who the fuck you are.”

It was definitely Quinn Scott. He was much older now, of course,

but it was him, dressed in jeans and a brown plaid shirt that looked as if it came straight from the men’s department at Sears.

“I asked . . .”

“I’m Noah,” he gasped, belatedly realizing he had not answered

the man. “I’m
. . .
I’m a friend of Bart.”

The older man studied him suspiciously, and Noah felt strangely

as if he had stepped into a Quinn Scott film noir from the 1950s,

and they were now in black and white, the villain of
Port Richmond
facing down the innocent hero. Until, that is, the villain hollered:

“
Bart
!”

From outside, they heard the sounds of someone rushing across

the lawn toward the house, bumping into objects in his path in the process. And then Bart, panting for breath, slid open the glass door and stumbled back into the living room.

“Quinn!” he said as he struggled for breath. “I was looking for

you outside.”

A finger was jabbed in Noah’s direction and the old man asked,

“He a friend of yours?”

“That’s Noah. The guy I told you was visiting for the weekend.”

Quinn Scott kept a wary eye on the intruder. Again he sized him

up carefully, then—seemingly satisfied—said, “Okay.” With that, he turned and left the room.

They waited until he was out of earshot before speaking.

“So
. . .
now you’ve met Quinn,” said Bart.

“Friendly guy.”

“He’s really not that bad. It just takes him some time to get com-

fortable.” Bart looked in the general direction of Quinn’s depar-

ture. “Grab your bag and I’ll give you the rest of the tour.”

“Will we be running into him again?”

Bart smiled. “It’s a big house. Come on.”

At the far corner of the living room was another staircase lead-

ing to the upper floor. They ascended, the steps emitting hollow

squeaks under their footfalls, until they reached the second level and yet another hallway. This one ran along the back of the house, meeting the center hallway—the one that lead to the overlook of

the foyer—in a T at its midpoint.

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“This place is like a maze,” Noah observed, trying to reconcile

the layout of the house in his head.

“Nah. You’ll get used to it. There’s a pattern.” Bart held out his hand, palm out, and with a finger tried to diagram the flow of the house. “The East Wing is where we came in. The garage, dining

room, kitchen
. . .
they’re all in the East Wing. The West Wing has the living room and study downstairs, and master bedroom upstairs.

Follow?” Noah shrugged. “The guest rooms—and my room—are

above the kitchen and dining room. Oh
. . .
and there are staircases in each corner.” He pointed four times, indicating the approxi-mate locations, and Noah thought he looked like a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits.

“So where do we sleep?” Noah asked finally, and for the first time it occurred to him that, under this strange roof, they might not

sleep together. He hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Down here.”

Bart escorted Noah to his room, pointing out one last stair-

case—or, as Noah now chose to think of it, another emergency

exit—that led from outside his bedroom door to an alcove between

the dining room and kitchen below. He took Noah’s bag and set it

next to the bed.

“And now,” said Bart, taking the willing Noah in his arms, “I

think we need to get reacquainted.”

Quinn Scott didn’t like having visitors. In all his years in

Southampton, he had welcomed only a handful of people into his

home. It was his private space, and every visitor stole another piece of his privacy.

Still, the boy was lonely. He knew that it couldn’t be easy to be

twenty-eight and leading such a monastic existence, trapped in an

isolated house with two old codgers as his only regular companions.

He could see it in Bart’s eyes when he returned from Manhattan

the previous Sunday, as he prattled on about the wonderful man he

had met. And while Bart had not explicitly said they had had sex, it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. Why the hell else would he

have mentioned his date’s “hot body”?

And if he needed confirmation, it came later that night when

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

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Bart beamed for hours after Mr. Hot Body called him. It was all so sickeningly sweet that Quinn was considering never letting him out of the house again.

He hobbled toward the kitchen, where he knew he’d find Jimmy.

If Jimmy wasn’t on the patio soaking up sun, he was always in the

kitchen. He was just that predictable.

And, yes, Quinn was hobbling, dammit. He was on his second

hip, and it was no more comfortable than the original. He was only seventy-two, too young to be an invalid. Despite the discomfort,

though, he resisted using a cane. If Quinn Scott was going to dete-riorate, he was going to go down kicking, screaming, and unassisted.

Jimmy was in the kitchen, as he knew he would be. Their dog,

Camille—half yellow lab and half shar-pei—sat at his feet, her pink and black tongue waiting for scraps to fall from the cutting board.

“Cocktail?” Jimmy asked, taking a sip from a glass of merlot be-

fore returning it to the counter.

“I’m not here for my health.”

“I love it when you sweet-talk me.”

Jimmy turned to the freezer, the former dancer’s fluid move-

ment every bit as graceful as it had been in his youth. And, with his partner’s back to him, Quinn also had an opportunity to marvel
at
that ass
. Sixty-two years old and still as firm as it had been when they met thirty-six years earlier. Jimmy was the opposite of Quinn: eternally youthful and able bodied. Sometimes Quinn resented him for

that.

Jimmy grabbed an ice cube tray from the freezer, turned back,

and began making Quinn’s drink.

“So is Bart’s friend here yet?” he asked as he poured.

“Mr. Hot Body? He’s here.”

“And?”

“Cute enough, I suppose, if you like them on the short side.”

“So,” said Jimmy, putting the finishing touches on the drink. “I

guess we’ll have to start calling him ‘Bart’s Little Friend.’”

Quinn smiled and accepted his cocktail.

The two couples largely kept their distance on the first night.

Bart and Noah wanted their time alone, and Quinn and Jimmy—

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well, Quinn, at least—wanted them to be alone. In fact, it was a few minutes after noon on the following day when all four of the men

were in the same room at the same time, when their paths crossed

in the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” asked Jimmy.

“We’re just going to relax on the patio,” said Bart. “Want to join us?”

“Not really,” said Quinn, looking up from the newspaper spread

in front of him on the counter.

Noah looked to the floor, where Camille sat, wagging her tail

lazily.

“What a sweet dog,” he said, reaching to pet her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Quinn. “Not if you want to keep that hand.”

. . .
the hand which Noah quickly retracted.

Even though September was about to become October, the sun

on the patio was unseasonably warm. Bart and Noah put on sun-

glasses and settled into two of the six chairs ringing the glass table that dominated the patio.

After a few minutes of silent satisfaction in each other’s com-

pany, Noah said, “I know you think he’s going to shoot me down,

but I’d still like to talk to him.”

Bart glanced at the house, then his eyes returned to Noah.

“When the time is right. I’ll let you know.”

Noah nodded, and retreated into silence.

The sound of the sliding door to the kitchen finally interrupted

the quiet.

“Bart.” They heard Quinn’s voice before they had a chance to

turn around. “We’re out of tequila.”

Bart sighed. “I didn’t drink it.”

“I know that. You’re the last person in this house I’d accuse.” He cleared his throat, loudly, and projected his voice back into the kitchen. “You think I don’t know who the boozehound is around here?”

From somewhere unseen, Jimmy’s voice sang out. “Before you

go accusing, look in the mirror!”

Quinn snorted. “Listen to Princess Cuervo.” Turning his atten-

tion again to Bart he tried as hard as possible to sound pleasant.

“Bart, would you make a liquor store run?”

Again, Bart sighed. Without answering, he turned to Noah and

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117

said, “Even though it’s my day off, I probably should go. Servitude never ends around here. Do you mind?”

“Do you want company?”

“Sit,” said Bart, rising from the chair. “I’ll only be ten minutes.”

“We need limes, too,” said Quinn.

“
Twelve
minutes.”

Only when Bart was gone did Quinn finally limp away from his

perch in the doorway, making his way slowly to Bart’s still-warm

chair. Quinn looked at Noah; Noah looked at Quinn; and then

they both looked off to some distant spot in the lawn, far away from each other.

Quinn spoke first.

“So you’re a writer.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Any good?”

“
I
think so.”

Quinn smiled. “Good answer. I like confident people.”

Noah took off his sunglasses and turned to Quinn, shielding his

eyes from the sun with one hand. Bart had said he’d tell him when