Books by Rob Byrnes
THE NIGHT WE MET
TRUST FUND BOYS
WHEN THE STARS COME OUT
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
WHEN THE STARS COME OUT
ROB BYRNES
KENSINGTON BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corporation
Presents
a Rob Byrnes novel
Noah Abraham
Bart Gustafson
Quinn Scott
Jimmy Beloit
and
Kitty
Randolph
in
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Quinn Scott
Katherine (“Kitty”) Randolph
Introduction
My life has had three acts.
Act One began when I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1934.
Act Two began when I was reborn on a soundstage in Los Angeles, California in 1969, on the day my eyes met the eyes of a stranger.
In those first two acts of my life—almost evenly split, chronologically—I led two very different lives. With my youth came a modest degree of fame; with my middle age came a great degree of love. And through those two acts of my life, I became a complete individual.
Now, as I enter my golden years, comes Act Three. The third act is where the plotlines are all drawn together, and you learn if you have been watching comedy unfold, or tragedy.
This is my story…
Los Angeles, California, September 1969
Step left. Step left. Turn to the right. Remember to keep a bounce in your knees. Step right. Turn to the left…
He moved across the floor of the soundstage, and hundreds of hours of rehearsals ran through his head. If he wasn’t particularly elegant or light on his feet, his movements were fluid, showing no trace of self-consciousness.
Turn right. Look at her. Hold the gaze. Smile…and…
She stopped singing.
Sing.
We have the moon, we have romance,
We have to take this one last chance,
So take my hand,
And take me out,
To somewhere where we’ll see the stars come out.
He sang his five lines to her in an unexceptional yet on-key baritone, and when he was done she picked up the song again. Then, again, he was dancing the steps that had been drilled into his head and his legs over hundreds—or was that thousands?—of hours of rehearsals.
Step right. Step right. Turn away. Remember to bounce. Slide to the right. Turn back. Turn away. Step…
He pivoted at the hip to look at her one last time, and when he turned away from her yet again, well …
That was when their eyes met.
For decades after that moment, they would describe it as “The Glance.” It was immortalized on film, made timeless by the cameras that captured it that day. But that was just the bonus … the moment they could replay over and over again, watching themselves in all their youthful glory.
More importantly—much more importantly—The Glance would be forever immortalized in their hearts.
For decades, they would agree that it had been a good day on the soundstage, which was fortunate, because it was also one of their last days on a soundstage. The Glance began a relationship, ended another relationship, destroyed some careers, and began others. It drove some people apart and taught others how to love.
But whenever Quinn Scott and Jimmy Beloit thought back to that day when their eyes locked on that soundstage, it was as if nothing bad had ever happened in their lives. It was as if theirs were not the careers destroyed, and they had not been the ones evicted from Eden.
Because they had found each other. And that, they knew, was all that was important.
At least, for the first thirty-six years. The thirty-seventh year, on the other hand, would prove to be a bit more problematic.
New York City, September 1970
It was Friday, which meant it was Date Night.
Every Friday since they had returned from their honeymoon had been Date Night, and this Friday would be no different. Even though the husband was growing slightly bored with the marriage … even though the wife was growing impressively pregnant with their first child … even though the night in New York was cold and wet … it was Friday, and it was Date Night. If it had been a federal law instead of a married couple’s custom, the Friday pattern could not have been followed more rigorously.
For Max and Frieda Abraham, Date Night followed a pattern that had, over the five years of their marriage, slowly evolved from a way to keep the relationship fresh into a numbing routine. They would dress and be out the door of their Park Avenue apartment—too expensive for their struggling budget, and too far uptown to be fashionable—no later than 6:30. They would indulge themselves with a cab, when they could find one, and travel to a movie theater somewhere north of Forty-second Street, the demarcation line at which they felt a cab ride would become cost prohibitive. They would almost always catch a movie, followed by a late dinner. And, after dinner, they would cab back to the apartment, arriving home no later than midnight. Frieda would go straight to bed, and Max would join her an hour or so later, first stopping to pore over the work he inevitably brought home in his briefcase, preparing for another long Saturday in the law office.
After almost 280 Date Nights, they both knew it was growing stale. Now, on most Date Nights, they barely spoke, except to review the movie they had just seen, or to review the food they were eating. Frequently, they both thought that they should tell the other that the routine-breaker had become a routine, but then they thought better of it, under the mistaken impression that their spouse still needed the break and that Date Night somehow continued to keep their relationship fresh and romantic.
Date Night on the third Friday of September 1970 started with a cab ride through rain-slicked streets to a theater near the Plaza Hotel, where they watched the colorful Kitty Randolph musical, When the Stars Come Out. For a new film, Max thought, it was already dated; a lavish Technicolor