get together.”
“Did you ask where his home is? Maybe he’s from DC, too!”
Noah shook his head. “Let’s drop it, all right?”
78
R o b B y r n e s
*
*
*
It had been twenty minutes since his encounter with Noah the
writer, and Bart Gustafson had spent seventeen of them regretting
that, as impractical as the dinner date he had proposed would have been, Noah wouldn’t take a chance. It had to be more than coincidence that their paths kept crossing. And it wasn’t as if Bart was proposing marriage . . . although, he acknowledged to himself that he probably wouldn’t object if the dinner date spilled over into a sleepover. That, at least, would rescue his vacation.
But maybe Noah was right. Bart, too, had his responsibilities,
and responsibility dictated that he return to Southampton no later than Sunday. Maybe a date between two men who very likely would
never see each other again wasn’t a great idea.
Then again, was it that bad of an idea? If nothing else, maybe
he’d even discover that Noah was really a writer. Whatever . . .
Noah had made the decision for both of them, so there wouldn’t
be a date and they’d never know why fate kept bringing them to-
gether.
He glanced at his watch. It was early—only a few minutes after
six—but he had already broken his three-beer rule. Now he had to
try to justify extending it, making it a five-beer rule. It was the second-to-last night of Bart’s Sanity Tour, after all. And, more importantly, he had no place better to be.
And then that woman, Noah’s stepmother, was at his side. He
smiled at her, noticing as he did that she was weaving slightly.
“Pardon me if I’m interfering,” she said, “but Noah is a really nice guy.”
“I’m sure of that,” he agreed.
“And he’s a catch.”
Bart laughed. “Are you trying to be a matchmaker?”
“No!” she insisted, ringing a false note. “I’m just saying that he’s a catch.” She lifted up on tiptoe, steadying herself against Bart’s solid body, and whispered in the general direction of his ear. “He’s just a little . . . wary of getting involved.”
“Did he tell you I asked him to dinner?”
“You did?” She looked out to the porch, where Noah was strug-
gling in his attempt to finally bond with the Four Stooges. “No, he didn’t tell me that. So what did he say?”
“I don’t think he’s interested.”
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
79
She sighed. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
He thought about that before answering. “Honestly, I’m not
sure. I mean, maybe he’s right. If we’re both just passing through New York, maybe it’s not worth it. And I have had one hell of a bad vacation . . . besides meeting you and Noah, that is.”
She put a hand on his back. “Vacations aren’t supposed to be
miserable. That’s what people have jobs for.” She took another glance at the porch and added, “Wait right here for a minute.”
Bart’s eyes followed her as she walked outside and started an an-
imated conversation with Noah. He sipped his Corona, watching
them for the next several minutes, until she began talking to the
other smokers and Noah, clearly on the losing end of the discus-
sion, walked back into the bar.
“About dinner,” he said softly as he approached Bart. “Are you
still interested?”
“Listen, don’t feel obligated. Your stepmother sort of took this
on herself. I didn’t ask her.”
“But it can’t hurt, can it? And you’ve had a bad vacation, right?
It’s the least I could do as a guest New Yorker.”
Bart smiled. “No, it can’t hurt. And you don’t know the half of
my vacation.”
“So,” asked Noah, “do you like Italian?”
And so it came to pass that telephone numbers and last names
were exchanged and reservations were to be made for 7:30 the fol-
lowing evening.
Maybe, Bart thought, as he climbed onto the sleeper sofa a few
hours later after having once again revisited his
“Did you ask where his home is? Maybe he’s from DC, too!”
Noah shook his head. “Let’s drop it, all right?”
78
R o b B y r n e s
*
*
*
It had been twenty minutes since his encounter with Noah the
writer, and Bart Gustafson had spent seventeen of them regretting
that, as impractical as the dinner date he had proposed would have been, Noah wouldn’t take a chance. It had to be more than coincidence that their paths kept crossing. And it wasn’t as if Bart was proposing marriage . . . although, he acknowledged to himself that he probably wouldn’t object if the dinner date spilled over into a sleepover. That, at least, would rescue his vacation.
But maybe Noah was right. Bart, too, had his responsibilities,
and responsibility dictated that he return to Southampton no later than Sunday. Maybe a date between two men who very likely would
never see each other again wasn’t a great idea.
Then again, was it that bad of an idea? If nothing else, maybe
he’d even discover that Noah was really a writer. Whatever . . .
Noah had made the decision for both of them, so there wouldn’t
be a date and they’d never know why fate kept bringing them to-
gether.
He glanced at his watch. It was early—only a few minutes after
six—but he had already broken his three-beer rule. Now he had to
try to justify extending it, making it a five-beer rule. It was the second-to-last night of Bart’s Sanity Tour, after all. And, more importantly, he had no place better to be.
And then that woman, Noah’s stepmother, was at his side. He
smiled at her, noticing as he did that she was weaving slightly.
“Pardon me if I’m interfering,” she said, “but Noah is a really nice guy.”
“I’m sure of that,” he agreed.
“And he’s a catch.”
Bart laughed. “Are you trying to be a matchmaker?”
“No!” she insisted, ringing a false note. “I’m just saying that he’s a catch.” She lifted up on tiptoe, steadying herself against Bart’s solid body, and whispered in the general direction of his ear. “He’s just a little . . . wary of getting involved.”
“Did he tell you I asked him to dinner?”
“You did?” She looked out to the porch, where Noah was strug-
gling in his attempt to finally bond with the Four Stooges. “No, he didn’t tell me that. So what did he say?”
“I don’t think he’s interested.”
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
79
She sighed. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
He thought about that before answering. “Honestly, I’m not
sure. I mean, maybe he’s right. If we’re both just passing through New York, maybe it’s not worth it. And I have had one hell of a bad vacation . . . besides meeting you and Noah, that is.”
She put a hand on his back. “Vacations aren’t supposed to be
miserable. That’s what people have jobs for.” She took another glance at the porch and added, “Wait right here for a minute.”
Bart’s eyes followed her as she walked outside and started an an-
imated conversation with Noah. He sipped his Corona, watching
them for the next several minutes, until she began talking to the
other smokers and Noah, clearly on the losing end of the discus-
sion, walked back into the bar.
“About dinner,” he said softly as he approached Bart. “Are you
still interested?”
“Listen, don’t feel obligated. Your stepmother sort of took this
on herself. I didn’t ask her.”
“But it can’t hurt, can it? And you’ve had a bad vacation, right?
It’s the least I could do as a guest New Yorker.”
Bart smiled. “No, it can’t hurt. And you don’t know the half of
my vacation.”
“So,” asked Noah, “do you like Italian?”
And so it came to pass that telephone numbers and last names
were exchanged and reservations were to be made for 7:30 the fol-
lowing evening.
Maybe, Bart thought, as he climbed onto the sleeper sofa a few
hours later after having once again revisited his
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