The Last Mrs. Parrish(51)

“I know, me too. My doctor said I need to wait another six weeks. Then everything will be healed up. It’s killing me too.” He was getting impatient, and she’d had to make up a new excuse. She told a lame story about having some cysts removed that necessitated holding off on intercourse. When she’d started to get graphic, he’d put his hands up and told her to stop, that he didn’t need to know the details.

“Better get dressed, we’ll be late for the play if we don’t start dinner soon,” she said sweetly. Snap out of it, she wanted to say. They had come into New York to see Fiddler on the Roof and were spending the night at his parents’ apartment across from Central Park. Amber had wanted to see Book of Mormon, but when she’d mentioned it, Gregg had said he wasn’t interested in seeing a religious play.

She’d stupidly agreed to prepare dinner for them before the show—packaged grilled chicken over minute rice and a green salad. Now she was rummaging through cabinets for pots, bowls, and utensils when she felt Gregg bump into her from behind. She turned around and stared at him.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was trying to help you find things.”

“I’ve found everything I need,” she answered curtly.

As Amber turned on the faucet to fill the pot, Gregg’s arm reached out in front of her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m trying to help you. I was going to take the pot from you and put it on the stove.”

“I think I can handle that,” she said, walking to the stove, but Gregg ran ahead of her to turn the burner on, and they collided. The pot bobbled in Amber’s hand, and water flew everywhere, soaking the front of Amber’s dress.

“Oh my gosh. Are you okay?” Gregg said, grabbing a tea towel and pressing it against Amber’s dress.

Are you a flipping moron? she almost yelled, but instead smiled thinly and said, “I’m fine. How about you go sit down, and I’ll finish in here?”

They arrived at the Broadway Theatre in plenty of time, and he went to the bar to get them each a drink. Amber looked around at the magnificent theater while she waited, admiring the grand chandelier in the opulent lobby of red and gold. Gregg returned with their drinks, two glasses of white wine, even though she’d repeatedly told him she preferred red. Did the moron ever listen?

“I think you’ll be pleased with the seats. Front-row orchestra,” he said, brandishing the tickets with a flourish.

“Great. A front-row seat to all that singing.” Amber had seen the movie, and she didn’t really get what all the fuss was about. Fiddler was old news as far as she was concerned. These were his parents’ tickets, and apparently even they weren’t interested in going.

“Have you seen it before?” she asked.

He nodded. “Seven times. It’s my favorite play. I just love the music.”

“Wow, seven times. That must be a record,” Amber said, looking distractedly around the lobby.

Gregg stood up straighter and said with pride, “My family are quite the theater aficionados. Dad buys tickets to all the best shows.”

“How nice for you.”

“Yes, it is. He’s a great man.”

“And what about you?” Amber asked without much interest.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you a great man?” she said, playing with him.

Gregg chuckled. “I will be one day, Amber. I am being groomed right now to be a great man,” he said, looking at her in earnest. “And I hope you will be by my side.”

Amber controlled the urge to laugh in his face and instead said, “We’ll see, Gregg, we’ll see. Shall we go take our seats now?”

Amber found she was enjoying the play despite her earlier reservations. Just when she’d begun to think the evening wasn’t such a waste after all, Gregg started tapping his foot in time to the music. Next he was humming along, and the people around them began to look over.

“Gregg!” she hissed under her breath.

“Huh?”

“You’re humming.”

“Sorry! It’s just so catchy.”

He quieted down, but then began to bob his head back and forth in time to the music. She wanted to slug him.

Three hours later, they left the theater. Amber came away with a headache.

“Feel like a drink?” Gregg asked.

“I guess.” Anything was better than going straight back to his parents’ apartment and being pawed.

“How about Cipriani’s?”

“That sounds fine. Can we grab a cab, though? I don’t want to walk in the rain.”

“Of course.”

“I still don’t get what the big deal was when the young daughter married the Russian,” Gregg said as they were seated in the taxi. “I mean, geez, weren’t the Jews complaining about being judged because of their religion, and then Tevye goes and does the same thing.”

Amber looked at him in astonishment. “You do realize that the Russians were the ones making them leave, right? Also she was marrying outside of her religion.” He had seen this seven times and was still confused?

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But I’m just saying. It’s not very politically correct. But, whatever, the music sure is great.”