20. CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
brADY
J ust like that, we are serious.
I can’t get enough of Gretchen, and the feeling appears to be mutual. Actually, I know it is, because exactly one week later we’re having dinner at her parents’ house.
We’ve come up with a story that is 75% true.
We work together at the Diamond Excelsior, and I live next door for the summer.
That’s it. Nice and simple. She doesn’t feel comfortable explaining our real occupations and I don’t blame her; it’s embarrassing, and especially considering these are her parents , I really don’t want them to lose all respect for me straight out of the gate.
She explains that her family is very tight knit.
She and her mother share almost everything, and her father is your typical, overprotective dad.
He happens to be the Eastport Chief of Police, too.
Not that I’m intimidated by that, but… well, you know.
It might be a little less nerve wracking to meet her dad if he was, say, an investment banker or an accountant – someone with whom I might have a little in common with.
I could make myself seem like a guy who’s on the up and up, worthy of his daughter, as opposed to a couch surfing glorified waiter, which sadly is a huge step up from my current reality of sausage-slinging stripper.
The fact that w e’re having dinner on a Tuesday makes sense given our respective “professions,” since Tuesday was always a slow night at the restaurant and the pub. I pick Gretchen up (read: I walk 30 feet and knock on her door) at 4:00 p.m., and she lets me in with a smile. She’s wearing an apron.
“Smells delicious. And you look adorable,” I say, giving her a kiss.
“Thank you! Brownies. They’re always my contribution when we have a family meal.” She points to the bouquet of flowers I’m carrying. “Aw. Are those for me?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, babe. These are actually for your mom.”
“Oh my goodness, Brady! She’s going to love you. That’s so sweet.”
“I didn’t know what to get your dad, so I was thinking maybe we could swing by the liquor store on the way up and you can tell me what he likes to drink?”
“Dad’s fine with beer. We can grab a six pack of Cape Cod Blonde and he’ll be very happy. I never bring him anything. Except the brownies, of course.”
We head to the car, stop at the store, acquire provisions. By the time we get to her parents’ house, I find that I’m working extremely hard to keep the butterflies in check.
“I promise you, Brady. They’re going to love you,” she whispers as we walk up the crushed seashell driveway to the cottage.
It’s robin's egg blue with a lineup of hydrangeas in the front surrounding a modest porch.
The window boxes are overflowing with petunias in every color imaginable.
This h ome is clearly occupied by an artist. My mother would adore it.
Gretchen’s mom swings the door open wide. “Sweetheart!” she exclaims. “Don’t you look beautiful!” Then, to me, “Hello! You must be Brady. I’m Annie. It’s so nice to meet you.” She leans in and with both arms, brings us in for a warm, if awkward, three-way hug.
“Hi, Mom,” Gretchen says. Annie Andrews smells like lavender.
When the hug ends, I can’t help but notice that she and Gretchen look like peas in a pod.
The only major difference is Annie is brunette and Gretchen’s hair has faded to pink.
But they both share the same freckles, the same rounded cheeks and the same button nose.
Gretchen hands over her square pan of brownies. “You cut your hair. It looks great.”
“I did!” She fluffs up her bob and offers a wide smile.
“Here, Mrs. Andrews. These are for you,” I say, handing over the bouquet.
“Well, aren’t these lovely? Thank you, Brady! Such a gorgeous mix of happy colors. I love them. Please, call me Annie,” she goes on. “We’re not super formal here. Come inside! I can’t wait to hear all the details about how you two got together.”
We follow her through the door, and as expected, the inside of their home is just as pretty as the outside.
There are paintings of nautical landscapes on the walls, several family photos, and no shortage of pictures of Gretchen as a little girl.
The skylights let the late-day sun into the living room, and the kitchen spills out onto an expansive back dec k, where a man stands holding a pair of barbeque tongs, facing a wide grill with his back to us.
“They’re here!” Annie sings, and Mr. Andrews turns around. He’s a tiny bit taller than I am, has salt and pepper hair, and is wearing an apron that reads Trophy Husband. I see Gretchen in him too, the way his smile lights up his face when he looks at his daughter, and in the warm brown of his eyes.
“There she is,” Mr. Andrews says. “How’s my girl?” He wraps her up like a giant burrito in his mammoth arms.
She gives him a kiss on his shaved cheek. “Dad, this is Brady.” Gretchen gestures at me.
“Good to meet you, son,” he says. He shakes my hand firmly, and I offer him the six-pack. “Ah, thank you. Let’s get these in the cooler. Annie, would you mind?”
“I got it, Dad.” Gretchen takes the beer from her father and heads to the other end of the deck.
“Please, make yourself at home,” Mr. Andrews says. “You like to grill?”
I nod, leaning against the railing. “Haven’t done it in a while, though.”
“What do you prefer: charcoal or gas?”
“Gas is more convenient, but nothing beats the taste of a burger cooked over the coals,” I say. It’s funny because I don’t grill. My dad would never let me anywhere near his outdoor kitchen. But it sounds like the right answer, and all I care about is impressing this man.
“Atta boy,” Mr. Andrews replies. “I’m with you. Gas is just much cleaner. How do you like your steak?”
“Medium’s f ine.”
Gretchen hands each of us a beer. “Here you go, guys. I’m going to go help Mom with the salad.” She winks at me and then turns to Mr. Andrews. “You be nice to him,” she warns.
He laughs. “When am I ever anything but nice?” he replies.
“That one boy she brought home – Max? Matt? I forget his name,” Annie calls from the kitchen.
“It was Mack,” Gretchen reminds them. “And you scared him so bad, he almost peed himself.”
“How’d you do that?” I wonder aloud.
“I handcuffed him to that bench over there.” With his tongs, he points to a carved wooden bench alongside what appears to be a vegetable garden.
“Daddy said he needed to be put on time out after he said he didn’t like the Patriots.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“It was the way he said it. Said he thought Tom Brady was a punk who couldn’t catch. Meanwhile, the little shit was – what – 15 years old? He could barely catch a cold, much less a football. So I put him out for a few minutes.”
“It was the most mortifying date I ever had,” Gretchen says.
“Who names their kid, Mack, anyway?” Mr. Andrews asks.
“It was short for MacArthur! His first name was Herbert.”
“Well, that explains it. And I’m not one to talk about people’s names. But that guy had it coming to him. And, see? You’re welcome. As a result of my discipline, you never heard from old Herbie Mac ever again.”
“Please don’t discuss football with Brady,” Gretchen says.
“You got strong feelings on the subject?” Mr. Andrews asks me.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “No, sir. I’m a baseball guy.”
“Red Sox?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Don’t worry, Gretchie. He can stay.”
“Thank goodness,” she laughs, and opens the screen slider to let herself back into the house.
My phone goes off in my pocket. I pull it out intending to silence it when I notice the call is coming from a 212 area code. I think it’s the job I’ve been waiting to hear back from.
“You can take that if you need to,” Mr. Andrews says.
I shouldn’t take it, I tell myself. I check the time.
It’s 4:47. Just before 5:00 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Could be bad, but could also be good. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m awful under pressure like this. “Excuse me just one sec,” I say.
If it’s good news, I might look a little more like a prospect for their daughter.
I take a few steps to the side, by the edge of the deck. “Hello?”
“Yes, hi. Is this Brady Hawthorne?” a man’s voice replies.
“This is he.”
“Brady, hi. This is John Stellaris, from Gildersleeve Marketing Group. We met a few weeks ago?”
“Of course. Nice to hear from you, John.”
“I discussed it with the partners and we’d like to invite you down to New York for a second interview.”
“That’s great. Thank you. When would you like to schedule that for? ”
“Well, unfortunately one of the members of our team is out on vacation through the end of the month. Lucky bastard’s on a yacht trip in the Mediterranean. He’s back on Monday the 30 th . Think you can do a little later that week? Maybe that Friday, the 4 th ?”
“Sure. I can clear my calendar.”
“Great. Thanks, man. Sorry for the delay. Summer’s a tough time to get everyone in a room together.”
I try to offer a hearty chuckle, but it comes off sounding a bit like Santa Claus saying ho, ho, ho. In my peripheral vision, I see Gretchen’s dad look up at me. I clear my throat and say, “No worries. I understand.”
“So, you’ll come to our midtown office on Madison Avenue. Say 9:00 a.m.?”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Anything I should bring?”
“Nothing I can think of right now. I’ll reach out if I think of something, though.”
“Sounds good. Thank you, John.”
“Yup. I’ll see you then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Andrews asks.
“Yeah. I’m sorry,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “That was actually a call about an interview.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks. “Where at?”
“It’s a firm in New York. Gildersleeve Marketing Group, it’s called.”
“What kind of job?”
“It’s a Market Research Analyst position.”
“Sorry, son. No idea what that means.”
“Basically, it’s just studying and compiling data to help companies understand trends in sales.”
“So, remote then?”
Good question. “I’m really not sure, actually.”