Page 72 of The End of Summer

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 deck, 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 readsTrophy 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 fine.”

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 thewayhe 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.”

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