Chapter 6: Ashokan Farewell

My alarm went off at five. It was the day of the party, and time to check the smoker. We had pushed the event back a week, but people were eager for some distraction – the storm had been quite the local event. No fatalities, thankfully. Not even any houses badly damaged, although several dozen oak trees were reduced to toothpicks.

Now, the weather was calm as the eastern horizon slowly brightened. I heard a door open, and Charlotte came out with two mugs of coffee. I stood and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Morning, beautiful,” I said. She returned the kiss and set the coffee mugs on a side table. “Flatterer,” she said. “That will get you everywhere.”

We sat in two Adirondack chairs, close enough together that I could reach over and run a finger along her bare forearm. We sipped our coffee and watched the patio lights slowly losing their little fight against the rising sun, the sky shifting colors from dark copper to something closer to peach. My eyes followed a ribbon of thin blue smoke from the flue of the smoker as it rose straight up and seemed pinned in place by the morning sun.

The barn cast a long shadow and from that shadow Jack appeared. Jack – my tortoise-shell barn cat. It wasn’t all clear who had adopted whom. But in exchange for dry cat food and the occasional can of tuna, he kept the rodent population in the barn largely in check. He’d survived the storm – I had been worried about him. Now he found a sunny place to sit and wash his face. For Jack, all was well.

Charlotte checked her watch. “It’s eight,” she said. “I think we need to get to work.” I took another sip of coffee and tried to hang onto this scene and this moment for as long as I could. But it was ten hours to show time. No – nine. Time to hustle.

And hustle we did.

For me, there was the smoker to watch, and sides to make – in particular, the barbecued baked beans of which I was quite proud. And of course, I had forgotten to buy ice, so I had to make a frantic afternoon run for twelve bags of it. At three, the brisket did what I knew it would and “stalled” – it basically was sweating and cooling itself off – so I pulled both pieces from the smoker, wrapped them in heavy foil, and clapped it all into a hot oven. The famous “Texas crutch.”  And it worked – two hours later I pulled the brisket from the oven and let it rest on the counter. It was perfect and I had the sense that if I spoke harshly to it, the meat would fall apart. Now it was the ribs’ turn to enjoy a nice bath of hot oak smoke.

Charlotte, meanwhile, set up the buffet table. Plates, napkins, silverware. She had made sides, too – a perfect cole slaw with the shredded green cabbage highlighted by accents of purple. Hummus, and pita chips. And deftly sliced watermelons and pineapples.

She arranged all this as if she had been catering for her entire life. "How is it?" she asked. My eyes ran over the layout, which had a military precision it was impossible not to admire. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Almost too good to disturb."

Now it was five. I showered quickly and changed into clean blue denims and a white Oxford shirt. I’d add an apron to prevent the barbecue sauce from taking a shot at it. When I came back outside, Charlotte was in the kitchen making final preparations. She had changed into dark indigo jeans and a cream silk blouse, with the Hopi House brooch pinned on her left side.

 Something about it all made me stop.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing,” I said. “It’s just – it’s just that you look great. I mean, really wonderful.” She pursed her lips and lowered her eyes a touch – a small gesture that she knew made me wobble. "Thank you,” she said. “You clean up well, too."

I stepped to the open door and ran my eyes once more over the patio – as if I had one single thing I would have to fix. But I checked to make sure the lights strung overhead all were on. I walked around the tables to ensure people had room to move (Charlotte had done this, so of course they did). And I peeked at the ribs in the smoker. “I think we’re ready,” I said. That was to myself, really – sometimes I needed a personal pep talk. But I clocked that Charlotte had glided out of the kitchen and now stood next to me. She touched my shoulder. "So let's do this,” she said.

Now, a little before six, it was shaping up to be a perfect evening. The afternoon had hit 90, but the sun was dropping, and the Texas humidity had mercifully taken some time off. I again surveyed our party setup. Chairs for 40-plus. Tables. Amber café lights stretched between the cedar posts. I set the JBL speaker out by the Adirondacks and checked the playlist: Emmylou, Cash, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, early Willie. Enough twang to feel like Texas, and to that I had thrown in some live Bodeans. Just because they always sounded like they were having fun.

There was another song on the playlist. A waltz. And only a specific signal from me would set it in motion.

Charlotte stood in the kitchen doorway, head tilted slightly as if she were committing the scene to memory. As I had done minutes earlier, she stepped onto the patio and walked the space, double-checking things – the layout, the starters, the drinks. But unlike me, she saw things that needed small adjustments only she noticed. “You make it look like a party,” I said. A small smile. “You do most of the work. I refine.”

I considered that. “Refining’s important,” I said. “God is in the details.”

A glance at me. “I know.”

On a folding table she’d already arranged the starters: Tortilla chips, hummus and salsa, queso with roasted poblanos, sausage chunks stabbed with toothpicks and set amidst three different mustards. In the kitchen, the sides were ready for their moment: potato salad, slaw, watermelon wedges, sliced jalapeños, a bowl of pickles. Everything covered, everything ready. The beer was buried in ice – Shiner, Lone Star, two Mexican lagers – and in the center of one table sat two sweating pitchers of Ranch Water, lime wheels floating like lazy satellites. Every time Charlotte passed by the pitchers, she dropped in another handful of ice.

The light started to shift. Instead of the Texas glare, it became warm and golden – the kind of light that gives an evening shape. I took that as a good sign. Still, I started to feel nervous about what would happen next. I – we – were standing in that narrow gap between the confidence of planning and the chaos of execution. But I had learned that giving someone a cold beer blunts any impatience if the food is not quite ready.

We stood quietly under the café lights for a moment. Charlotte’s arm brushed mine, and I slid a hand along the small of her back. She leaned into it. Not much, but enough to register.

That was when the first guests appeared. Pamela and Bud Wood, Lisa and Richard Parsons, with Lisa carrying a bowl wrapped in foil that I later learned held a delicious potato salad – even though I had insisted that no one needed to bring a thing.

These first arrivals were tenuous, standing in small knots, not moving around the space. I took that as residue from the storm, which had tilted all of us. Peter’s Chevy came up the drive and threw up a dust plume – no hesitancy on his part. He climbed out carrying a six-pack of Shiner and wearing his usual grin. "Something smells incredible," he said. I walked him over to the smoker, showed him the firebox and temperature gauge. "You actually built this?” he asked. "Charlotte and I,” I said. “Together."

He nodded, taking it in, and his eyes drifted past me, studying something. I followed his gaze and saw Charlotte. She was already in a knot of people, laughing at something. I caught her eyes taking a quick glance my way and brushed back a strand of hair that always came loose. I loved that gesture. It made her seem at home.

I checked Peter again. He still watched her, so I gave him a nudge. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I should mingle.” He wandered off. Willie Nelson played. More cars arrived. Jan and Roy with one of their rescue dogs. Lisa and Richard. Margaret and Barrett Spence. I gave Margaret a quick hug. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied. She peered past me – and at Charlotte. “Oh – there she is,” she said. “I can’t wait to talk to her again.”

Not long after, a couple I didn’t recognize arrived. They were young – and quite beautiful. The woman had black hair that she wore in a bob, and skin so pale it bordered on translucent. Her date was tall and well-built, with a face that seemed as if someone had applied just the right amount of chiseling. He had blonde hair and wore a polo that had to have been painted on. I caught Charlotte’s eye, wagged my head in their direction, and mouthed “who?” She came over. “That’s Celeste – from Austin Community. And that must be her boyfriend, Dave. He models.”

Two more superfluous words had perhaps never been spoken.

I heard another laugh, and the rattle of ice. More people arrived – the patio was filling up fast. Charlotte resumed her hostess role, greeting newcomers with grace. “Welcome,” she would say. “Drinks on the table – Ranch Water or beer. Make yourself at home.” People shook my hand and made small talk about the storm or the Texas Rangers. “Ribs in half an hour,” I would say. “The brisket’s resting and we have starters right there.” But soon their attention would drift away, and toward Charlotte.

I liked watching the shape a party takes. As always, this one started quietly. I think it was Richard who sidled up to the starters and loaded a plate. At that point, it was as if a starting gun had gone off. The volume picked up at once and people cracked open cold beers and loaded up on sausages and pita chips. I could see that the warmup act was doing its job. That made the second act – the main course – easy. The question was the third act. Would people stay and dance? I hoped so.

Chairs moved. Bottles opened. A couple of people wandered toward the smoker to take in the smell, and I made a big show of tossing a chunk of oak into the firebox to make sparks from the flue leap up like fireflies.

And that was when I caught Lisa touching Charlotte’s elbow and guiding her a few feet away from the group. I was sure she had nothing suspicious in mind, but she seemed very deliberate – like someone who wanted their words heard by only one person. Charlotte listened with her arms folded lightly. I pretended to adjust the smoker’s chimney but kept them in the corner of my eye. I felt my ears trying to adjust themselves for maximum reception. But I still could barely make out the words as Lisa leaned in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Tom built this whole night for you,” she said. Charlotte didn't flinch. "Maybe he did. Is that a problem?" Lisa gave a shrug that meant I've been watching you two. "You move around each other like you've been doing this for years."

"Or we're just good at working together," Charlotte said. Lisa raised an eyebrow. "I think you two are inevitable." Charlotte nodded. "I'll take that as a compliment.” The exchange lasted maybe 30 seconds. And when Charlotte stepped back beneath the café lights, I caught a tiny shift in her posture – a subtle tightening of her shoulders. Then she relaxed and walked over to Pamela Wood to introduce herself. Pamela gave her a hug, threw her eyes in my direction, and her face lit up with a wide grin.

Later, as Charlotte passed me at the smoker, she spoke quietly. “Your friends are observant.” I kept slicing brisket. “Yeah. They are.” “And for the record,” she added, “I didn’t mind.”

I paused – barely. Enough for her to catch it. “Oh,” she said. “One more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Charlotte smiled slyly. “Pamela has a thing for you. She didn’t say it aloud – she didn’t need to. It was the way she asked me about you. A woman can tell.” She turned and walked away.

Plates filled fast once I walked out with the first tray of brisket and ribs. People formed a loose, unspoken line – brisket first, ribs next, and finally the sides Charlotte had laid out with that quiet choreography of hers. Forks clicked against enamel plates. Someone let out a low whistle after their first bite. A couple of people hovered near the cutting board, pretending to talk while watching for the next slice. The air had that unmistakable perfume of woodsmoke, warm meat, and spilled beer – all creating a kind of temporary force field that pulled everyone a little closer.

I noticed Peter standing near Margaret. He had a loaded plate in one hand, a beer in the other, and must have been telling her something funny because she was laughing. Barrett was in a corner with some other men, probably talking hunting. I dearly hoped Peter knew enough to behave.

Through it all, Charlotte moved, refilling drinks, nudging people toward chairs, making sure no one left the table without at least one more jalapeño. Voices rose and fell. Someone laughed loudly near the cooler. Music drifted as a fire I had set in the brick-lined pit faded to a steady glow.

I was tossing more wood into the firebox when Charlotte appeared at my elbow. "How are you holding up?" she asked quietly. "Good,” I said. “How are you doing?"

“Really good,” she said. “This is some kind of party. People are loving it.” She leaned her head close. "Lisa thinks we're 'inevitable.” I studied her. "Does she." I felt something warm in my chest. Charlotte nodded. “Apparently we move around each other like we've been doing it for years."

I heard the music change over and Johnny Cash came on – “Ring of Fire” and its unmistakable chicka-chicka-boom rhythm. "She's not wrong,” I said. Charlotte touched my wrist briefly. "No. She's not."

I went back to the cutting board. For a moment, the party drifted away from me, as if it were a sailboat caught in a subtle breeze. The noise – the voices, the music – receded and became a low hum. I felt alone, not part of this thing I had put together.

Another breeze pushed the party back around me, and I again heard laughter and smelled wood smoke. I had just begun slicing more brisket when I detected a presence to my right. Glancing down, I clocked two shapely calves and a yellow dress, and when my eyes lifted to a more socially acceptable level, I saw that Pamela Wood had found me. Her dress was topped with a high neckline that nicely set off her wavy blonde hair. I had known Pamela and her affable husband Bud since soon after I moved here – how we met, I had forgotten. I liked them both, but of course I liked Pamela more. And I was intrigued by what Charlotte had said. “Tom,” she said, gesturing to the brisket with her beer, “this is ridiculous. You’ve outdone yourself.”

I was very pleased by that. “Glad you’re enjoying it. How have you been, Pamela?”

“Oh – I’m good,” she said. “I just had a show in Dallas that was a success.” Someone had told me that she was a highly regarded watercolorist. “Good for you,” I said. “Someday I really want to see your work.” Pamela leaned into me a little. “That can be arranged,” she said. “But anyway – you’re setting unrealistic expectations for the rest of us,” she said. “This is a party for the ages.”

“Very kind of you to say,” I replied.

She took on a thoughtful expression. “You seem good tonight,” she said. “Really good. That’s nice to see.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “Thanks, Pamela,” I said. “And I am doing well – very well, in fact.”

Her eyes shifted to Charlotte, who was refilling the Ranch Water pitcher, sleeves rolled up, the brooch catching the lights. “I’m sure she has a lot to do with that,” Pamela said. “She’s lovely. And a wonderful hostess.”

She turned back to me, and I sensed another shoe about to drop. “So, I’m curious,” she said. “When do the wedding invitations go out?” There it was. I sliced more brisket, plated it, and drizzled some barbecue sauce on top. I was out of brisket, or I would have repeated the process. “Oh – hard to say,” I told her. “We’re not making plans right now. Things seem fine as they stand, for both of us.”

Pamela nodded, as if confirming something she'd suspected. "Well," she said, lifting her beer slightly, "I'm happy for you. Both of you." Bud called her, and she stepped away. “Save me a dance later,” she said over her shoulder. “One of the fast ones. I want to see if you still have knees.”

When the night reached the end of its main act – everyone fed, warm, and maybe a touch drunk – it was time for the third. I picked up the Bluetooth mic and of course was about to say “testing” when Charlotte materialized next to me. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Checking the playlist."

"For your surprise?"

I looked at her. "Maybe."

She leaned closer. "Is it a polka?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “Please tell me it's a polka."

That wasn’t a bad question – polka culture runs deep here. "It's not a polka,” I said.

"Line dance?"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

I winked at her. "You'll see."

"You're enjoying this."

"I am."

She shook her head, but she was smiling too. "You're impossible."

"And yet."

"And yet," she agreed, stepping away to leave me alone.

People saw that and voices began to ebb.

“Alright, friends,” I said into the mic, feeling suddenly self-conscious and certain I had a streak of barbecue sauce across my shirt – probably where everyone could see it but me. “If I’ve done this right, nobody leaves hungry. I – I want to thank you for coming, and I wish I’d had more time to talk with each of you.” I paused because the next words needed to land a certain way. “Before we let the dancing take over, I need your attention for a moment.”

Charlotte had moved to the far side of the patio, and she was watching me. I forgot the worry about barbecue sauce but now wondered if I – if we – were about to show people something I wasn’t sure Charlotte wanted them to see.

Still, I held my phone and tapped the icon that sent the signal that would start things. I walked to her and offered my hand. There was a ripple of amusement and curiosity. The music shifted to something slow and warm. “Charlotte,” I said, low enough only she could hear. “Dance with me.”

“Of course, Thomas.”

Forty pairs of eyes – actually, I think the final count was forty-three – followed us as we stepped under the soft glow of the café lights. The music unfurled: “Ashokan Farewell.” Soft, deliberate, three beats to the bar, an undertone of melancholy that made the heart ache. It had been written just a few decades back but sounded older than the Texas hills.

I rested my hand at the small of her back. She placed hers on my shoulder. Our steps found an easy waltz rhythm. She settled against me, moving smoothly to the music. The first turn we made was tentative, the next better, the one after that smooth as glass. I had the clear sensation that we had become weightless and that our feet were an inch above the patio stones.

At the same time, I wondered to myself if she understood what I was trying to do with this. She whispered in my ear. “Thank you.” She knew. And now everything else felt very far away.

The crowd softened around us – voices sinking, movement slowing – until they weren’t watching us so much as living inside the moment. Lisa nudged Jan Nelson and threw Jan a knowing look.

“This is wonderful,” Charlotte murmured.

“It’s perfect,” I said before I could stop myself.

And we kept moving under the warm lights, slow and sure, as if the whole night had been quietly steering itself here from the start.