Chapter 8: Ashokan Farewell

My alarm went off at five. It was the day of the party, and it was to check the smoker. We had pushed the event back a week, but people seemed eager for some distraction – the storm had been quite the local event. For our part, we’d had that apple tree knocked over, some roof damage, the tree limb through the window. And Charlotte’s arm, of course, but it was healing nicely. And that was it. Some people – no one we knew – had lost their homes. I couldn’t imagine that.

The morning was calm, the eastern horizon brightening. Charlotte came out with two mugs of coffee and sat beside me. We sipped our coffee and watched the string lights dim as the rising sun outmatched them. To the east the sky changed colors from dark copper to something closer to peach. My eyes followed a ribbon of thin blue smoke from the flue. It rose straight up, and the first rays of the morning sun caught it and seemed to hold it in place.

The barn cast a long shadow and from that shadow Jack appeared. Jack – my tortoise-shell barn cat. It wasn’t at all clear who had adopted whom. But now, 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 endured the storm too, and I had worried about him. Now he found a sunny place to sit and began washing his face.

Charlotte looked at her watch. “It’s eight,” she said. That seemed to break the spell. Ten hours to show time. No – nine.

And they went by fast. There was the smoker to watch, and sides to make. I had forgotten to buy bagged ice, so I had to make a frantic afternoon run for twelve bags. At five, I pulled the brisket. Let it rest on the counter, wrapped, while I got the ribs into the smoker. I mixed barbecue sauce into the beans. Charlotte was setting up the buffet table. Plates, napkins, silverware. The sides arranged like she'd been doing this her whole life. "How does it look?" she asked.

"Beautiful, honey."

I showered quickly, changed into clean jeans and a button-down. When I came back out, Charlotte was in the kitchen. She had changed into dark indigo jeans and a cream silk blouse. The Hopi House brooch pinned on her left side.

I stopped.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. You look…good. I mean, really good.”

"Thank you."

I looked at the patio. Lights strung overhead. Tables arranged. Food laid out. The smoker still trailing a thin line of smoke into the evening air. "Yeah," I said. "I'm ready."

She touched my arm. "Then let's do this."

By then, 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 looked over our party setup. Chairs for 40-plus. Tables. Amber café lights stretched between the cedar posts, waiting for dusk. I set the JBL speaker out by the Adirondacks and checked the playlist: Emmylou, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, early Willie. Enough twang to feel like Texas, plus a little live Bodeans. Just because they always sound like they’re having fun.

And another song. One I hoped would land.

Charlotte stood in the kitchen doorway, arms at her sides, her head tilted slightly as if she were committing the scene to memory. She stepped out onto the patio and walked the space with quiet precision – checking the lights, the glasses, the plates, the cutlery – making 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.”

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

“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 signal: potato salad, slaw, watermelon wedges, sliced jalapeños, a bowl of pickles. Everything covered, everything prepared. The beer was buried in ice – Shiner, Lone Star, two Mexican lagers – and in the center of the table sat two sweating pitchers of Ranch Water, lime wheels floating like lazy satellites. Every time Charlotte passed by, she dropped in another handful of ice.

By six, the light shifted. It became warm and golden – the kind of light that gives an evening shape. Yet I started to feel nervous about what would happen next. I – we – were standing in that narrow rift between the confidence of planning and the chaos of execution.

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.

The first guests appeared at six-fifteen – Pamela and Bud Wood. Then Lisa and Richard Parsons, carrying a bowl wrapped in foil. People seemed tenuous, as if unsure of the time or place. Probably some residue from the storm, which had thrown us all out of whack. Then I saw Peter’s Chevy throwing 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, showing him the firebox and temperature gauge.

"You actually built this?” he asked.

"Charlotte and I,” I said. “Together."

He nodded, taking it in. For a second 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 flick toward me, then she brushed back a strand of hair that always seemed to come loose. I loved that gesture. It made her seem at home.

I looked at Peter again. He still watched her. I nudged him. “Oh!” he said. “I should mingle.” He wandered off. Willie Nelson played. Then more cars arrived. Jan and Roy with one of their rescue dogs. Lisa and Richard. Then Margaret and Barrett Spence. I didn’t know Barrett that well, but had met Margaret at a planning commission meeting about property easements. I gave her a quick hug. “Thanks for coming,” I said.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied. Then she looked past me – and at Charlotte. “Is that…?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

“Oh my,” she said. “You did well. Introduce us, okay?”

I caught Charlotte’s eye and waved her over. “Charlotte, this is someone I met a year or two ago – Margaret Spence. Margaret, Charlotte Donnely.”

The two shook hands. “A pleasure,” said Margaret. “Let’s have coffee sometime.”

Charlotte nodded. “Let’s do that,” she said. “We’ll swap numbers.”

I left them together. I heard another laugh, and the rattle of ice. More people arrived – now 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’ve always liked watching a party decide on its shape. As always, this one started quietly, with a few guests and a little uncertainty over what to say or do. Then someone would load up at the table of starters, and it was as if a starting gun had been fired. The volume picked up at once, people opened beers and loaded little plates with sausages and tortilla chips. That meant the warmup act was doing its job, which 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. Someone found the watermelon in the kitchen. A couple of people wandered toward the smoker to take in the smell, and I showed it off by tossing a chunk of oak into the firebox.

And that was when I saw Lisa touch Charlotte’s elbow and steer her a few feet away from the group. Not suspicious, but deliberate. Like someone who wants their next sentence heard by only one person. Charlotte listened with her arms folded lightly. I pretended to adjust the smoker’s chimney flue but kept them in the corner of my eye.

I 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.”

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 smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The exchange lasted maybe 30 seconds. But when Charlotte stepped back beneath the café lights, I caught a tiny shift in her posture – a subtle tightening of her shoulders. Later, as she 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.

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

I saw 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.

Through it all, Charlotte moved – almost serenely – 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 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. You?"

“Good,” she said. I caught something in her face for a moment, a distant look. Then she seemed to come back to me. "Lisa thinks we're 'inevitable,'" she said.

I looked at her. "Does she?" I felt something warm in my chest.

"Apparently we move around each other like we've been doing it for years."

"She's not wrong."

Charlotte touched my wrist briefly. "No. She's not."

I went back to the cutting board. That’s where Pamela Wood found me, slicing the last of the brisket. She had a plate in one hand and a Shiner in the other, her hair pulled back in a loose knot that made her look younger than I remembered. She was of average height, blonde hair to her shoulders, wearing tan shorts and a yellow halter. I had known her since not long after I moved here – how we met, I had forgotten. But I liked her. “Tom,” she said, gesturing with her beer. “This is ridiculous. You’ve outdone yourself.”

I smiled. “Glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Like it? Bud’s already talking about buying a smoker, and he can’t boil water.”  She leaned in and gave me a nudge. “You’re setting unrealistic expectations for the rest of us.”

I laughed. “Tell him to start with an Instant Pot.” She tilted her head, studying me for a beat. Comfortable in a way that comes from a few years in the same orbit.

“You seem good,” she said. “Really good. That’s nice to see.”

I wiped my hands on a towel. “Thanks. I am.”

Her eyes shifted to Charlotte, who was refilling a Ranch Water pitcher, sleeves rolled up, the brooch catching the café lights. Pamela smiled. “She’s lovely.”

“She is,” I agreed.

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 for 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 a Bluetooth mic, tapped it, and of course said “testing.” Charlotte appeared and stood next to me. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Checking the playlist."

"For your surprise?"

I looked at her. "Maybe."

She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "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 smiled. "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, then stepped away to leave me standing alone.

People saw that. They quieted.

“Alright, friends,” I said. “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. But before we let the dancing take over, I need your attention for a moment.”

Charlotte had stepped a few yards away, across the patio, and I saw her watching me. I didn’t know why, but I felt nervous. I suddenly wondered whether we were about to show people something I wasn’t sure Charlotte – or I – wanted them to see.

Too late for that. I walked to her and offered her my hand. A ripple of amusement and curiosity moved across the patio like a slow wave. The music shifted to something measured and warm. “Charlotte,” I said, low enough only she could hear. “Dance with me.”

“Of course, Thomas.”

Forty pairs of eyes followed us as we stepped under the soft glow of the café lights. Then the music unfurled: “Ashokan Farewell.” Soft, deliberate, three beats to the bar, an undertone of melancholy. Written just a few decades back but sounding older than the Texas hills.

I rested my hand at the small of her back. She placed hers on my shoulder. Our steps found that easy waltz rhythm. She settled against me, moving to the music. The first turn we made was tentative, the next better, the one after that smooth as glass. We felt weightless.

 I wondered if she understood what I was trying to do with this. Then she whispered in my ear. “Thank you,” she said. 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. I saw Lisa nudge Jan Nelson and throw 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.

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