Chapter 9: I Choose You

After a party, dirty dishes create their own geology. The pots, pans, and skillets form the bottom layer – the bedrock. They’re marked by brisket fat, stuck-on corn, and a few baked beans. Next come the dishes, dessert size and dinner size, flecked with whatever people had decided not to eat. At the top are the glasses and cutlery, the latter spilling over in places like the alluvial fan of a river. Some forks and spoons gathered around a half-empty pitcher of Ranch Water, one lime wheel hanging on for dear life.

I stood there for a long minute, remembering. Lisa nudging Jan. Pamela studying Charlotte with a knowing smile. Peter and Margaret, too close for comfort. The waltz.

Good party.

I blinked and it all went away. I started the Nespresso, set a skillet on the stove, and made a touch more noise than necessary. I heard soft steps on the stairs, and Charlotte padded in wearing one of my denim shirts and black yoga pants, hair rumpled, blinking at the mess and the morning. “Hey you,” I said.

“Morning.” She tugged at the cuff. Charlotte scanned the kitchen and made a face. I handed her a latte. “Thank you,” she said, and took a sip. We stood there long enough to acknowledge the situation without naming it. The dishes provided their own evidence.

“That,” I said finally. “Was a party.”

“It appears so.”

“You know,” I said, taking a drink of my own coffee. “We make a decent team.”

“We do.”

I leaned against the counter. “And people noticed.”

She frowned. “Noticed what?”

“You and me,” I said. “This was news to most of them.”

She stared into her cup. “Ah,” she said.

“Lisa really thought she’d cracked the case,” I said. Charlotte closed her eyes briefly. “Of course she did.”

“You said you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t. I just didn’t expect it to unfold in front of an audience.”

I laughed. “I think by the time we danced, people had few illusions left. Lisa certainly didn’t – she gave Jan a funny little nudge.” Charlotte’s shoulders softened. “I saw that too.” I made breakfast – buttermilk pancakes and eggs, over easy. I squeezed some orange juice. “Thanks hon,” she said. “I’m starved.”

While we ate, we talked about the party. “I think we had enough food,” I said.

“Perfect,” she said. “Most of the brisket disappeared. Same for the ribs. And we had plenty of beer.”

“Agreed, I said, taking a bite of pancake. “The timing was a little off – I didn’t get the food plated as soon as I wanted to. But people had beer and your starters – they were happy.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said, chewing slowly. “Feeding a crowd like that is no small thing.”

I forked more pancakes. “Charlotte,” I said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

She thought for a moment. “Very much,” she said. “It was a little frantic at the start, but once people had food, I could appreciate what we – what you – had done. I enjoyed seeing my friends, of course. And getting to know some of yours. It was a good mix of people.”

I waited. “And Thomas…” she began.

I looked up.

“Our dance…the music. I was taken completely off guard. I had no idea you were such a hopeless romantic.”

“Hopeless,” I repeated. “That’s me.” I gave her a smile. She reached across the table and put her hand atop mine. “It was beautiful,” she said. “I could have danced like that all night.”

I heard a vehicle rumble up our driveway, so I stood and peered out the window. A beat-up Chevy pickup. “That’s Peter,” I said. “He survived the party.” Charlotte straightened a little. Like she was preparing for a test.

Peter knocked, saw me through the glass on the door, and let himself in. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and the expression of a man unsure what he was walking into. It took him a second to register Charlotte in my shirt. When he did, his eyebrows seemed to twitch. “Oh,” he said. “Morning.”

He watched Charlotte closely. Very closely. “Good morning, Peter,” Charlotte replied.

“Coffee?” I offered.

“Yes,” he said quickly. I made an Americano. He took the mug from me and looked around at the kitchen carnage. “That was a great party, you two,” he said. “the brisket was to die for. And that dance you did. Wow. Like a movie.”

“We were just talking about that,” Charlotte said. “I was telling Thomas I had no idea what a romantic guy he was.”

“Me neither,” Peter said. “I always took him to be a hard-headed numbers guy. Turns out he is kind of a sap.”

 “Watch it,” I said to him with a laugh.

I thought of something. “Speaking of romantic” I said. “I saw you doing a bit of a slow dance with Margaret Spence.”

 Peter shot me a look. “Yeah.”

“You knew her husband was there. Barrett.”

“I did. It was a party – everyone was dancing with everyone,” he said. “I saw you dancing with Pamela. And Charlotte with Mark.”

“Fair point,” I said. His gaze drifted again, snagged on Charlotte, then moved on. He set his mug down. "Anything I can help with around here?" he asked. "Doesn't seem fair that you put in all that work for the party, then have to do the dishes as well." His voice seemed more careful than usual.

"That's very sweet of you," Charlotte said. "We'll manage. One dish at a time."

"Well, if you're sure..."

I was sure. I didn’t need someone new to direct – I don't delegate well. "We've got it,” I said. “Go do your thing.” I watched for his reaction.

“Alright,” he said, putting his coffee down suddenly. “I should get going. Thanks again for hosting. You two should start a catering business.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” I said. He stumbled slightly on the step as he left. Then he looked back at the house.

Charlotte watched through the window as he retreated. “What was that all about?”

I shrugged. “It’s just Peter being Peter.” She didn’t move, and instead watched his departure. “He was reading me.”

“He reads everyone,” I said. “Not always well.” Charlotte turned back toward the sink.

“He didn’t seem to have a social problem last night with Margaret. And right in front of her husband.”

Yeah. “Well….”

She turned from the window. I said, "Not a problem we need to solve today."

We went back to the kitchen – the dishes weren’t going to clean themselves. But then we hit a problem. I liked to soak pans; she went right to washing. My cast iron skillets are allergic to the dishwasher, she put one in. Then she took that chain mail scrubber I use on the cast iron and took it to a stainless steel skillet. The stainless scratched.

“Ummm…” I said, hunting for the right words. “For now, can we agree this is sort of my kitchen? And that you ask before acting?”

It was hot inside. She wiped some sweat off her forehead with a paper towel. Exhaled loudly.

“I mean that as nicely as possible,” I said. “But doesn’t that make sense?”

Charlotte pulled a damp dish towel from her shoulder and slapped it on the counter. “They’re dirty dishes,” she said, a little testily. “Not the crown jewels.”

“Look,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. We’re tired. Forget what I said.”

 “Sure,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“Please.” I said. “It’s OK. Let’s just finish this so we can sit down. We had a lot of people here – we’re still stressed out.”

Charlotte walked to the refrigerator, took some ice out, and dumped it in a glass. “There’s still some sparkling water outside,” she said. “I’m going to get some and sit for a while.” I watched her go, heard her let out a sigh. I kept working through the dishes, loaded a detergent tab into the dishwasher and started it.

My phone was on the table. I picked it up and tapped in some instructions. The Bluetooth speaker was still outside. As I walked to where Charlotte was sitting, in a patch of shade, it came to life. Ashokan Farewell again drifted across the patio.

I stepped toward her and again held out a hand. She set down her glass, and I thought she was about to take it and rise. Instead, Charlotte stayed in her chair and looked away. “Douglas,” she said. “We already did this.”

New beads of sweat pop out on my forehead and shut off the music. “Well goddam…” I started to say.

Before I could finish, Charlotte finally stood – one swift motion. She picked her glass back up and took another drink of water, then scanned the patio. “Let’s clean up this mess,” she said. Then she walked to one of the galvanized metal troughs that had held ice and beer and tipped it over. It made a loud clanging sound, then the water poured out with a “whoosh.” It ran across the pavers, forming little rivulets in the sand and dust. She turned and looked at me. For a moment, our eyes locked. “Well?” she asked.

“Fuck it,” I said under my breath. “Pick it up yourself.” I found my keys and walked to the Ford.

________________________________________________________________