Ashokan Farewell
A party, a waltz, and the moment everything clicked.
Previously on Between Corners: Doug and Charlotte spend a hectic day preparing for their party.
By now, it was shaping up to be a perfect evening. The afternoon had hit 90, but now the sun was dropping, and the Texas humidity had mercifully taken some time off.
I walked back outside to go over the rest of the setup. Chairs for 40. Tables. Café lights stretched between the cedar posts. Amber bulbs 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.
Charlotte stood in the kitchen doorway, arms loose at her sides, head tilted slightly as if she were committing the scene to memory. She stepped out onto the patio and walked the space with quiet military 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.”
Inside, she’d already arranged the sides: 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 the table sat a sweating pitcher 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. Warm. Gold. The kind of light that gives an evening shape.
This was the moment when I get nervous about what happens next. That narrow edge between the confidence of planning and the chaos of execution. But I learned long ago that once people have a beer in their hand, a short wait for brisket won’t matter.
We stood under the café lights for a moment, not speaking. Charlotte’s arm brushed mine. Without thinking, I slid a hand along the small of her back. She leaned into it, not much, but enough to register.
The first guests arrived at six-fifteen.
Adam showed up early, as expected, 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?”
“Charlotte and I. Together.”
He nodded, taking it in.
More cars arrived. Jan and Roy with one of their rescue dogs. Lisa and Richard.
I sliced the first plate of brisket.
The party had begun.
Adam wandered over with a beer, looking loose.
“Charlotte,” he said. “This is amazing. You two really pulled it off.”
“Thank you, Adam. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much.” He glanced around, then back. “So... how long have you and Doug been...?”
Charlotte smiled. “Together? Long enough to know he can’t read his own handwriting.”
Adam laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Have another beer, Adam. Enjoy the party.”
He nodded and drifted off.
More rooster tails of dust came up the access drive. Mark Johnson and his wife Sarah. I tightened a little.
“Holy hell, Doug,” he said. “This looks incredible. And that smoker! Where did get that?”
“I made it,” I said. “With Charlotte.”
A laugh and a clap on the shoulder. “You are the MAN!”
Worries unjustified.
Charlotte greeted everyone with grace. “Welcome. Drinks on the table – Ranch Water or beer.”
People shook my hand, but most of the attention drifted her way.
I nodded toward the smoker. “Ribs in half an hour. Brisket’s resting.”
Pamela and Bud Wood arrived. Then Lisa and Richard Parsons, carrying a bowl wrapped in foil.
“We brought potato salad!” Lisa said.
“That puts us at three,” I answered. “Perfect ratio.”
Charlotte laughed softly and drifted to my side. “See? You’re stealing the show.”
“Hardly,” I said. “They’re here for you. I’m old news.”
Chairs moved. Bottles opened. Someone started in on the watermelon. A couple of guests wandered toward the smoker to check the smell. I kept moving – checking the firebox, plating a test slice of brisket, making sure the lights had the right level of glow.
And that was when I saw it: Lisa touched Charlotte’s elbow, steering 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.
Lisa leaned in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Doug built this whole night for you.”
I could barely make out the words.
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 it 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 that Adam had cornered dark-haired Margaret Spence while her husband was in a corner talking shooting with his buddies. Adam looked happy.
Charlotte moved through it easily, 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 too loudly near the cooler. Music drifted as a fire in the brick-lined pit faded to a steady glow.
I was refilling the Ranch Water when Charlotte appeared at my elbow.
“How are you holding up?” she asked quietly.
“Good. You?”
“Lisa thinks we’re ‘inevitable.’”
I looked at her. “Does she.”
“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.”
Pamela Wood found me near the cutting board, where I was trimming 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.
“Doug,” she said, tapping her plate with a fork, “this is ridiculous. You’ve outdone yourself.”
I smiled. “Glad you like 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 years of being 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 helping someone refill the Ranch Water pitcher, sleeves rolled, 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 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 second act – everyone fed, warm, and maybe a touch drunk – I tapped a Bluetooth mic.
Charlotte appeared at my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking the playlist.”
“For your surprise?”
I looked at her. “Maybe.”
She leaned in, lowered her voice. “Is it a polka? Please tell me it’s a polka.”
“It’s not a polka.”
“Line dance?”
“No.”
“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 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.”
Across the tables, Charlotte watched me. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly felt nervous.
She seemed to be thinking. More deeply than most people did.
It unnerved me.
Still, 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, Douglas.”
Forty pairs of eyes 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. Written in 1982 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 an easy waltz rhythm.
The crowd softened around us – voices sinking, movement slowing – until they weren’t watching us so much as watching 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.
Listen to Ashokan Farewell on YouTube.