I walked out of the store, leaving my perfect end table behind.
Soon enough, I was back home in my whirl-wind life: homeschool, football, painting the living room, (which required me celebrating my real birthday on top of a ladder, paintbrush in hand) then finishing that room and pulling it back together just in time for Daddy's home coming (!!) and this football game.
In the middle of it all, there was my perfect table hanging from a thread in the back of my mind. I tried to keep it in the back of my mind, anyway, but it kept pushing its way to the front, paining me every time.
I should have gotten it. I should have just sucked it up and bought it. It was my birthday, after all.
But, I hadn't. I'd had the chance, and I hadn't gotten it.
The only thing I could do now was pour out my sad, sad story to my ever-sympathetic neighbor, Maureen. She understands these things. She understands old, wonderful, perfect tables, and lost opportunities. I told her everything, describing the table in detail. It helps to have a friend like that. I felt a little better just sharing my miserable story. I told her that I thought I'd look up the phone number to the shop where it was, just to see if they could hold it for me until the first day I could break free and make a trip down the road to get it.
So, that's what I did. Or tried to do. But, after some sleuthing, I found out that the owners of that particular store didn't have a land-line; they only used cell phones.
No phone number listed.
Dead end.
No table for me.
I would simply have to wait.
Several long, full days would have to go by before I would have the chance to make it back down the road to that little antique shop with the red ice cream chairs out front; the one with my perfect table inside. As I stood on top of the ladder in our living room, painting, painting, painting, thoughts like these would swing back and forth in my mind, like a pendulum ticking away the time:
"Surely, that little store doesn't get very much traffic. I mean, it is fall now; not too many tourists anymore."
"Surely, surely there isn't another person out there looking for a round-top table with pedestal legs in a dark wood with subtle details."
"Surely not."
"But, if there is, surely she won't notice my perfect table around the corner there, in that little store."
"Oh, why, why, why would a business not publish their phone number??"
"Surely, my husband, after driving thousands of miles to get home, will want to get in the car with me the very next day and go driving some more, down the road to a little antique shop to get a table that he knows nothing about..."
"Surely he will."
Now, I know that's an awful lot of 'surelys' but that's how one thinks in situations like this. I was paying no mind to synonym usage.
I kept painting.
I finished painting.
I pulled the drop cloths off the furniture, vacuumed the carpets from the edges out, pushed the furniture back, dusting and arranging it as I went. Then, I stood back to look at it all with the new wall color. The phantom of the perfect table made the stand-in at the end of the couch seem so very wrong. So, so wrong.
Sigh.
But, Daddy was coming home! He was only hours away, and the minutes were quickly ticking down. The sheer excitement about this, plus the anticipation of that evening's football game, carried me, thankfully, away from (too many) thoughts about a such a silly thing as an end table.
Before I knew it, there we were, my husband and I, standing on the sidelines, cheering together as we watched our boy play the game he loves! Then, his team won (!), and there was such excitement and sweaty-ness and jerseys and pads and helments. We went to McDonalds to celebrate, all five of us (boy's choice)!
Back home, we could hardly get to sleep, what with all the jabbering on about whatever popped into our minds that we had to tell Daddy. Somehow, we felt like we had to remember it all, and tell it all, all at the same time, all that night! But, much to our delight, next morning, Daddy was still there! And he would be for a very long time! So, we ate a slow breakfast together, the smell of coffee thick in the air. And we talked on and on. After breakfast, we were a heap of a family on the couch for the rest of the morning. Our Daddy was home! And all this time, I was amazed again, at how much I love him.
Somewhere amongst all the jabber and hub-bub, he asked me,
"What do you want to do for your birthday?"
That's when I got up the courage to ask,
"Would you be up for a drive this afternoon to a little antique shop down the road? There's a small table there that I've been thinking about."
And he said?
"Sure. Sure, we can do that."
And I loved him even more.
So, off we went.
I was trembly-excited.
My table!! I was going to get it!
The day was just as beautiful as the day I'd been there last. The shop door was open, just as it had been, and the red ice cream chairs were out front. The same music was playing in the background. I was just steps away from it now. My table! My pulse quickened, my steps quickened. I held my breath as I rounded the corner.
There it was!
My perfect table was still there!
And, oh, how perfect it was, confirmed as soon as my eyes landed on it. Just the right size, the right shape, the right color, the right age!
But, then...
My breath caught - something ugly and vicious yanked it right out of my chest, choking me as it went. My heart stopped dead as a flood of horror swept over me. My trembling hands flew up to my face as tears stung the backs of my eyes.
There, on the top of my table lay a card with thick, ugly black printing scrawled across it that read:
"SOLD"
To be continued...
