A Table for Ten
November 20, 2021I'm just bummed about the table, I told my husband the morning he canceled the order.
We'd never had a table before. After years of small New York City apartments, we'd grown accustomed to eating on the couch, plates in our laps or on the raised coffee table in front of us.
But now, finally, we had a house and room for a table, room to host friends and family for dinner. I imagined the candles I'd buy and place at the table's center, the chicken he'd smoke in the new smoker outside, and the wine we'd pour in glasses with stems (not yet purchased). My inner domestic was having a field day—imagining all of the things—but when the email arrived telling us that the table was now backordered and wasn’t expected to arrive for nine months, we canceled it, and in my mind, I removed the candlesticks, the chicken, the wine, the chairs holding my friends, and then, the table from our home—leaving the room as it really was: wooden floors beneath a burgundy carpet, copper spoons hanging on the wall, a mostly empty space I longed to fill.
I'm just bummed about the table, I said, forgetting in that moment that everything happens for a reason. I was forgetting despite the little whisper in my ear reminding me of this very thing, filling me with the sensation of antique wood on my fingertips and the smell of something solid and storied in my nose.
Long before the online searches and our latest order, I had imagined walking into a store in town and stumbling upon some beautiful antique table. And then, three days after we got the email and canceled the order, I drove into town for a dentist appointment. Afterwards, I was walking down the sidewalk when a black chalkboard sign stopped me in my tracks. It was covered in gold stars and had a single word written on it in white chalk: Open.
The gold stars on the black background reminded me of something I would draw and inspired me to turn left into the brand new shop, just opened for the holidays.
When I walked in, I immediately spotted my favorite candles, hand-poured in Brooklyn. I hadn't seen them anywhere since moving here from New York in May. I picked up my favorite scent—Sunday Morning—and held it in my hands. I turned its metal top and was breathing in the old familiar smell of jasmine and bergamot—just a pinch of pine—when the only other person in the store spoke to me. I quickly learned that her name was the same as my name—Virginia—and she told me, Everything's for sale!
I looked around and saw a big beautiful wooden table covered in candlesticks and plates, vases and cutting boards, and I had to ask, Even that table?
Yes! She told me, and I asked how much—expecting it to cost thousands—but instead, she said: $495!
The table was shaped like the one we had ordered—round with leaves that turned it into an oval—but it was hundreds of dollars less and made from a dark solid wood versus eucalyptus and walnut veneer. How old it is? I wondered, and she didn't know, except for old.
I double-checked the price on the tag and smiled when I saw the words FOX HUNT HOME—like the two foxes that topped our wedding cake and the animal that crossed in front of us just before we got engaged—and encircling the tabletop, carved into the wood, I spotted what appeared to be four oil lamps. They reminded me of the genie's bottle in Aladdin, and in that moment, I knew that this was a wish come true.
We'll take it!
And we did. We loaded its base and top into two different cars over two different days until eventually it was centered atop the burgundy carpet at home.
How many people do you think it sits? My in-laws asked. I considered the question and the size of the table with both leaves—Six or eight? Surely between that and our barstools we could host a dinner for ten.
And then, I remembered the vision board I'd made twenty-three months earlier—the one for our home—and I recalled all of the wishes I’d made with each image cut from a magazine and each swipe of the glue stick, and in my mind, I saw the phrase I'd pasted between the image of a black fireplace—like the one now in our living room—and the image of the sliding barn door—like the one now in our bedroom. It read: TABLE FOR TEN.
