“So . . . it’s a craft table?” I asked, my heart beating a little bit faster.
“Yes, but also a dining table. See?” He pointed to some backless counter stools at the back of the truck. “When you’re done with your crafts or sewing or whatever, you just pull the stools out and you’ve got seating for six.”
He grabbed one of the stools and pushed it under the table. “They’re just the right size to fit underneath so they won’t get in the way when you’re working or take up extra floor space. I wish they swiveled,” he said. “But I knocked them together in kind of a hurry. Still, they’ll do the job.”
Yes. Yes, they would. But the table—that was what really intrigued me. My kitchen was teeny. Under normal circumstances, considering how little I cooked, that wasn’t a problem. But now trying to use that two foot by three foot counter as a place to cut out patterns was really slowing me down. A craft table like this one was exactly what I needed. In fact, it was almost exactly what I’d imagined having—someday, when I could find it and afford it.
But now, here it was in front of me, the very table I’d imagined, but much, much prettier. I’d have been satisfied with something assembled together with particleboard and elbow grease, an Ikea special, as long as it did the job. But this table was more than serviceable; it was an heirloom, something anyone would be proud to have in their home.
“How big is it?” I asked, my eyes glued to that beautiful piece of furniture.
“Forty-four by sixty inches,” he said. “Wider than the average dining table, so there’s plenty of room for crafts and cutting, but shorter, so it’ll fit in a small space. Say, an apartment or condo. Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s fantastic,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. I looked up at him. “Luke, I don’t have enough money right now, but later . . . Do you think you could make another one of these? This table is perfect.”
“Sorry. Can’t do it,” he said, and my shoulders drooped with disappointment. “It’s a one-of-a-kind piece,” he explained, “custom-made for a very specific person—you.”
My head popped up. I stared at him doubtfully. I must have heard him wrong.
“Really. It’s for you.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “No kidding, Grace. And no cost. It’s a gift.”
“A gift? No,” I said. “You have to let me pay you, Luke. I’m kind of short right now, but maybe I can . . .”
I paused, thinking about my shaky finances and the giant project I was about to undertake, a project that might not see fruition for years, or ever. Oh, man. This really wasn’t the time for me to be buying anything new, especially a custom-made piece that probably ran into the thousands. But that table would really help speed up my production time. Plus—it was gorgeous.
I had to have it.
“How about . . . a hundred a month?” I asked hopefully, certain it wouldn’t be enough but knowing that was the most I could spare right now. “And more later, once my finances are a little more settled? Luke, I really, really love this table. It’s just what I need. See, I’m about to start a little—”
“No payments,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s a gift. And I already know why you need it now. That’s why I made it. Monica told me all about your new business and I think it’s great. I want to support what you’re doing.”
“Monica!” I exclaimed, instantly irritated. Of course. When she and Nan had come over for support group, I told her exactly the kind of table I wanted someday. And Monica, in turn, had told Luke. The snitch.
“Why is it whenever you pop into my life uninvited, Monica is always involved somehow?”
Luke frowned and scratched his ear. He looked like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he’d regret.
“Look, do you want the table or not?”
“Yes,” I said. “But only if—”
“No buts. And no payments,” he said, his eyes as serious as his voice sounded. “It’s a gift. I don’t want anything from you, Grace. No dancing, no coffee dates, no quid pro quo. Nothing. But either accept this as a gift or don’t accept it at all.”
I bit my lip, thinking things over. How could I accept something so expensive? He must have spent hours and hours on it? On the other hand, how could I say no? This was exactly what I wanted. And needed. It would make my work so much easier.
“Well? Do you want to help me haul this thing inside? Or do I drive back to my workshop and chop it up for firewood? Up to you, Grace.”
* * *
It’s a good thing I’m stronger than I look because that table, though compact in size, was really heavy. Luke said it was because good oak is a strong, dense wood.
While I carried the stools in from the truck, Luke reinstalled the drawers, finishing up just as I brought in the last two. I pushed them into place underneath the table.
“It’s perfect, Luke. Just perfect. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t need to,” he said, putting his screwdriver back into the toolbox he’d brought with him, then closing the lid. “Well, I should get going.”
“Oh. Do you have to?” I asked, feeling awkward but also a little guilty. Just because he said I didn’t need to repay him didn’t mean I didn’t want to. It seemed rude to just take his table and close the door behind him. “You must be thirsty. Can I get you a glass of water? Coffee? Wouldn’t take me a minute to make some.”
“I’m good. Thanks anyway. I should get back to the shop. And out of your hair.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure. I understand.”
“Unless,” he said,
