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With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Humboldt had said, "I love all four of my sons, but I have always asked the Lord to send me a daughter." Callie Jane squirmed in Opal Humboldt's embrace, not fully sure what was happening. "I can't wait for the babies. Please let the first one be a girl, or maybe even twin girls. They do run in my family on my father's side." Mrs. Humboldt released Callie Jane and gasped, then said, "We'll do it on Mr. Humboldt and my's twenty-fifth anniversary, August 20. You can wear my dress." Mrs. Humboldt then grabbed a photograph from the sideboard and presented it to Callie Jane. "It's a beautiful gown."

Callie Jane had been too dumbfounded to respond. She had always assumed that she and Trace would marry, everyone did, but having the engagement move from an abstract possibility to a concrete reality sent a chill through her soul.

Mrs. Humboldt had dashed to her bedroom, returning with a velvet box. She handed it to her eldest son. "It was your grandmother's. Put it on her finger, Trace."

The ring, a delicate gold band with a small diamond solitaire, dug into Callie Jane's skin. "It's too tight."

Mrs. Humboldt grabbed Callie Jane's hand to inspect her finger. "It needs to be secure so it won't come off. You'll get used to it." She hugged Callie Jane. "A daughter at last."

Once Callie Jane had recovered from Mrs. Humboldt's outburst, she wanted to correct the misunderstanding, but she couldn't bear to embarrass Trace in front of his family. She thought she and Trace could sort it out later, but the whole thing had snowballed. Before the banana pudding had even been served, Mrs. Humboldt had called her sister, advised her other sons to find a wife as suitable as Callie Jane, and begun planning the wedding. "I'll phone your mama first thing in the morning."

In shocked silence, Callie Jane had walked the short distance with Trace to her home along the worn, slick path between their backyards. Once at her kitchen door, he kissed her on the cheek, smiled shyly, and said, "May I speak to your father?"

Trace had explained his intentions. "I will always take care of her and be a good provider. My daddy said the first son to get engaged will be assistant manager, so I'll be gettin' a raise, plus I have some money saved up. My plan is to expand the BuyMore and open three stores in the next five years." He beamed at his bride-to-be. "With Callie Jane by my side, I'll be the grocery king of Cooke County in no time."

Her daddy had asked only one question. "Do you love her, Trace?"

His voice had been strong. "Yes, sir." He looked at Callie Jane. "And I always will."

"If Callie Jane has accepted you, then I will too. Welcome to the family, son."

She had not slept that night.

Her friendship with Trace had begun when they'd toddled toward each other at a Fourth of July town picnic, delighted to find a same-sized friend, and they had remained pals from that day on. As kindergarteners, Trace found Callie Jane sobbing in the cloakroom because she'd lost her lunch money, so he'd slipped her his own, saying he wasn't hungry. In third grade, Bubba Alcott had called her ugly, and Trace slugged him hard enough to bring tears to Bubba's eyes. And when Trace and Callie Jane were the last two contestants in the Cooke County High School spelling bee, he purposefully misspelled colonel so Callie Jane could advance to the state championship.

Was the fact that Trace was a good man—someone she genuinely cared for—a good enough reason to marry him? Or was the knot in her stomach signaling that the knot she might tie was a bad idea?

She switched on the radio, rolling the dial from her daddy's country station to her favorite, with their Beatles-heavy playlist. The Fab Four's "Think for Yourself" spilled from the speakers. Ever since that night in February two years prior, when she had stood mesmerized in front of a tiny black-and-white TV listening to "All My Loving" on The Ed Sullivan Show, she had been crazy about the Beatles. Her classmates had all fallen in love with Paul that night, flashing that innocent yet wicked smile as he bobbed his head. For her, though, the experience had not been about identifying a future, albeit unlikely, husband but about realizing her universe had irreversibly tilted. Those boys had knocked her breathless, with an energy and urgency that seemed fully misplaced in her world. She had vowed that night she would one day see them for herself, not through a television screen but in person, where she could experience every note and beat firsthand.

Traffic was light, so in less than an hour she was driving by the sign that proclaimed "Welcome to Nashville's Greatest Flea Market—Open Year-Round." She parked and climbed out of the truck.

Her father had given her advice when she started purchasing Emporium inventory. "Wait 'til right before the vendor is closing for the night, so's he's interested in making a deal." He handed her a stack of dollar bills. "Carry only ones. We treat our customers like gold, but most of those fellas don't. They'll say they don't have change when a whole wad of singles is stuffed in their pocket. Ask about the history of the item. What we all care about in life is the stories. Our customers could find their bacon presses or sewing needles anywhere, but they come to the Emporium for what they get, not what they buy."