PART 1

I go to the farmers’ market every Saturday morning at eight o’clock. For fourteen years, I have bought my peaches from the same stall, right by the south entrance next to the gravel parking row. The sign over the wooden bins just says Miller Orchard in faded green paint.

The man behind the counter has always gone by Carl. He is seventy-three years old now, tall and lean, with silver hair tucked under a khaki baseball cap and a heavy limp in his right leg.

Every single week since 2012, Carl has tipped that cap to me, smiled with the left side of his mouth, and said the exact same words.

“Morning, Helen.”

“Morning, Carl,” I would say back. “Looks like a sweet batch today.”

He would nod, pick out five of the best freestones with his thick, sun-spotted fingers, tuck them into a brown paper sack, and slide them across the folding table. Sometimes he threw in an extra one for free. Sometimes we talked about the rain or the dry spell or the church bake sale, but that was all. It was just a sweet, familiar routine that carried me through the long, quiet years after my late husband Arthur died.

Last Saturday was hot enough that the peach crates smelled like warm sugar before nine o’clock. I had my canvas bag under one arm and my heavy leather purse clutched in my hands. I reached into my bag to pull out three crisp one-dollar bills. My fingers slipped on the smooth leather strap, the heavy snap caught on my cardigan button, and the whole purse dumped straight onto the packed dirt between my white sneakers and Carl’s work boots.

Loose dimes rolled into the sawdust. My silver compact popped open. And the little clear vinyl insert from the middle flap of my wallet slid out, landing face up in the dirt.

“Hold on, Helen,” Carl said. “Let an old man reach that for you.”

He eased himself down onto one good knee with a low groan. He picked up my keys first, then my lipstick. Then his hand reached for the faded black-and-white military photograph from 1968.

It was a picture of a boy in an army uniform, smiling into the blinding Texas sun just three days before his unit deployed overseas. His cap was tilted, his jaw was square, and his eyes were full of young hope.

Carl stopped moving.

His thick fingers gripped the edges of the photo, and his hands began shaking so hard that the paper rattled against his thumbnails.

He stared at that boy’s face as if he were looking into an open grave.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

His voice didn’t sound like the quiet market vendor I had known for fourteen years. It sounded scraped raw.

“That’s James,” I said, leaning down to take it from him. “My first love. He shipped out to Vietnam, and they told me he died over there.”

Carl didn’t let go. His thumb moved slowly over the corners, and then he turned the paper over. On the back, in faint blue ballpoint ink written when I was nineteen years old, were five words: Come home to me.

Carl’s face completely changed. The loose skin around his eyes pulled tight. His jaw worked, and the color drained right out of his cheeks until he looked gray under the brim of his cap.

He looked up from the dirt, his blue eyes locking into mine with a look so fierce and terrified it took the air right out of my chest.

He whispered, “Helen, I did come home.”

I go to the farmers’ market every Saturday morning at eight o’clock. For fourteen years, I have bought my peaches from the same stall, right by the south entrance next to the gravel parking row. The sign over the wooden bins just says Miller Orchard in faded green paint.

The man behind the counter has always gone by Carl. He is seventy-three years old now, tall and lean, with silver hair tucked under a khaki baseball cap and a heavy limp in his right leg. Every single week since 2012, Carl has tipped that cap to me, smiled with the left side of his mouth, and said the exact same words.

“Morning, Helen.”

“Morning, Carl,” I would say back. “Looks like a sweet batch today.”

He would nod, pick out five of the best freestones with his thick, sun-spotted fingers, tuck them into a brown paper sack, and slide them across the folding table. Sometimes he threw in an extra one for free. Sometimes we talked about the rain or the dry spell or the church bake sale, but that was all. It was just a sweet, familiar routine that carried me through the long, quiet years after my late husband Arthur died.

Last Saturday was hot enough that the peach crates smelled like warm sugar before nine o’clock. I had my canvas bag under one arm and my heavy leather purse clutched in my hands. I reached into my bag to pull out three crisp one-dollar bills. My fingers slipped on the smooth leather strap, the heavy snap caught on my cardigan button, and the whole purse dumped straight onto the packed dirt between my white sneakers and Carl’s work boots.

Loose dimes rolled into the sawdust. My silver compact popped open. And the little clear vinyl insert from the middle flap of my wallet slid out, landing face up in the dirt.

“Hold on, Helen,” Carl said. “Let an old man reach that for you.”

He eased himself down onto one good knee with a low groan. He picked up my keys first, then my lipstick. Then his hand reached for the faded black-and-white military photograph from 1968.

It was a picture of a boy in an army uniform, smiling into the blinding Texas sun just three days before his unit deployed overseas. His cap was tilted, his jaw was square, and his eyes were full of young hope.

Carl stopped moving.

His thick fingers gripped the edges of the photo, and his hands began shaking so hard that the paper rattled against his thumbnails. He stared at that boy’s face as if he were looking into an open grave.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

His voice didn’t sound like the quiet market vendor I had known for fourteen years. It sounded scraped raw.

“That’s James,” I said, leaning down to take it from him. “My first love. He shipped out to Vietnam, and they told me he died over there.”

Carl didn’t let go. His thumb moved slowly over the corners, and then he turned the paper over. On the back, in faint blue ballpoint ink written when I was nineteen years old, were five words: Come home to me.

Carl’s face completely changed. The loose skin around his eyes pulled tight. His jaw worked, and the color drained right out of his cheeks until he looked gray under the brim of his cap.

He looked up from the dirt, his blue eyes locking into mine with a look so fierce and terrified it took the air right out of my chest.

He whispered, “Helen, I did come home.”