"Must have died when you were about four or five."
"I'm remembering, now."
"Mr. Randolph brought him back for your mom—Helen," he said. "Got him at a show down south somewhere. He was a quarter horse, Mesquite. From Oklahoma originally, if I remember right. Damn fine horse." Tucker tilted his glass for two swallows. "I used to take care of him once in a while—when the family was away, you know. Well, one day Helen was out riding and I was walking along. It was in June. The flowers was all out. Mesquite got to cantering and I run along to keep up. Never forget it. The flowers all different, blurring together and flowing along like I was running through a river all different colors. And Helen sitting up tall—she had hair just like yours, Margery, short and thick, straw colored, went with her blue eyes." Tucker slowed down. "Well, I had to do something. I made the horse."
"Mesquite."
"Yep."
"Why didn't you give it to her?"
"It's a long story, I guess. Took me a while to make it. Your mom took a fancy to Jack. What with one thing and another, I went in the Navy. When I got out, I guess you was three years old already."
"Oh, Tucker."
"How's she doing? She still in Florida where they went?"
"St. Augustine. She's down to one lung. She lives in one of those—assisted living places, they call them. She has her own space, but there's help if need be. She gets around on a walker." Margery paused.