Souvenir by Therese Fowler Page B

old wooden posts with steel in the steady, conservative manner with which he did everything. The McKays’ was one of the fortunate Ocala-area farms that, by luck of diligent grove management and the two small, warm lakes within their groves, lost only a few trees when the freeze of ’89 put so many growers out of business. If it had gone otherwise—if the groves were lost and had to be replanted, as so many had—Carson never would’ve left to pursue his music. Instead, he’d have stayed to replant, rebuild the business. It was funny how things turned out, how you couldn’t predict where luck would land or which kind it would be when it did.
    Post-checking was only an excuse, he knew, for his dad to get him alone. As an only child, he’d forged a strong, close bond with both his parents, one that had helped see him through what they all referred to as “those years,” and which told him, now, that something other than fence posts was on his dad’s mind. But he knew not to rush the matter, and so he ambled along at his dad’s side through the calf-high grass, appreciating the peace layered all around him: rosy sky, soft breeze stirring the nearby lemon-tree leaves, a trio of horses gamboling across the way on pastureland that had until recently belonged to Spencer and Anna Powell.
    “I see the new people have things up and running over there,” he said, pointing toward the horses.
    His dad stopped walking and looked that way. “They do. Kind of strange to see the place active again, after so long.”
    “How long has it been?”
    “What? Since there were Thoroughbreds over there?”
    “Yeah,” Carson nodded. He couldn’t remember, having lived away from here for more than fifteen years, now.
    “Oh, maybe a decade, maybe more. Around the time Julianne married that Canadian fella and moved up to Quebec.”
    Carson recalled hearing about it. Meg’s youngest sister, only seventeen at the time, got pregnant just before her senior year and married the father, a college student from Quebec who’d been visiting relatives for the summer. He got the news by phone while he was touring with his first band and wondered, then, how different things might’ve gone for him if he’d accidentally gotten Meg pregnant. She would’ve had to stick with him and try to make a life together, would’ve seen that there was nothing to fear about being so much in love—
if
that was her real reason for breaking up.
    He never did quite buy that excuse, though. He figured she’d fallen for Hamilton, was seduced by the money and just didn’t want to admit it. And that morning before her wedding, all she wanted was a fling for old time’s sake. One last toss with the guy she’d thought was such a good lover but wasn’t worth marrying—he didn’t have money, after all, didn’t have what looked like a life of luxury ahead of him, not then. He’d been nothing but a shit-kicker, a grower’s kid who intended to be a grower himself. He couldn’t compete with Brian Hamilton, couldn’t give her the life she apparently wanted.
    “Carson?”
    “Oh, sorry, just lost in thought.”
Well, whatever
, he thought; water under the bridge.
    His dad went on, “After the youngest left, Spencer sold off the last of his stock and stuck to just boarding. I never did know why.”
    “Maybe he just got tired of failing. God knows he couldn’t seem to make any money breeding.”
    “That’s the truth,” his dad said. “And I wondered about that, about just what
was
working for Spencer. Because time was when all the talk was on him sliding into bankruptcy and foreclosure—he was overextended everyplace around.”
    “I remember,” Carson said.
    “But
something
turned around for him, and I found out just what when I was over to the co-op last week,” his dad said, turning to continue their walk. “Dave Zimmerman pulls me aside. He says, ‘Hey, what do you know about Spencer Powell?’ And I say, ‘Well, we been neighbors for thirty-some