Bob Hoskins spent the whole afternoon in his garage with Chase McSperritt, drinking beer, just like he did every Saturday and Sunday. His wife, Isabel heard the screen door snap now and then, whenever one of them filed in to take a leak. At five-thirty she unfolded Gran’s embroidered apron and started supper. She fried up a skillet of pork chops and hash brown potatoes.

While she waited for the meat to finish cooking, Isabel carefully dusted her silent herd of bone china horses on the wooden shelf above the kitchen table. She loved those horses. She’d brought them back with her last spring, all the way from Baton Rouge, neatly packed in a cake box, tied up with string.

When her Aunt Rae had died, Isabel bought a Greyhound ticket and headed down south for the funeral. Bob, of course, was much too busy to get away. He stayed home and drank beer.

Isabel pressed her face to the screen. “Supper’s ready, honey. Why don’t you come in while everything’s nice and hot.” “

My name’s Bob. And I’m not hungry.” He opened the old green refrigerator in the garage, handed another beer to Chase, and popped open another one for himself.

She stepped out in the garage. The concrete floor felt cool under her bare feet.

“You told me you wanted to eat at six.” Isabel ran her fingers over the flowers embroidered on her apron.

“Changed my mind. I’m free, white, and over 21.” Bob snorted while he laughed. Chase laughed, but looked down at the floor.

“I probably ought to be going,” said Chase.

“I won’t hear of it,” she said. “Why don’t you eat with us, Chase. I always cook too much.”

“Thanks, that’s real nice,” said Chase. He tipped his hat and smiled at Isabel.

“I told you, we’re not eating.” Bob threw his beer can, still nearly full, at Isabel, as hard as he could. “Hey Spirit Man, did you hear what they sold the Furman place for? It went for about $2500 an acre.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” said Chase, turning his head not to see Isabel grabbing for a towel to clean up the mess. “Some guy with horses from Louisiana bought it.”

Chase handed Bob a beer as Isabel slipped inside. She felt her arm start to swell. Her feet were sticky from the beer. Gran’s cotton apron was as damp as a dishrag.

“Hell, I’d sell out tomorrow if the Horseman offered me half that,” smirked Bob.

Isabel dabbed the tears from her eyes. She walked over to her shelf and picked up a prancing white stallion, her favorite horse.

She pulled out a cookie jar from the cupboard.  Tucked inside was a fancy-looking business card, rubber-banded to a thick wad of cash.

She brushed her cheek with the card, closed her eyes, and cradled the white horse.

When Bob roared at her about warming up dinner, Isabel didn’t answer.

Her heart pounded as she dialed the phone number on the card and she wondered if Louisiana magnolias were still in bloom.