Free Can't Let You Go by Jenny B Jones Page A

glasses and waiting for Frances to resurface. We had already watched her model six dresses, and by now they all looked the same. If Frances had liked the dress, her mother had not. Dresses her mother adored, Frances couldn’t stand. And Maxine? Well, I was pretty sure Maxine had swapped her sparkling water for the vino at least four dresses ago.
    “I guess this engagement took you by surprise?” I asked Mrs. Vega. “So sudden and all.” Maybe if Frances’s mother and I tag-teamed, we could talk some sense into the bride-to-be.
    “It was quite unexpected.” Mrs. Vega didn’t take her eyes off the dressing room door.
    “I’m sure you’d feel better if they waited a bit. Took some time to really get to know one another.”
    “Mmm.” Her monosyllabic sound of agreement did not provide much information. “Frances, are you coming out any time soon?” Mrs. Vega checked the gold watch on her wrist.
    “If she stays in there much longer, they’re gonna charge her rent.” Maxine tapped a red fingernail to her glass. “Where’s that waitress?”
    “This isn’t Applebee’s.” I snatched that flute right out of her hands.
    “Come on, girl,” Maxine called toward the door. “I’m fossilizing out here.”
    “Get ready!” Frances yelled back. “I think you’re going to love this one.”
    The dressing room door creaked open, and Frances walked to the mini runway that led to a three-way mirror so big if we aimed it at the sun, we’d light the whole town on fire. Frances wore a strapless, fitted gown of antique ivory lace. It gaped at the top and ballooned at the bottom.
    Her mother pushed her glasses up her nose, much like Frances always did when needing a closer inspection. “What’s that style?”
    Frances turned in a circle. “It’s called fit and flare.”
    Maxine’s lip curled. “You need to burn that flare.”
    “I don’t like it,” Mrs. Vega said. “Too much cleavage, not enough bling.”
    “Yeah.” Maxine waved her hand toward the dress. “You gotta pimp that thing out. Get some sparkle. Some razzle dazzle.”
    I nudged my grandmother. “You said you’d sit quietly. That was our deal.”
    “I want to renegotiate our terms.”
    I knew I should’ve dropped Maxine off at the Dairy Barn. “You’re not helping.”
    “No,” Frances said. “She’s right. And my mother’s right. This dress doesn’t work. None of them have.” She turned to face the mirror. “Something’s missing with all these gowns.”
    “I bet the winter collection is worth waiting for.”
    “Subtle,” Maxine whispered. “Really subtle.”
    “You could wear my dress,” Mrs. Vega suggested. “We could get it altered this week.”
    “Your dress hasn’t been in style since frosty blue eye shadow and acid-washed jeans.” Frances’s shoulders drooped and she stepped away from the mirrors. “I’m sorry. I’m projecting my wedding stress onto you all. When I see the right one, I’ll know it. But so far, these are all very vanilla. I’m wanting—”
    “Cherry chip mocha with hot fudge, butterscotch, peanut butter, toasted pecans, whipped cream, and extra sprinkles?” Maxine looked at each of our blank faces. “I guess that’s just me.”
    Frances lifted her skirt above her heels and shuffled back into the dressing room.
    “How is Mr. Vega taking this?” I asked when Frances was out of ear-shot.
    Her mother shook her head. “Not well. Frances is our first born, his baby girl. It’s hard. We’ve had to have a lot of talks about it.”
    “I’m sure his concerns are understandable.”
    Mrs. Vega smiled. “Her dad’s just having a difficult time letting her go. He thinks she should still be in pig tails and Hello Kitty.”
    “Do you. . .” This was such a delicate matter, I wanted to tread carefully. “Do you think Frances and Joey should date a little longer?”
    “Yes, but her father and I can’t say a word.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because,” Mrs. Vega said dreamily, “Juan and I married on