Free Francesca of Lost Nation by Lucinda Sue Crosby Page B

tore out of there.
    Emily told me Francesca had walked down to the dress shop, Chez Fay. What in the world Francesca would be doing in there, I couldn't imagine.
    Chez Fay was owned and operated by Fay Phillips and stood next door to her beauty salon. She was fairly new in Lost Nation, having been here even fewer years than myself. Born in Des Moines, Fay was quite tall and had a large-boned elegance that was hard to ignore. She and Francesca were looking over the “summer frocks,” as Fay put it.
    Francesca didn’t gussy up much; what purpose would there be in frilly dresses or high heels in a vegetable garden?
    Today was somehow different.
    “I don't know ... I just don't see anything here I really like, Fay.”
    “Well, what occasion are we celebrating?” Fay liked to use the word “we” instead of “you.” Her mode of expression was theatrical, and when she spoke, she made full use of the scales.
    “No occasion. A woman feels like dressing up once in a while. What could be more natural?” Francesca offered as if her appearance at Chez Fay was every-day ordinary. Truth be told, diamond-studded fingernails couldn’t have seemed more out of place on Francesca. I could not recall the last time she'd worn a skirt. Maybe it was Cox's funeral. Yes, I can picture her navy suit and matching felt hat, complete with veil, come to think of it. And her gray raincoat, as it was perfect weather for a funeral, cool and misting.
    Anyhow, the idea of Francesca putting down good money for girly clothes was odd. Very odd.
    “Let me put on my thinking cap. Hmmm ... You know, I may have something in the back. A sky blue dress with short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. We could take the lace off; maybe it wouldn't look too ... I'll just check this week’s shipment.”
    As Faye searched for the dress, I took a chair near the door. I wanted to tell Francesca about Matthew, but at the moment, I was more intrigued with my grandmother’s behavior.
    I watched, astounded, as Francesca sniffed the various perfumes on the countertop in front of her. She held up some lacy handkerchiefs, tracing the delicate pattern with her fingertips. After a few moments, Fay came bustling out with the dress fairly floating across her arm.
    “Yes, here it is. Isn't it wonderful?”
    It certainly was. When Francesca swept out of the dressing room, she resembled a movie star. She pirouetted, looking at herself in the mirror.
    “Wow!” I enthused.
    Francesca never said a word. She got back into her own clothes and handed the lovely garment to Fay, along with some nylons and silky underthings. After some thought, she decided to try on a pair of heeled sandals and bought those, too. Then, she looked me up and down long and hard.
    “You know, Sarah, you're growing like a weed. You haven't got a decent dress in your closet.”
    “A dress? So who needs one?” I asked, but it was no use — I would spend the next hour trying on clothes, shoes and hats. Hats! What would I need with a hat? I was still at an age where dungarees were more than adequate … but Francesca’s enthusiasm was hard to dismiss. And after a while, I actually found myself enjoying the moment. 
    Finally, we left the shop, struggling as we walked, for all the boxes and packages. Babe, who’d been sitting quietly, walked dutifully at my side.
    We didn’t see the Duisenberg, so we sat down on a bench in front of Fay’s shop. After thirty minutes or so, Francesca checked her watch for the third time. She was tapping her foot in agitation.
    “Where could he be?” she asked herself.
    It was time to tell Francesca what I had heard.
    When I’d finished, Francesca admonished Babe and me to stay where we were and told me to keep an eye on the packages.
    She motioned through the shop window for Fay to keep watch over Babe and me and headed toward the sheriff’s office.
    I saw her storm through the jailhouse doors and heard most of her side of the conversation. People in the next county