We nodded.

“Well, that was me. Lord forgive me, I was cheating on my husband with Jim Albert.’’

Mama actually gasped. I kept my mouth shut, processing Delilah’s confession.

She was silent, too. Staring out the window, she traced the wings of a butterfly on her coffee cup. Maybe she wished she were outside, floating peacefully from flower to flower on her trellis of Confederate jasmine.

“Why didn’t you say anything the night Emma Jean came to Abundant Hope?’’ I asked.

Her head snapped around, and I thought for a moment she was going to slap me. She might be hurt and humiliated, but there was still a slice of mean in Delilah Dixon.

“What should I have said? ‘Excuse me, everyone. I’m the wicked woman Emma Jean is yelling about.’ I couldn’t do that. I’m the pastor’s wife. I’m supposed to be a model of propriety.’’

I wasn’t letting her off that easy. “You just stood there, as each of those fine churchgoers looked with suspicion from woman to woman.’’ I flashed on the pretty soprano. The way Emma Jean had stared, even I’d suspected her. “That’s not right. It’s not Christian.’’

Mama put a warning hand on my wrist. “Hush, Mace. Delilah knows she’s done wrong. But she’s got all sorts of trouble right now. Her husband’s gone. So is the hurricane money. She doesn’t need you piling on.’’

Delilah got up for the coffee pot. She raised her eyebrows to me. Not unless you want me to pee right here on the butterfly-covered cushion of your kitchen chair, I thought. But I just smiled and shook my head.

“No, Rosalee. Your daughter’s absolutely right. I wanted to confess. I really did. But I simply couldn’t get out the words that night in front of everyone. I prayed and prayed about it, asking God to help me do the right thing. I’d decided to ask Emma Jean for her forgiveness, but she vanished before I could do it.’’

We sat, listening to the tick of a butterfly clock over the kitchen sink. A Monarch hovered at twelve o’clock; a Swallowtail at six. As I studied the specimens for each hour, a mini lepidopterology course, Mama eyed a store-bought package of pecan cookies on the counter.

“Delilah, honey?’’ She licked her lips. “Would you mind if I took a couple of those cookies? I never had lunch today.’’

She glanced over her shoulder at the bag, but made no move to get up. She seemed completely defeated. “Of course, Rosalee. Help yourself.’’

Mama started struggling with the indestructible packaging. She put it between her knees and tugged. She turned it this way and that, trying to find a tab to rip. Delilah took the cookies without thinking, as if she was accustomed to being the one in the house who opens lids and unsticks drawers. The tendons in her forearms flexed like steel cables as she forced open the bag.

“You’re awfully muscular, Delilah. Do you exercise a lot?’’ I asked.

“My heavens, no!’’ A tiny smile creased her mouth. “Wouldn’t I be a sight in a leotard?’’

Delilah spread her anvil-sized hands, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. “No, I never needed to exercise. I’ve always been strong. My father was German and my mother Norwegian. They were both from hardy, peasant stock. All my brothers and sisters were big, too. But I was the biggest. My father used to call me Schweinchen, which means piglet in German. He meant it as an endearment.’’

“That’s a nice memory,’’ Mama said.

“Not really. The kids at school took my father’s nickname for me and turned it into ‘pig fart.’’’

I pictured a heavy little girl in glasses, ridiculed and teased. Sympathy for Delilah was beginning to come easier.

But then I looked again at those big hands, dwarfing the butterfly mug as if it were a doll’s teacup. What kind of damage could they do? Jim Albert was dead, tossed like a sack of garbage into Mama’s trunk. First Emma Jean vanished. And now Delilah’s husband had, too. Several of those unraveling strands seemed to start with the woman sitting across the table from Mama and me.

“Emma Jean called me the night she disappeared,’’ I said, watching carefully for Delilah’s reaction. “She knew who Jim was cheating with. She told me she was going to confront the other woman. So, you’re saying the confrontation never happened?’’

Delilah continued to stare at the table. My question hung in the air. Finally, she looked up with narrowed eyes. “That’s just what I’m saying.’’ She filed the sharp edge from her voice. “Mace, I don’t know who Emma Jean believed was the other woman. Maybe there was more than one. I do know I cheated with her boyfriend. I asked God and my husband to forgive me. I was going to ask her, too, even though I was terrified after seeing her waving that tire iron.’’

“You’ve just been telling us how strong you are. Why would you be scared?’’ I said.

“Emma Jean’s nearly as big as I am. She’s ten years younger. If there was ever going to be a confrontation, I don’t know that I’d come out ahead.’’

I looked over at Mama. She was munching on her fourth pecan cookie, looking thoughtful.

“Why’d you do it, Delilah?’’ she finally said.

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I’m used to deciphering Mama Code. Delilah’s eyebrows were so tightly knit she looked like she was trying to do higher math.

Mama clarified. “I mean, why’d you cheat on your husband in the first place?’’

Delilah sighed. Was it sadness? Or was it relief Mama was only asking about sex?

“I only did it once, you know?’’ She touched the tight, beauty-shop waves in her hair. They sprang back. “I’d gone to the drive-thru to pick up some sodas for the youth group’s pizza night. Jim was there. He complimented me; told me how nice I looked in blue flowers. I looked like a pretty flower myself, he told me.’’

If Delilah had been wearing the same floral dress we’d seen her in at church, Jim Albert had been a liar as well as a weasel.

“I couldn’t remember when a man last acted with me that way. I liked it. It made me feel young again.’’ She lifted her eyes to us. I thought I saw the passage of sad and lonely years reflected there. “You may not know it by the way Bob acts in public, but I’ve had to put up with a lot from my husband. Bob’s a serial cheater.’’

I shot a quick glance at Mama. Both of us remembered the creepy scenes with Pastor Bob in his office and at Hair Today.

“It’s humiliating.’’ Delilah dabbed at her eyes with Mama’s handkerchief.

I was back to feeling sorry for her.

“It got so bad at our last church, the board forced Bob out. We prayed and prayed about it. He begged me to forgive him. Again. Things were good for a while, but then I saw the signs he was starting to slip. Again. And then, one night, Bob never came home at all. The next day, I met Jim Albert for the first time at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze.’’