“It’s not surgery, Carlos. I usually just toss it all in there. It gets scrambled up anyway.’’

“Anything worth doing is worth doing correctly.’’

“Right.’’

“Exactly. That’s what I said.’’

“No, the saying is …”

Right, correctly. What difference did it make? Maybe the idiom was off a tad, but the meaning was clear. I lined up little slices of cherry tomatoes across the eggs, as neat as columns of numbers. I was rewarded with a knowing smile from Carlos.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it.’’

I set the table and then took a seat while he popped bread from the toaster and plated our breakfast. When he placed the eggs in front of me with a waiter’s flourish, I got a warm feeling in my stomach. I don’t think it was just hunger, either. I felt taken care of. Content.

“I could get used to this.’’

“Careful, Mace. I might take that to mean you want us to move in together.’’

Suddenly, the warm feeling in my gut tightened into a knot. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. We’d only been engaged two months. Who knew whether it would last between us? When Maddie and Kenny wed, hadn’t she thought her marriage would last forever? Until death do us part.

The familiar words from the wedding vows made me think of the murdered woman, Camilla. No doubt she was not ready for death to take her. I saw her lifeless body in my mind’s eye, discarded and left to decay in the dump. I stared at my untouched food.

“Is something wrong? Your eggs are getting cold,’’ Carlos said.

“It looks great.’’ I took a couple of bites, pushed the food around my plate. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Maybe I ate too much garbanzo bean soup last night.’’

“Not to mention more than your share of flan.’’

Outside the window, a cloud passed over the sun. The kitchen fell into shadow. What was wrong with me? I had a good man, who’d just cooked my Sunday morning breakfast. So why was I obsessing about a murdered woman? Why was I feeling trapped?

“Look at the time,’’ I said, glancing at the kitchen clock. “I’ve got to get home to change into church clothes.’’

“So soon? You’ve barely eaten a thing.’’

I scooped the eggs onto my toast and made a sandwich. “I’ll finish it on the drive home.’’

“We’ve got to talk, Mace.’’

Thankfully, his cell phone rang at that moment, saving me from having to explain my mood change. How could I do that when I didn’t understand it myself? He grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter and checked the caller ID.

“I should take this.’’

I’ll call you. I mouthed the words, hand-signaling a phone to my ear.

He answered his cell, and then burst into rapid-fire Spanish. I couldn’t comprendo a word. Even as he spoke to the caller, he held up a wait-a-minute finger to me. His puzzled frown followed me as I walked toward the door.

_____

The music minister at Mama’s church hit the first chords on his portable piano. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’’ I hoped that was true, because I felt a bit short on the friend front that morning. I was playing games with a man who loved me. I’d already insulted both Mama and Sal. And I’d slipped up and called the pastor by the wrong name.

Even the little boy in the pew beside me pinched me on the thigh when I slid in and gave his head a friendly pat. It wasn’t shaping up as my best Sunday morning ever.

We were still standing outside on the sidewalk before services at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel when Mama started sniping about my fashion missteps.

“Is that the only clean blouse you had in your closet, Mace?’’ She picked some lint off my wrinkled collar. “You know what I always say about black fabric: It picks up everything but men and money. Not to mention, it’s more appropriate for a funeral than for Sunday worship.’’

I took in her watermelon-colored pantsuit, accessorized with dangly earrings and bangle bracelets in the same shade of reddish-pink as her scarf. And Mama was calling me out on my wardrobe choices? I lifted her fingers off my collar.

“My blouse is navy blue.’’

“Uh-huh.’’ Mama dug around in her purse, and then held out her tube of Apricot Ice. “Here you go, honey. This won’t make up for that nest of knots in your hair … did you even brush it this morning? But it will perk up your complexion a bit. I wish you’d listen to me when I tell you that those drab shades aren’t your best choice. You should be wearing the vibrant colors from Color Me Gorgeous’s winter palette. ’’

“My complexion is fine.’’ I started to run a hand through my hair. When my fingers snagged in snarls, I realized she was right. “Speaking of color, you’ve got Apricot Ice smeared all over your incisors. I guess your eyes aren’t what they used to be.’’

She whipped out her mirrored compact; rubbed a finger over her teeth. “My eyes are fine, sweetheart. They’re sure good enough to see you got up on the wrong side of the bed today.’’

Sal draped a massive, bear-sized paw over each of our shoulders. I squirmed to get away, but he just drew Mama and me closer. “What’s the problem with my two favorite girls? I want youse two to stop all this fighting. How’s about a kiss to make up?’’

“Jeez, Sal, you smell like a humidor.’’ I waved a hand in front of my nose. “Didn’t you tell Mama you were giving up cigars?’’

His smile faltered, and his grip loosened on my shoulder. He flashed a guilty look at Mama, who was now regarding him through narrowed eyes. Good. Once they got going at each other, I was off the hook. As the minister approached to bid us hello, I had a momentary stab of conscience over stirring up trouble. I think I was breaking that commandment to honor thy father and mother. Or, in my case, thy mother and fourth stepfather. And there we were, right outside God’s house—even if it was a storefront in a strip mall next to the Pork Pit barbecue joint.

“Good morning, Mace.’’ The minister took my hand. “What a pleasure to see you after such a long time.’’

“It hasn’t been all that long, Reverend Idella.’’

Sal smirked. Mama poked me in the side.

“It’s Delilah, dear.’’ She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze before she moved on to greet the next, likely more faithful, member of her flock.

Now, the hymns had been sung. Next to me, the pinching kid was punching his little brother. The Rev. Delilah was preaching her sermon. She’d chosen to focus on the murdered librarian, since that was all anybody in town was talking about.

“I’ve heard, like all of you have, about how that poor girl was dressed. Don’t gossip about her; don’t be quick to judge. Remember what Jesus said: ‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone …’ ’’

She counseled the congregation not to fear the evil on the loose in Himmarshee that would drive a person to murder: “ ‘Don’t let your heart be troubled,’ ’’ she said, quoting from the Book of John. “You believe in God …’’

But even if God is watching over us, that’s no reason to be stupid, Delilah warned. “If you see something that doesn’t seem right, something that makes you suspicious, let the police know. We need to pull together as a community and make sure the person who committed this sin is not free to kill again.’’

Amen to that.

When the service ended, the worshippers gathered for food and fellowship in a second storefront the church had taken over next door. The little chapel was growing. After that trouble with Delilah’s ex-husband, who had been the previous minister, she was proving to be a popular attraction. At first, crowds came to the church solely because of the scandal, not to mention the murder. But memories fade. Now the congregation was one-hundred percent behind Delilah, and the female perspective she brought to the pulpit.

The tables nearly sagged with plates of goodies. There was a country ham, with flaky biscuits for mini sandwiches. Cold side dishes, prepared with copious amounts of mayonnaise, included coleslaw, macaroni, and potato salad. Pies and layer cakes competed for space with homemade candy, like pecan divinity and chocolate-marshmallow fudge. The members of Abundant Forgiveness definitely took their abundance seriously. Nobody had a hope of counting calories here.