Amen, L.A. Read online

  “Pretty impressive operation,” my dad remarked as he turned the Subaru into the church’s underground parking structure, a structure that, according to the church website, could hold eight hundred cars on five levels and had been earthquake-proofed to withstand a temblor of eight on the Richter scale. There were several entrances to and exits from the structure, and uniformed attendants in orange vests were guiding the cars in and out.

  Chad raised his eyebrows as he took in the long line of cars waiting to park. “I think we’re gonna have to upgrade our vehicle, Dad.”

  Once again, I saw what he was talking about. BMWs and Mercedes predominated. There were also Audis, Lexuses, and even a few stretch limos. Plus the occasional Bentley, Rolls-Royce, and Ferrari.

  My dad shook his head. “Subaru now, Subaru forever.”

  “I think what Chad is saying is that we don’t exactly fit in,” Gemma noted, stating the obvious.

  “And we’re proud of it,” Dad declared. “Right, kids?”

  Gemma rolled her eyes.

  Dad spotted a yellow Lotus pulling out of a spot on the first level, waited for the driver to execute a tight three-point turn, and then pulled us in. “Ready for showtime?”

  It turned out he had it right. Sunday-morning worship at the Church of Beverly Hills is, in many ways, showtime.

  Start with the congregation itself. As we took the elevator up to the main level and then made our way through the expansive gold-painted lobby, it felt like we’d stepped into a fashion show. But we weren’t sitting in chairs along the runway; we were right in the middle of all the models. I’m not just talking about men and women in their twenties and thirties, either. I’m talking everyone. The kids were gorgeous. The teens were great-looking, with the kinds of hairstyles and clothes you saw in magazines. As for the adults, who ranged from, say, age twenty to moribund, they were thin, well coiffed, tan, and aerobicized within an inch of their lives.

  “Oh my God, I’m fat compared to these girls!” Gemma hissed. We were walking together, with my father and Chad ahead of us.

  “You’re not fat,” I assured her. But I, too, was taking in the crowd and making unflattering comparisons to myself. “Everyone looks like they stepped out of a movie.”

  “Botox,” Gemma said knowingly. “Nose jobs. Fake boobs. Restylane for pouffy lips.” My little sister was frighteningly well informed about this stuff. “We are dressed all wrong!” she moaned. “Why did I listen to you?”

  Gemma and I had consulted in the morning and decided that the things to wear to our first day of church were our new dresses from Target. Mine was green and sleeveless and came to just above my knees. Gemma’s was the same length but a pink and orange paisley babydoll style. Both dresses had modest necklines. As for my dad and brother, they looked like father and son in sport coat/white shirt/tie/khaki trouser combinations.

  I took in the clothes other girls our age were wearing. Their dresses and skirts were inches shorter than ours, not to mention infinitely more expensive. Everywhere you looked, it seemed like the ultra-pricey boutiques of Rodeo Drive had migrated a few blocks east and emptied their stock onto this congregation.

  “You look great,” I told Gemma.

  “I look like I’m from Minne-freaking-sota,” Gemma shot back.

  We entered the main sanctuary, which was already three-quarters filled. In Mankato, our church was a model of simplicity: fifteen double rows of pews that stretched from the slightly raised stage at the front, where my mother would deliver her sermons, and a couple of inspirational tapestries on the wall. There was a single cross at the front of the space and crosses carved into the sides of each pew. Large windows let in natural light. That was it.

  Like I said, I’d taken the virtual tour, but it didn’t prepare me for the vastness of the Church of Beverly Hills. More than anything, the church reminded me of theater in the round, with a semicircle of seats around a central raised area, and another stage at the west end of the sanctuary. There was a raised section for the choir—already seated, in fitted jackets and trousers instead of the usual choir robes—and a sunken orchestra pit. From the outside of the building, the stained glass was pretty. From the inside, the ten windows, each depicting an abstract vision of one of the Ten Commandments, were positively breathtaking as the morning sun poured through, dancing colors across the comfortable individual seats, each of which had a rack for a Bible and a hymnal. The one thing I wasn’t impressed with was that there was no welcome table for visitors. We had that in Minnesota. Even though on a typical Sunday in Mankato, the welcome table was kind of pointless. Everyone knew everyone else. Here, how would you tell who was new and who wasn’t?

  “Hey!” Gemma exclaimed. “There’s Lisa!” She waved, and I spotted the girl from the youth group who’d taken Gemma through our new house. She was sitting with four or five other kids and motioning to Gemma to come and join them. Without a word to me, Gemma took off in their direction.

  “Find us at lunch, okay?” I called to her.

  She nodded to me over her shoulder. I saw Lisa hug Gemma, then excitedly introduce her to the others, who hugged Gemma, too. That was nice.

  That’s when I heard my name being called in a loud whisper. “Natalie!”

  I turned around. There was Sandra, motioning to me to sit with her and some other kids. Any other time, I would have—my parents always said that you can see your family all the time, but sometimes you only saw your friends in church, so why not sit with them? But not on this first day. Not if Gemma was with Lisa. So I mouthed, “At lunch,” to Sandra, pointed to where my dad and Chad were sitting, and shrugged. She gave an understanding smile and a little wave.

  My seat was next to my dad, with Chad on his other side. My father leaned toward me discreetly. “I saw what you did with Gemma. Smart.”

  “Thanks.” I breathed a little easier, though not so easy that I could help getting an extra strong whiff of the Chanel No 5 perfume the woman to my left was wearing. Two years earlier, Gemma, Chad, and I had saved up and pooled our allowances to buy my mom the smallest bottle possible for Mother’s Day. She saved it for special occasions.

  My brother leaned across my dad toward me. “Did you see who’s here?” He was truly excited.

  “Um … a lot of Christian people?”

  My dad laughed.

  “Kelly Clarkson. About five rows ahead, and to the left.”

  As I looked for her, I had a celebrity spotting of my own. Kristen Kreuk, chatting amiably with an older gentleman in a white linen suit.

  Okay. This really was the church of the rich and famous. And us.

  A moment later, worship started. To my relief, it followed basically the same form as back home. It opened with singing and praise. In Mankato, this was usually a song or two. Here it was a full fifteen minutes, with instrumentals from the orchestra, chorale singing, and one absolutely stunning solo by a middle-aged woman. The woman next to me whispered that she was one of the most sought-after commercial-jingle singers in town. The words to every song were projected on two large telescreens that lowered from the ceiling, so everyone could follow along. And follow along they did. The atmosphere was fun, even a little bit raucous. And this was before my mother came out to lead the service.

  Then the music stopped, and my mom appeared from behind the GOD IS LOVE curtain at the front of the sanctuary. Shockingly, she was wearing the same worship robe she used to wear in Minnesota. Black, with a quirky red stripe that started at the neckline, passed over her heart, and ran down to the base of the gown. I asked her once whether the red stripe had religious significance. No, she said with a conspiratorial grin. She just liked how it looked. No obvious crucifix, though I knew she wore a small silver one habitually.

  To my surprise, the congregation rose as one to applaud her. Really loudly. So loudly that it felt like the bricks of the building might shake loose.

  We stood and clapped, too, my father loudest of all. His face beamed with pride as he raised his hands over his head
so my mom could see him. She did, and gave the little secret smile that she thought only they knew, but that I recognized. She was so loved by him. Did Sean love me that way? He said he loved me. But what did that mean? Did it mean that the next time I saw him, whenever that would be, he’d expect me—

  I willed my brain to stop thinking about Sean and sex. Which meant my brain immediately went to thoughts of Brett Goldstein and sex. In church. God help me. I mean it.

  My mother thanked her congregation for the warm welcome. To my surprise, she introduced Chad, Gemma, and me by name, but spared us the embarrassment of making us stand, saying everyone would get to know us well enough in the days to come. “Maybe too well,” she added, to warm laughter. Then she introduced Dad, calling him the love of her life and thanking him for deciding with her to accept this pulpit.

  Finally, she opened her Bible. “Today’s lesson is from the Epistle of James. Follow with me, please. And you’ll also want to flip to Leviticus, Chapter Nineteen. I’ll give you the verse when we get to it.”

  Chad and I looked at each other. We’ve heard our mom preach—a lot. Never on James, though. We opened our New Testaments to James, and my mother spoke beautifully and movingly about the relationship between James and his brother Jesus, and about James’s injunction to treat rich and poor the same way, with the same open heart. She linked it to the section of Leviticus about not favoring a person because they are rich or poor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of my new home,” my mother said, “judge me not by where I stand, because this stage is not me. Judge me not by the robe I wear. I am not my robe. Judge me not by my title, or the number of books on the shelves in my office—and the movers will tell you that I nearly ruined their backs. Judge me as Jesus himself would judge me. Judge me as you would want Jesus to judge you.”

  The congregation was both absolutely rapt and a little embarrassed. I saw a few people unconsciously touching their expensive pocketbooks and designer clothes, or scuffing their designer shoes on the parquet floor. This was vintage Marsha Shelton. The church leadership had to have known the kind of woman they were hiring. They chose my mom.

  The service ended a half hour later, after some of the best church singing I’d ever heard and a welcome from Kent Stevens, one of the leading board members. Stevens invited the congregation to come to the church social hall afterward for a buffet.

  “We brought in the catering trucks from James Cameron’s Avatar. I suspect about half of you worked on that picture,” he quipped. “And if you’re working for Jim, you know there’ll be another movie from him for you to work on … in about eight years!” The congregation roared with laughter at the inside joke, and I learned later that Cameron takes a really, really long time to prep his films. Then the orchestra struck up an inspiring closing instrumental, and the service was over.

  Lunch. In Mankato, it was pimento-and-cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off, made by the lunch committee. Here? Well, it was a little different.

  At least five hundred people stayed. The food was served outside under a huge multicolored tent. You got your food there and brought it inside to one of the scores of long tables that had been set with cutlery. Uniformed servers circulated with pitchers of iced tea and juice. The menu included roasted fresh salmon and albacore, vegetables from the farmers’ market, dark bread baked in the kitchen, and zucchini lasagna for the vegetarians in the crowd. I noticed the lasagna going very fast.

  As I joined the buffet line, I saw Gemma and Lisa ahead of me, with Chad. Something Chad was saying had to be funny, because Lisa was laughing uproariously. Gemma caught my eye and gave a happy wave. I waved back, glad that my mother hadn’t made us stand when she’d introduced us. I was feeling conspicuous enough in my Target dress, even with my mother’s sermon fresh in my ears.

  “Hey, Natalie!” Sandra came up to me with a few people our age in tow. “I want you to meet my friends. This is Natalie Shelton,” she announced. “Wasn’t her mom amazing?”

  I heard a chorus of “definitely,” “for sure,” “you’re so lucky to have her as a mom.” Plus a barrage of names that I couldn’t hope to remember. Suddenly, I was a celebrity. One person was offering to bring me a plate of food. Another one, dessert. Another, something from the fruit boat. Sandra directed traffic, telling everyone that she would walk me to a table and save seats. At least I remembered to say thank you.

  “What do you think?” she asked as we wended our way back into the social hall.

  “Impressive,” I said honestly.

  “I know! And you’re going to love them. So much better than Alex Samuels. Serious bad news.” She actually shuddered.

  There it was. Not five minutes into the convo, and Alex’s name came up like she was the Antichrist. Well. I could choose my own friends, thank you very much.

  “We hung out last night. It was fun.” I said it like I didn’t have a care in the world.

  Sandra scowled as she led me to my table. “You need to listen to your mother’s sermon a little better. Alex is snowing you.”

  “No she isn’t.”

  “Yes she is.” Sandra pulled a chair out for me. “I’m about to give you some excellent advice. Google her. That’s all I’m saying.” She slid into the seat next to mine.

  Before I could get any more information, Sandra’s friends came back with our food, and the talk was about everything but what I wanted to talk about: my new friend Alex Samuels.

  Chapter Six

  We didn’t get back to Ricardo’s mansion—I definitely did not think of it as “home”—until nearly five-thirty. The luncheon had stretched into midafternoon, then late afternoon. Typically, the minister and his or her family are the last to leave these kinds of affairs. Back in Minnesota, on a typical Sunday, it didn’t matter much. Folks wanted to get home to watch the Vikings or the Packers, or go fishing or ice fishing, or work in their gardens (depending on the season), and the food at church wasn’t all that great to begin with.

  Well, this wasn’t Minnesota, and this wasn’t a typical Sunday. Los Angeles didn’t have a football team even during football season, fishing wasn’t popular, and it seemed as if everyone employed Mexican gardeners instead of tilling the soil themselves. More than that, this first Sunday luncheon at church was a bit of a freak show, and my family was the main attraction. Most people kept a polite distance at the beginning, though I could feel the eyes on me. As the meal went on, polite distance gave way to “Hi, I just wanted to meet you.” From everyone. Young, old, and in between. For someone who isn’t good with names—namely, me—this can be a challenge. Besides, unlike my sister, I don’t like being stared at. Maybe if I looked like Gemma instead of looking like me, I’d feel differently.

  Lisa Stevens had come back to the house with us. She, Gemma, and Chad were getting into the hot tub. They invited me, but I pled exhaustion and went up to my room.

  I was about to do something I never do. Google someone. Namely, Alex.

  Okay. I realize a lot of people Google every single person they meet and don’t think anything of it. Not me. It just feels … wrong. I’ve never even Googled myself.

  But I couldn’t get Sandra’s words out of my head. They drove me crazy throughout lunch. I had to do it. For my own sanity.

  I left a message for Sean to call me—we still hadn’t talked—changed out of my church dress into a pair of shorts and a faded blue T-shirt, and sat down at my MacBook to open Safari when my cell sounded with Sean’s distinct ringtone. Finally!

  “Hey, you!” I was glad to hear from him. We had a lot to talk about, if he was willing.

  “Hey, you, yourself.” He chuckled. “That California life must be agreeing with you. You’re a hard girl to reach.”

  “You’re not so easy yourself,” I fired back.

  “I’ve been pretty busy.” He launched into a detailed litany of what had gone on in Mankato in the two days I’d been away. He’d gone to my old church that morning, and reported on his experience.

  “The
new pastor who replaced your mom? Well, he’s not even half as good as your mom.”

  “I’ll tell her that.” I smiled.

  “I bet everyone loves her. What was her first day like?”

  I leaned forward to stretch my back. We were talking like we always did, about this and that. Easily. Companionably. But we weren’t talking about the biggest thing of all.

  “There’s a lot to tell. I’ll send you an email.” I hesitated. Then I leaped. “Sean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why aren’t we talking about it?”

  Silence. Then, finally …

  “What’s to talk about?” Sean asked. “It happened. It probably shouldn’t have happened, but it happened. Talking about it won’t change it.”

  I pressed. “I know that. But how do you feel?”

  His answer was immediate. “I just told you how I feel.”

  “No you didn’t. You told me what you thought. You didn’t say how you feel.”

  He was quiet again for a moment. “Well, why don’t you start, if you want to talk about how we feel?”

  “Okay. I will.”

  Mind you, I had no idea what I was going to say. But I found myself pouring out my heart and soul to Sean, and it was all about my feelings.

  “I’m ashamed of myself, for doing something that I never thought I would do until I was married, and that I didn’t want to do until I was married. I’m guilty, so guilty that I don’t want to talk about it with anyone but you. I’m ashamed that I’m hiding it from my parents and especially my mom, because I don’t want her to think badly of me.” I was rolling now. “I’m disappointed, because honestly it wasn’t such a great experience, and I didn’t enjoy it all that much.”