Free A Season of Eden by Jennifer Laurens

you go to church Eden?”
     
    I shook my head, watching to see if he found my honesty a turn off. “You?”
     

     
    He nodded. “That’s where I started singing. My mother was our choir director.”
     
    “Cool.” I could see him in a white robe with a big, round red collar, his angelic voice clearly above everyone else’s. “You had the best voice, I bet.”
     
    “Mom always thought so.” His grin deepened. “Music has its roots in religion. I got a steady diet of both growing up.”
     
    “So, where do you go to church?” I was already planning to go there.
     
    He stopped at the joint in the hall that led to the faculty offices. For a moment he looked at me as if considering my question. “All Saints Church down in the Riv.”
     
    “Non-denominational?”
     
    “Yeah. I’ve got that meeting.”
     
    “Oh. Sure.” I started toward the parking lot. “Bye.”
     
    “See you tomorrow.”
     
    I strained to hear his footsteps even with my back turned but they vanished after seven steps.
     

     

     
    •••
     
    It rained that night. The pattering sound drowned out Stacey’s useless chattering on her cell phone as she walked through the house on her nightly bragging session to her friends about her latest purchases.
    I took off in my car and headed down to the Riv. The hollowness I carried yearned. I thought about Mr. Christian when he first told us about classical music being more satisfying and scanned the radio for a classical station because I didn’t own anything but pop.
     

     
    I’d listened to enough in class that the repulsive reaction I’d had initially was nearly gone now. As I drove down PV Drive, I tried to listen to the melody, like he’d taught us to. The violins were strong, like a wind blowing through trees. Cellos snaked a deeper harmony along the base of those trees. In my mind, I saw a dark forest. When I heard tinkling bells, I imagined the leaves on the trees shimmering with the sound.
     
    The song took me right to Mr. Christian’s house and I slowed as I drove by, peering through the rain at the darkened cottage. His car was nowhere in sight. But then he could very well have parked it in the garage.
     
    Still, the place looked empty.
     
    I wondered where he could be. Some churches held meetings on weeknights. I knew that much from kids who weren’t my friends but whom I’d heard talking about it.
     
    I drove to the address of All Saints I had looked up in the white pages. The building was on the corner of Pacific Coast Highway and Redondo Beach Boulevard.
     
    A handful of cars were in the parking lot—though I didn’t see his—and a few people were going inside so I parked. He could have parked somewhere else, like on the street. He could be inside. My nerves skittered.
     
    I had no idea if Mr. Christian had church meetings on Thursday nights, but the creamy-colored church with its spirals pointing to heaven, its stained glass shooting colors of hope into the rainy night, drew me.
     
    It was warm inside and smelled of oiled wood and paper. I hadn’t worn a coat. Like every teenager, I saw the practical umbrella as taboo. My skirt and top were drenched with rainwater.
     
    Standing in the dark-wood foyer, I shivered. Low lights from black sconces mellowed the room. A wooden stand held a stack of programs so I took one. It had the church itinerary for the week.
     
    Organ music seeped heavily through the open doors and into the foyer where I stood. I walked into the chapel to find a smattering of people sitting in random pews, listening to the music.
     
    An older man played.
     
    One look around and I knew James Christian was not there. Still, I wasn’t disappointed. The music was doing just as he’d said it would, filling the hollowness inside of me.
     
    For a moment, I stood in the back and listened. This melody was heavy, and moved like a herd of horses at a full run. The organ added drama with its warbling notes. I decided to stay, even if Mr.