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If they were, then they didn’t need to follow me to find the way. Miles before I even got to Schenectady, huge signs started appearing on the side of the interstate: billboards with sparkling silver letters proclaiming, THE ANGELS CAN SAVE YOU! CHURCH OF ANGELS, SCHENECTADY, EXIT 8 WEST. My hands tightened on the wheel. There it was, that generic image so familiar from all the commercials, of the huge white church on a hill.
When I finally pulled into the mammoth parking lot, all I could do was sit in my car and stare for a minute. I’d been to New York City; I’d seen big buildings before — but nothing quite like this. Maybe it was the way the church sat by itself, rising up from a vast landscaped lawn, but the sheer impact of it was just breathtaking. I took in the high vaulted roof; the stained-glass windows glittering in the sun. On the other side of the parking lot, I could see a complex that looked like a huge shopping mall. There was a mall in there, I remembered — plus apartments, a gym, a hair salon — anything you might ever need.
It was almost two o’clock; crowds of people were drifting into the church. I steeled myself as I got out of my car and started heading toward it. With luck, I’d find Beth . . . but her angel could be in there, too. My hands turned cold at the thought. I didn’t want to see that thing ever again if I could help it.
I’d only gone a few dozen steps when a nagging “turn around” feeling tickled at the back of my neck. I looked over my shoulder. There was the black Porsche again, a few rows down; a guy about my own age with dark hair had just gotten out of it. He wore faded jeans and a leather jacket hanging open over a blue T-shirt. I let out a breath, glad for the distraction . . . because the closer I got to that church, the more I seriously didn’t want to go inside it.
Half turning, I dawdled so that the dark-haired guy would catch up. He hesitated; then we made eye contact, and he walked slowly toward me. He had a medium build — slim, but with firm-looking shoulders — and moved like an athlete, confident in his own body. Something fluttered in my chest as I realized how attractive he was.
“Um — hi,” I said, looking up at him as we fell into step together. He was a good head or so taller than me. “Did you just come from Pawtucket?” He glanced down at me, his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown, and I shrugged. “I noticed your car. ”
“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m staying with some friends. ”
Taking in the strong lines of his face, I suddenly wondered whether he was my age, after all. He seemed older somehow. Not his muscles — half the guys at school worked out. But something about his eyes maybe. They were a sort of bluish gray, like a storm at sea.
I could hardly look away from them.
I realized I was staring and looked quickly forward, my cheeks warm. I’d wanted a distraction, but not this much of one. What was wrong with me, anyway? There were at least half a dozen boys at Pawtucket High who were almost as good-looking as this guy, and I didn’t gape at them like an idiot.
Ahead, the church loomed over us, practically blocking out the sky. We walked without speaking for a few minutes. Once, our arms brushed together; I jerked mine away hastily.
The silence felt stifling. “Are you a member here?” I asked him.
The boy gave a soft snort that I realized was actually a laugh. “No,” he said flatly. His dark brown hair was slightly tousled, growing down past the tips of his ears. Gazing at his lips, I found myself wondering what it would be like to trace my finger over them.
Shoving the thought away, I cleared my throat. “So . . . what are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d take a look. ” His eyes flicked over my face. “What about you? Are you a member?”
We had reached the broad white steps by then, merging into a crowd of people all climbing upward, like ants streaming up an anthill. At the top, three sets of tall silver doors stood open, waiting. I shook my head as we climbed. “No, there’s this friend of mine. Or no, not really a friend, but . . . ” I sighed. “It’s a long story. ”
Watching me, he nodded without answering, as if this actually made sense. I winced, knowing how completely incoherent I must sound. Then as the two of us went into the church, we somehow got separated in the crowd, and I found myself on my own in the middle of a vast expanse of snowy marble. Long pews curved in concentric semicircles, spreading outward from a white pulpit at the front. I blinked as I got a better look at the pulpit: it was shaped like a pair of angel wings, its carved feathery tips arcing upward. Behind it, a giant stained-glass figure of an angel stood with its arms out, smiling down at us.
Finding a seat at the end of one of the shiny white pews, I sat down gingerly, holding my cloth bag on my lap. I bit my lip as I took in the solid mass of humanity around me. The website was right; there had to be thousands of people here. Nina had made it sound so easy, but how was I ever going to find Beth in all of this?
I looked up as a sudden rippling of harp music sounded through the church, its celestial chords echoing. “Praise the angels,” murmured the woman sitting next to me. Her eyes were shining, ardent. No, not just her eyes — her whole face, her whole being, was lit up with love for the angels. Feeling uneasy, I turned back toward the front as a man in a white robe climbed the short, curving stairs that led up to the pulpit. A preacher, maybe, or whatever you called them here.
“Welcome!” he said, lifting his arms. His voice rang out all around us, amplified by speakers. As he spoke, a large screen flickered into life above him, magnifying his image ten times over. He had thinning hair and round, ruddy cheeks.
“Welcome,” responded the crowd in a deep, rumbling murmur.
First the preacher led everyone in a prayer to the angels, asking to be worthy of their love. Then tall, white velvet curtains glided open to either side of the stained-glass window, revealing a hundred-strong female choir. “Hymn Forty-three, ‘The Angels Have Shown Me My True Path,’” said the preacher into the microphone. The congregation rose. With a crescendo of harp music, the soprano choir began to sing, and then everyone else joined in as well, voices resonating like thunder. I fumbled on the shelf in front of me for a white leather book entitled Angelic Hymns and flipped it open. Half singing, I glanced at the pews around me, hoping to catch sight of Beth. I couldn’t see her anywhere, but I did see that I was almost the only person who was actually using the book. Everyone else was singing the words by heart, some swaying with their eyes closed.
Suddenly I noticed the dark-haired guy again: he was across the aisle from me a couple of rows back, also at the end of a pew. He wasn’t singing at all, just sort of frowning down at his book. I gave a small smile, glad that someone else found this weird, too.
The music ended and the congregation sat down, the notes of the song still vibrating through the church. The preacher gazed silently out at us. When he spoke again, his voice was throaty with emotion. “My fellow devotees, we are here today for many things, but first . . . first, we must give thanks to the angels. For today we have three new residential members of our Church: three blessed devotees all joined together in love of the angels, who have pledged their lives to serving them. ”
Beth. I caught my breath as thousands of voices intoned, “Thanks be to angels!” The woman next to me looked close to tears of joy. “Oh, praise the angels,” she said again, shaking her head slightly and gripping the pew in front of her. “More souls to do their holy work. ”