Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel Harrington

and cinnamon and oaky leathers. He actually smells a bit Christmassy.

      And then his arms wrap around my body and I think he’s just so … I struggle to find the right word and then giggle when it comes to me. He’s just so manly, yes that’s the word.

      I catch a glimpse of us in the reflection of the window display, me giggling and him smiling in response, even though he has no idea why I’m doing so and I don’t think I’ve ever felt luckier.

      I notice a few people looking at us. I’m used to that, the gawping, that is. The foxy-haired Irishman with a Midwestern US drawl and the caramel-skinned Amazonian woman, with black afro hair and Dublin accent. An unlikely pair maybe, but we somehow fit perfectly.

      When I stand by his side, he makes me feel prettier than I’ve ever felt with any other man. It doesn’t hurt that at six foot four he can make my five foot ten-inch tall frame look almost petite. Well, maybe not petite, that’s probably a stretch.

      And never mind how he looks, it’s how he makes me feel that has me undone. Ever since our amazing first kiss, I crave him, there’s no other way to describe how it feels than that.

      I mean, I was doing very nicely without him for the past ten years, thank you very much. Now I cannot be without him.

      Is this what true love feels like? Did Cinderella feel like this when she met her Prince Charming? I hope so.

       What happens when he goes home to Indiana after Christmas, though?

      There’s that nasty inner voice again. Shut up. I refuse to even think about anything more than this moment right now. And to prove that point I turn to face him and kiss him passionately, with every fibre of my being. I don’t care who is watching and it appears, as his tongue makes its way towards mine, that he doesn’t either.

      ‘Ahem.’ A voice coughs and we pull apart to see who is trying to get our attention. It’s the dapper concierge of Brown Thomas. He’s wagging his finger at us, but he’s smiling, there’s no sting to his rebuke. He just wants us to move away from the front of his store.

      ‘Sorry about that.’ Jim tips his head towards him and we start to move away. ‘Let’s go get some of that mud pie you keep going on about. I think I’m going to need to keep my strength up with you.’

      I wave happily to the concierge and he waves his top hat to me, shouting, ‘Merry Christmas, lovebirds.’

      The chocolate pie tastes as good as I remember. Jim suggests sharing a slice, but I put that notion to bed straight away.

      ‘I’ll add the “no sharing of chocolate treats” to my list,’ he jokes.

      When we leave Captain America’s, sated and giddy with sugar, we stop, listening to the sounds that tinkle in the air.

      We walk slowly up to Stephen’s Green and take a stroll around the park. It’s quiet there and we walk in comfortable silence.

      ‘Where to next?’ Jim asks when we have done a full loop of the park.

      ‘I told you, we head to the Ha’penny Bridge then to O’Connell Street, finally back to Tess’s,’ I say.

      ‘And I really have to sleep in her spare room tonight?’ Jim moans.

      ‘Yes. Don’t you dare try to do any bedroom flits. You’ll give her a coronary,’ I say.

      Before we have a chance to debate sleeping arrangements any further, the sound of a girl singing floats towards us. ‘That’s so pretty.’ I point towards the Ha’penny Bridge. ‘It’s coming from over there.’

      ‘She’s singing your favourite Christmas song,’ he says.

      His knowing this, remembering that fact, overwhelms me. He sees this and lightly touches my cheek. ‘I keep telling you, Belle. I remember everything.’

      We move towards the sound of her voice. It is so pure and beautiful, it makes harried shoppers stop in their tracks, one by one. We push our way through the crowds and I half expect to see a CD deck. But to my surprise, I see that the owner of the voice is in fact a young girl, standing in the middle of the bridge.

      ‘She’s no more than ten or eleven,’ I say, unable to take my eyes off her.

      ‘She’s so cute,’ a woman remarks and we both nod in agreement. The girl is wearing a double-breasted red woollen coat. She has bobbed, black shiny hair that bounces off her black-velvet collar. The lights on the bridge bounce off the still water below and back up around her, creating a soft glow.

      It’s the most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced. There is something so pure about the voice, the girl, the bridge.

      ‘Can you believe that voice?’ Jim says in amazement as she belts out O Holy Night like a pro.

      ‘She has the voice of an angel,’ I whisper and feel emotion swell inside of me. Tears threaten to fall and that won’t do at all, not on Christmas Eve.

      ‘A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. …’ I sing along with her, reaching for Jim’s hand. He clasps it tight. The words touch my heart in a way they’ve never done before. I realise that I felt exactly like that, weary, only three weeks ago. Then Jim walked into my life and, in an instant, everything changed.

      I feel my whole body shudder as another wave of emotion overtakes me and I have to pinch myself hard to stop myself falling to the ground weeping. Is it just me, or is Jim as affected? I pull my eyes away from the girl and take a peek at him. Thank goodness, I can see he’s not immune to her voice either. His eyes glisten in the crisp night air and I lean in towards him once more.

      And then something hits me with a jolt. I’ve finally come home. Right here, in this man’s arms. I’m home.

      It’s only been three weeks, though.

      But it feels like a lifetime. How can that be?

      I know why. He’s my destiny. I wished for him. And he arrived all but wrapped up in a bow.

      I look around at the gathered audience standing around this young girl. Families, couples and groups of friends, all captivated by a beatific voice.

      I decide there and then that I must never forget this moment. There aren’t many times in life that are so perfect and pure that they can make your heart explode in joy. This is one of them.

      As the young girl builds up to the last line, her voice hits the high note with ease. And all at once the busy thoroughfare is silent, spellbound, by her pure voice.

      How long do we stand in wondrous silence? It seems to stay that way for ages, but it can only be for a few seconds.

      Then the hush is interrupted by a joyful jingle as the crowd moves forward, one by one, to drop coins into a red-velvet hat that is by her feet. As the coins hit each other, they chime and tinkle, casting magical notes high up into the night air.

      ‘It’s like the bells are ringing.’ I say in wonder.

      ‘Bells ringing for you, Belle,’ Jim says.

      I take my turn to throw a handful of euros into the red cap and the girl looks right into my eyes, a big smile across her face. And you know what? The weirdest sensation overcomes me. I swear I know this girl. I have this ridiculous urge to hug her.

      As her parents are most likely watching right now and would think I’m a crazy lady, I resist.

      ‘If Simon Cowell were to rock by right now, he’d have euro signs shining in his eyes. That’s a Christmas number one right there, that song,’ I turn to tell Jim, expecting to see him behind me. Where’s he got to? I scan the bridge right and left, kicking myself for moving forward, away from him. The crowds are thick as everyone moves to continue their evening, and I can’t see him anywhere.

      But then, I feel his hand grab mine and I smile in relief, feeling silly for my dramatic panic.

      ‘There you are!’