Silver Bells

by Luanne Rice

  “‘Silent Night,’” he said. And then he reached into his jacket pocket and removed Danny’s photograph of the bells.

  “We’re going to the park?” she asked finally.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I thought you’d never want to go back there again,” she said, “after what happened to Danny.”

  “I thought that, too,” he said. He thought of what the last few days had brought, all the fear wrought by being caught in the city’s bureaucracy, and shuddered. “But some guardian angel must be looking over us. Because Danny’s fine. And somehow the authorities have decided we’re not criminals.”

  Catherine smiled, and he couldn’t look away. He just wanted to stare at her face, illuminated by all the city lights flashing in the cab windows.

  When they got to the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, Christy paid the cabbie, and they all said, “Merry Christmas.” Because the street was slippery with snow and ice, Christy took Catherine’s hand. He helped her over a snowbank, but she didn’t seem to want to let go, even after they walked onto a clear path.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” he asked as they headed into the park.

  “I have an idea,” she said, glancing down at the picture he held in his other hand. “Are you going to show me the bells? Is this where Danny took the picture?”

  “You’ll see,” Christy said. They walked under the beautiful iron lamps, throwing orange-yellow light. The pond was frozen, surrounded by snow-glazed bushes. No creatures stirred—it was too cold for birds, animals, and humans alike. Christy felt as if he were walking into a wilderness with her, as if they were alone in the world. Skirting the frozen water, they came to a graceful bridge.

  Made of stone, it arched over the narrow northern end of the pond. Still holding hands, they walked to the top of the bridge and looked around. Light from the skyscrapers danced in reflection on the ice. Christy saw Catherine point up at one of the tallest buildings.

  “That’s my library office up there,” she said. “I look down on this bridge every day.”

  “You do?” he asked, wondering which one was her window.

  She nodded. Their breath came out in silvery clouds, and they huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, to stay warm. Her touch made Christy shake inside as he listened.

  “Yes. Gapstow Bridge.”

  “Do you ever look at her?” Christy asked, pointing at a statue hidden in the shadows of the woods just ahead. Although he’d never seen the statue before, he’d known she was right here, from Danny’s description and directions.

  Catherine peered into the darkness. “An angel,” she said, walking down the other side of the curved bridge. From here, Christy could see that it would be obscured by a thicket of trees. “I didn’t even know it was here,” she said. Looking more carefully at the statue, she touched the folded wings, the wide forehead, the gentle smile.

  “She’s beautiful,” Christy said, staring at Catherine.

  “You think it’s a woman?” she asked.

  Christy nodded. His pulse racing, he put his arms around Catherine, and their eyes met and sparked. He felt calmer, holding her. He wanted her close, this close—there was no other way, he thought. “She’s you,” he said, pointing at the angel. “From the moment Danny showed me the picture, that’s all I could think. She looks just like Catherine.”

  She shook her head, but he kissed her so she couldn’t deny it. How could he be doing this, feeling so afraid of losing this chance, but not wanting one more minute to go by without trying?

  Thin clouds blurred the sky. In clear patches, stars blazed as if they were standing on a black Nova Scotia hillside, not here in the middle of Manhattan, surrounded by city light. He gulped cold air, steadying himself. Catherine stared up at him, and Christy knew life was a scavenger hunt for dreams and that he had finally found his.

  “Catherine Tierney,” he said, holding her.

  “Christy Byrne.”

  “You’re my angel,” he said. He hardly dared look around. He was sure the statue would be gone, because he was holding the angel in his arms.

  “I was afraid you’d thought I was the opposite”—she smiled—“for being so secretive about Danny.”

  “You helped him when I couldn’t,” Christy said. “It took me a while to figure that one out.”

  Catherine nodded, but she also shivered. A cold wind was blowing through the park, sweeping across the fields and pond, reminding Christy that Christmas Eve was ticking away, and that he still had places to take her.

  “Are the bells here?” she asked. “With the stone angel?”

  He shook his head, holding her closer to keep her warm. “No,” he said. “But I had to bring you here first. So I could show you how I feel. It’s not so easy being—the way I am. Words were always what I used to sell my trees. Make a lot of money from all the New Yorkers who walked by. ‘Here’s a blue spruce, touched with starlight.’ Or, ‘You won’t need tinsel on this Fraser fir—it’s got the aurora borealis lighting its branches.’”

  Catherine laughed, listening to him sling the sales pitch.

  “It’s all cheap,” he said. “That kind of talk.”

  “I’ve heard you say other things,” she said.

  “Not like what I’m trying to say now,” he said. “I don’t even have words for what’s inside me tonight, Catherine. Nothing that makes any sense, anyway.”

  She looked up at him, as if she wanted him to try. So he kissed her again, and this time he felt her heart beating as hard as his, right through the fabric of her black coat.

  “Danny got right into the spirit of your project,” he said. “Taking all those pictures.”

  “Getting people to look up,” Catherine said. “My boss is very grateful to him. The whole city has the fever. Everyone wants to know where he took the picture of those bells.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. The city rose up all around them, millions of lives behind the windows of light. It was wild and romantic, and Christy knew that he had joined the throng of people who’d come to New York hoping for a dream to come true.

  “Then I’ll show you,” Christy replied, and he took her hand and led her back across the arch of Gapstow Bridge.

  Revelers walked by, on their way back home, or to church, or just because it was Christmas Eve and snow was in the air. Catherine and Christy walked for a few blocks down Fifth, until a cab dropped someone off at the Plaza, and they climbed in.

  “Where’re you from?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. “You from out of town?”

  “We’re from Chelsea,” Christy answered, giving Catherine a smile.

  Catherine laughed—his familiarity made her tingle. The driver kept looking. “Hey, you’re that tree guy,” he said. “Am I right?”

  Christy ignored him. Instead he kissed Catherine’s neck, cheek, the corner of her mouth. She shivered, leaning into his arms.

  “Hey, how’s your kid? Is he doing better?”

  Silence.

  “You’re his father, right? The kid who slipped, fell, from the castle? How’s he doin’?”

  “He’s grand,” Christy answered. But Catherine could see that the driver had gotten under Christy’s skin. She reached for his hand and squeezed it, and he gave her a grateful look. He’d said the angel had reminded him of her; she closed her eyes, thinking of the real angel who had visited New York this week, and she wondered what would happen next.

  “You’ve got to tell me one thing,” the driver said.

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Christy asked.

  “You’ve got to tell me—where are those goddamn bells?”

  Catherine smiled, looking out the window. She couldn’t believe how excited she felt, because she was about to find out. Like everyone else in New York, she had been captivated by the legend of Danny Byrne, living in Belvedere Castle, possessing not much more than a borrowed camera and a black-and-white photograph of stone bells
.

  “He must’ve told you, right?” the driver pressed.

  “It’s a secret,” Christy said. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun you’ll have looking for them yourself.”

  “Come on. It’s Christmas Eve. You’re in the business, man. Selling Christmas! All those trees, all that money. How about if I turn up the radio—get you in the Christmas spirit. You’ve tried that trick, right? I’ll do it now, and you’ll tell me. How’s that?”

  “What trick?” Christy asked.

  “You know. Turn up the old Christmas carols to get the passersby in the mood. It’s what the lights are all about. What all the Christmas windows at all the department stores are all about. It gets people in the spirit to give—to buy. It’s what the goddamn tree at Rockefeller Center is all about!”

  “That’s what I used to think,” Christy said.

  “Anyway, come on. You’re in the giving mood, right? Tell me something no one else in New York knows. You tell me, I’ll sell it to the Post, and we’ll split the proceeds. Talk him into it, lady!”

  “I don’t think he gets talked into things,” Catherine said.

  When they’d reached their destination, Tenth Avenue and Twenty-third Street, Christy reached into his pocket and gave the driver a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  “Hey, it’s all about the tips, right?” the driver chuckled. “Better than solving the goddamn mystery of the bells. Thanks, man.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Christy said, and he smiled at Catherine. “Ready?” he asked.

  “I am,” she said.

  The Empire Diner’s light flashed, a bright beacon lighting Tenth Avenue. Snow had started to fall. The flakes were fine, veiling the sky. Behind the sheen of snow, apartment lights shone. Catherine shivered, but not from the cold. Christy touched her back, then put his arm around her shoulders. They walked south.

  “This used to be farmland,” Catherine said as they passed St. Nicholas Park, the postage-stamp-sized square. “Clement Clark Moore owned it all.”

  “Hard to picture that,” Christy said, looking around at all the buildings. Catherine wondered whether he was thinking of his own farm. She wondered what it looked like—how the night sky would look without any city lights, how tall the trees grew, whether he could see the sea from his house.

  “You live so far from here,” she said.

  “I know,” he said.

  “And you leave to go back home tomorrow.”

  He didn’t reply. Her heart bumped, and they walked along in silence.

  “Danny’s decided to stay,” Christy said slowly. “I don’t know exactly what will happen, but Mrs. Quinn has offered to let him have a room in her house if he helps her son John at the hardware store. He seems confident he’ll be able to get a scholarship, once he applies to college.”

  Catherine listened. She was sure that Mr. Rheinbeck—actually, both Mr. Rheinbecks—would want to help Danny however they could. But right now her thoughts were all for someone else’s plans.

  “What about you, Christy? Do you ever think about staying?”

  He held her tighter. They were walking south, and the snow fell harder. It was difficult to see, and the sidewalks were slippery. Catherine’s question had sounded almost casual, but just asking it left her feeling shaken. How could he leave? How could he ignore this gift they’d been given? They were holding each other now, walking through the snow. How could they let each other go?

  Suddenly Catherine looked ahead and saw St. Lucy’s looming before her. People were still streaming in; she checked her watch and saw it was nearly midnight. Her throat tightened—she thought of what had happened inside the church just a week ago. Brian had come back … and that was the night that Danny had nearly died.

  “Why are we here?” she asked, gazing up at Christy.

  His eyes startled her: they were brilliant blue, filled with fire.

  Their eyes locked. Catherine shivered, and she reached for his hand. She felt suddenly afraid, as if the world had started spinning faster, faster. The snow drove down from the north, and she huddled closer to Christy.

  “Why are we here?” she asked again.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Lizzie and Lucy are inside,” she said. “It’s the place I’ve had all my most important celebrations. It’s where I …”

  “Tell me,” Christy urged.

  “It’s where I said good-bye to the past,” Catherine whispered.

  “You had to do that,” Christy said, sliding his arms around her, pulling her tight, “because this is your future.” They kissed again, oblivious to all the churchgoers climbing the stairs behind them. Up in the square tower, the bells began to ring.

  “You didn’t answer me before,” she whispered, as the north wind blew through her hair and made her press closer to Christy. “Do you ever think about staying?”

  “I have a farm I have to keep running,” he said. “Do you ever think about Nova Scotia?”

  “It sounds beautiful,” she said, trembling in the snow.

  “I’d love to show it to you,” he said. “Will you come with us?”

  “I want to,” she said.

  “Then do it.”

  “I have a job,” she began.

  “Meeting you was a miracle,” he said. “Don’t you feel it?”

  “I know it,” she said, her blood thudding. And she did know. Her heart, shut tight, had been opened by this man and his family. She had followed a ghost, seen angel feathers in the snow, said good-bye to her grief.

  “Do you need convincing?” he asked, touching her cheek. “It’s okay if you do.”

  “Convincing?”

  “Remember what we came here for,” he said.

  “Christy, what?” she asked, because in the midst of all the storms, both outside and inside, she’d forgotten. His blue eyes were fierce, gazing at her with such force, she might have been scared. Instead, she felt magnetized.

  “Look up,” Christy said.

  He didn’t even have to point. Catherine tilted her head and gasped. There they were: the stone bells.

  Sometimes the things that are most familiar are the most foreign. How many times had she walked through this door? She’d been carried into St. Lucy’s as a baby, and she’d toddled through as a young child, walked in as a young bride, sleepwalked in as a widow. The bells had been overhead all this time.

  “Danny,” she said.

  “He told me that when you first gave him the camera, he would come down here, to Chelsea, where he had last seen me and Bridget,” Christy said. “He said that it made him think of us, feel closer to home. He looked up at this church, and he saw a lot of interesting things to photograph.”

  “I’ve walked through this door a thousand times,” she said. “I must have seen them before, but I don’t remember.”

  “Your boss is a wise man,” Christy said, “to know so much about what people need.”

  Catherine agreed. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the wind blow into her face. There was so much beauty all around, so near at any given moment. “We think we’ve seen it all before; we think we know it all by heart.”

  “But we forget,” Christy said. “It’s so easy to forget.”

  “Or not to look at all,” Catherine said.

  “Let’s promise each other,” he said, his gaze as bright as northern lights. “We won’t forget to look.”

  “I’ll remind you,” she said. “I promise.”

  They kissed, and then they looked up again. In the snowy starlight, the church’s rose sandstone seemed to glow from within. Blue light streamed through the windows. But it was the stone bells that most caught Catherine’s eyes: dusted with snow, coated with ice, they looked silver.

  The city lights sparkled down on the street, the sidewalks, the stonework, the silver bells, on Christy Byrne and Catherine Tierney—the tree man from the north country and the librarian from the big city. The snow fell, and the bells of Christmas began to ring.

  To Broth
er Luke Armour

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With love and appreciation to Audrey and Robert Loggia.

  I am grateful to E.J. McAdams, director of New York City Audubon and former Urban Park Ranger, for introducing me to the owls in Central Park and the people who treasure them.

  Thank you, with love, Karen Ziemba.

  For all their support, I am grateful to Juan Figueroa, Anthony Lopez, Raul Salazar, Sixto Cruz, Jerry de Jesus, and Emil Estrada.

  With admiration for Mia Onorato and the BDG for their never-ending quest for all sorts of very important things.

  Love to Cirillo: bandmate, photographer extraordinaire, and excellent movie date.

  All my love and thanks to Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Tracy Devine, Kerri Buckley, Barb Burg, Susan Corcoran, Betsy Hulsebosch, Carolyn Schwartz, Cynthia Lasky, Jim Plumeri, Anna Forgione, Virginia Norey, and everyone at Bantam Books.

  Much gratitude to Robert G. Steele for the beautiful book jackets.

  Susan, Mowgli, and Sugar Ray know the whole truth, and I’m forever grateful.

  Maggie, May, and Maisie keep watch over Chelsea, and each other, and me …

  I am so appreciative to everyone who teaches me to look past the world we can see with our eyes, in search of the things we can see with our hearts … especially Leslie and the memory of Father William “Rip” Collins, C.Ss.R.

  ALSO BY LUANNE RICE

  Beach Girls

  Dance with Me

  The Perfect Summer

  The Secret Hour

  True Blue

  Safe Harbor

  Summer Light

  Firefly Beach

  Dream Country

  Follow the Stars Home

  Cloud Nine

  Home Fires

  Blue Moon

  Secrets of Paris

  Stone Heart

  Crazy in Love

  Angels All Over Town

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Luanne Rice is the author of Silver Bells, Beach Girls, Dance with Me, The Perfect Summer, The Secret Hour, True Blue, Safe Harbor, Summer Light, Firefly Beach, Dream Country, Follow the Stars Home—a Hallmark Hall of Fame feature—Cloud Nine, Home Fires, Secrets of Paris, Stone Heart, Angels All Over Town, Crazy in Love, which was made into a TNT Network feature movie, and Blue Moon, which was made into a CBS television movie. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.