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do."

    Charity yawned, still clad in her pink chenille robe and slippers. She ruffled a hand through the loose curls trailing her back and scratched her head. The smell of sizzling bacon made her mouth water. She shuffled to where her grandmother stood and wrapped her in a sleepy hug.
    "Good morning! How was the theater last night?" Bridget Murphy asked, glancing up from the bacon she was frying.
    "Very nice, Grandmother, although I don't know what all the dither is about with Shakespeare. Personally, I find the language a bit tedious. Why not just speak in the dialect of the day? As far as I'm concerned, it's 'much ado about nothing."'
    Her grandmother flipped the bacon over with a chuckle. "Dear me, heaven forbid you should get any culture."
    Charity thumped into the chair and propped her chin in her hand. "I know, I know, every young woman needs to be refined and cultured. But it all seems such a fuss."
    "Culture? A fuss?" Bridget turned, fork in hand. "Goodness, Charity, you never cease to jar my senses. Culture is sustenance for the heart and the mind."
    She scrunched her nose. "I'd rather have sustenance of another kind, thank you. I want to feel things, Grandmother, like the racing of my heart. You know, the admiring gaze of someone you love, the sound of his warm whisper in your ear." Charity arched her brows and jutted her chin. "Romance, plain and simple. And methinks it will not come hither with Shakespeare."

    Grinning, Bridget shook her head and drained the bacon grease into a can. She cracked several eggs and dropped them into the hot skillet. They crackled and spit while she reached for a mug from the cupboard. She poured coffee from the pot perched on the warming plate. With a wry smile, she placed the steaming cup in front of Charity.
    "Methinks you need good, strong coffee to clear the excess sleep from your mind, young lady. It's about time you got up. I fed Mima hours ago." She reached to give Charity a quick squeeze before returning to check on the eggs. "And how was your time with Mr. Gallagher III?"
    "Thanks, this is good." Charity sipped slowly, ignoring her grandmother's question.
    Bridget dusted the eggs with seasoning, then glanced over her shoulder. "Well?"
    A silent sigh drifted from Charity's lips. "Fine. It was fine."
    "Only fine?"
    "I like Rigan. We have fun."
    "But no palpitations?"
    She studied her grandmother over the rim of her cup, wondering how much to divulge. There was no use trying to fool her. They were too much alike. She noted the sheen of Bridget's snow-white hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Even at sixtyfive, her grandmother was a beautiful woman. And like her granddaughter, not one to dally. She turned, eyeing Charity with the same striking blue eyes she'd inherited. Charity sighed. "He's no Collin, if that's what you mean."
    Bridget plopped the eggs on a platter along with the bacon. Not saying a word, she retrieved the toast from the oven. She placed everything on the table, along with plates and utensils, then settled in her chair and bowed her head. "Dear Lord, bless the bounty of our table and the steps of our day. Amen." She reached for a piece of bacon. Her eyes gentled. "I thought you were over Collin."

    Charity stabbed at her eggs. "Well, I hardly have a choice now, do I, since he's to marry Faith in less than three months?"
    "Might I remind you, young lady, you were the one who sent him packing."
    She sighed. "I know, at least the second time around, I suppose. I guess it was inevitable I'd lose interest when he put our engagement on hold before the war. It just hurts, that's all ... to see Faith and Collin in love back in Boston while I'm here all alone."
    One silver brow raised as Bridget stared, her cheeks puffy with eggs. She quickly swallowed. "I'd hardly call dating a small army of men being 'alone.' Not the least of which is one of Dublin's most eligible bachelors."
    "I suppose. But it still feels that way."
    With a quick swipe of her mouth, Bridget jumped