Age 32 is when a woman gures it out. At least that was true for Hannah Spring. Her job as a production designer was going great in Los Angeles. Her mostly crazy family was at a safe distance in San Diego. And after a rather lengthy run of bad ideas made more interesting than they deserved to be by her vivid imagination, she was dating a man with only one name. Her last man had needed an alias. Life was good. Her hope, like a promise- lled seed that drifts to earth in search of safe nurturing soil, was that it would just keep getting better. Then her beloved grandmother died and bequeathed the...