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So finding out about a week after the funeral that Hazel had left everything to me, including that big, gorgeous, perfectly restored house and the bar she owned off Whiskey Row, had sort of thrown me for a loop.

But I’d gathered myself and driven up to Prescott on Friday, which was kind of a mistake, thanks to all the people from the greater Phoenix area who liked to head north to escape the heat. True, most of them were going to Sedona or maybe even Flagstaff, and once I’d turned off on Highway 69, I’d left most of them behind, but the drive still took almost a half hour longer than I would have liked.

Despite the delay, I’d made it to the lawyer’s office, picked up the keys to the house and Hazel’s beloved Cadillac along with a bunch of paperwork, and then headed over to the big Victorian on Park Avenue. After dropping off my things in one of the guest bedrooms, I’d decided to go outside first, since it felt a little strange to be wandering around the place and realizing that my great-aunt would never sit in her favorite wingback chair in the parlor ever again.

Losing her hurt more than I’d thought it would. My Aunt Hazel had lived a very full life — she was ninety-five when she passed — and had more adventures during her years on this planet than three or four regular people would have.

But she was the only piece of family I’d had left after my parents were gone. My mother’s family all lived in the Bay Area, and although of course they’d come to my parents’ funeral and made noises about keeping in touch, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. They had their own lives hundreds of miles away, and I was a grown woman. It wasn’t as if I’d been orphaned at ten or something and needed some kindly relatives to take me in.

And although Hazel had been one of five children, there’d been some bad blood in the family decades earlier, and my father was the only one of her nephews and nieces that she still even spoke to.

Anyway, I’d gone out into the garden to take a look around. A yard like that, with a lawn and flowerbeds and stately roses bordering a walkway that led to a gazebo, felt very exotic to me. I’d been kneeling by one of the rosebushes and wondering if I should snip a few blooms to take inside, and then…nothing.

Well, at least until I woke up here in the hospital.

I related all this to Dr. Emerson, leaving out some of the family business bits and pieces but letting him know I’d come to Prescott to take a look at the house and decide whether I wanted to accept some of the more…unique…stipulations of Hazel’s will.

“And what were those?” the doctor asked. It didn’t seem as if he was inquiring out of curiosity, but more to get an idea of my mental state and whether I was suffering any lingering brain fog from my near-death experience.

I started to shake my head again, then stopped because I remembered that it hurt. “She left me her house — it’s this big Victorian on Park Avenue with a plaque from the National Register of Historic Places. And she also left me the business she owned, someplace called Copper State Cellars on — ”

“Whiskey Row,” Dr. Emerson supplied, and I looked at him, a little startled. “It’s fairly well known,” he added. “They serve local wines and beer and mead.”

“Right,” I said, glad that I wouldn’t have to go into too much detail. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised that he would have heard of the place; Prescott was a lot smaller than Scottsdale, and I needed to remember that. “Anyway, I would inherit everything, but I had to agree to live here for two years and run the business. My great-aunt didn’t want someone taking what she’d built and just selling it off.”

A nod. “Fair enough. Well, best as we’ve been able to piece it together, you were stung by a bee and had a severe reaction. Luckily, you were found lying in the garden by one of the neighbors, a woman named Doreen Howe, who’d come over to bring you a welcome-to-Prescott casserole. She called 911.”

I vaguely remembered Doreen from my childhood visits to Hazel’s house. She was about thirty years my aunt’s junior, friendly and with a yard full of hollyhocks that were absolutely spectacular when they were in full bloom.

Managing a wan smile, I said, “I suppose I should send her a thank-you fruit basket or something.”

Dr. Emerson returned the smile, and a certain light in his eyes made me think that maybe he was looking at me with a little more than simple professional interest. That seemed crazy to me, considering I must be lying there without a speck of makeup on, not even a boost from my favorite Ruby Woo lipstick, but I couldn’t deny that it made me feel a little better about the situation.

I’d been on autopilot for the past year, refusing to make any decisions about my life. People my age weren’t supposed to lose both their parents. Parents were supposed to keep working until they decided to retire to Florida or something, although my parents had both been such workaholics that the idea of the two of them puttering around in a golf cart or wandering the beach with a metal detector seemed vaguely ludicrous.

No boyfriend, not much of a social life except going to concerts here and there. My Etsy store — Outrageous Upcycle, where I sold pinup-inspired clothes — sort of limped along, but I hadn’t put a lot of effort into it.

I hadn’t put a lot of effort into anything.

Was that why I’d come to Prescott? Had my Aunt Hazel thrown me a lifeline with her will and all the rules that came with it?

I couldn’t say for sure. Her death had been sudden but not unexpected — when you were ninety-five, it wasn’t as if you were looking at another thirty years on the planet — and maybe she’d seen the way I was just drifting, not doing much of anything.

Aunt Hazel was definitely the kind of person who would have decided to give me a kick in the pants from beyond the grave.

And I realized then, as I stared up into Dr. Emerson’s clear gray eyes, that I needed that kick in the pants. If I hadn’t cared about living in Prescott, I would have told her attorney that I wasn’t interested and had the house and the business sold and the proceeds donated to charity. After all, I had my inheritance from my parents. I didn’t really need Hazel’s money, or her house.

But I actually did. I needed to feel something, needed to be me again, and it sure felt like the best place to find my way back to being Lorelei Cosgrove was to start over in a place where no one really knew who I was.

“A fruit basket would be nice,” Dr. Emerson said. “And I’m going to write you a prescription for an EpiPen. You haven’t used one before, right?”

I summoned another of those limp smiles. “If I had, I wouldn’t be here in the hospital, would I?”

He grinned at me, an actual grin that lit up his eyes and showed friendly crinkles around them.

Oh, yes, definitely hot.

“Well, I’ll get you the prescription, and then I’ll need you to come back in a week for a follow-up. I won’t tell you to stay out of the garden — the gardens in that house are kind of famous — but you need to be watchful when you’re outside. Bee activity should die down a bit over the winter, though. Just be careful.”