When Maeve came forward, Baker immediately jumped off the door and backed up, wagging her furry butt but not her tail.
She drew back the bottom latch of the door, almost forgetting to feel afraid.
As soon as she started forward, though, the fear came screaming back. Maeve hurried away from the laundry room door, terror building in my throat. She swallowed, forced herself to woman up, and headed for the back door. She unlocked it and waited, holding it for the dog.
But Baker didn’t come running out to pee. Or even to attack. Instead, she trotted from the laundry room toward the living room.
“Hey,” Maeve called. “What are you doing?”
The end of her tail disappeared around the corner.
Maybe she found the living room carpet more comfortable? But no, she had a fluffy blanket. What kind of fussy dog had Emma saddled her with?
Maeve shut the back door and followed Baker cautiously, in case it was a trap — some doggy trick to draw her into a false sense of security. She could just imagine the horror movie playing out. Maeve entering the living room, Baker waiting, maybe even wagging her tail to set her at ease before it was Cujo time.
You’re so dramatic, scolded a voice in the back of Maeve’s head. She entered the living room.
Baker was waiting, all right, but instead of pouncing, she sniffed and pawed at the couch cushions, whining.
“Hey, don’t do that. That’s … you’re going to break it. Or, I don’t know, tear it?”
But the dog wouldn’t let up. She snuffled and pawed, then whined and looked up at her with those puppy dog eyes.
“What is it? I don’t get—” The words died on her lips. The corner of a leather-bound book poked out from underneath the cushion. “No way. Is that—?”
Maeve strode toward the sofa, and Baker backed up, lowering her hindquarters, her tail tucking between her legs.
No fast movements, remember?
She forced herself to walk the rest of the way to the couch in slow motion.
“Is that my book?”
Baker sat.
Maeve kept her eyes on Baker, in case she planned to lunge for her jugular or something, as she reached under the cushion and pulled out the book. She nearly drowned in relief. Baker had found her secret weapon.
But that had to be a coincidence. It wasn’t like she could understand her, and even if she could, how would she know which book she was looking for?
Even so, her heart still wanted to melt. This time, with something like gratitude.
“How did you know that was there? Did you smell it out or something?”
There was a splotch of peanut butter on the pages from her baking all-nighter, the latest addition to the chocolate smears and butter stains the book had sustained over the years.
Baker had followed her nose to the scent that reminded her of cookies. She definitely didn’t hear her say she’d lost her book and find it for her.
Maeve wasn’t sure how her secret weapon had ended up under the couch cushions, but sleep deprivation can make a person do crazy things, right?
Or forget why they did perfectly reasonable-at-the-time things.
She tucked the book against her chest, stroking the spine with her fingers.
“Thank you,” she said, then shook her head. Talking to a dog. It was ridiculous. Baker couldn’t understand. “Okay, do you need to go outside?”
There she went again, talking to the dog like she could understand her.
Baker got up and paced toward the kitchen.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
Her claws clicked across the tiles, then she disappeared through the doorway.
Maeve followed her slowly, ninja-walking and peeking around corners just in case. But Baker wasn’t in the kitchen.
“What—?” She placed the recipe book on the counter.
Baker sat on her blanket in the laundry room across the hall, watching her.
Maybe she needed space, too. Unexpected, but kind of refreshing. David had been needy all the time, constantly bugging Maeve for attention, even when she was obviously working.
Who’d have thought a dog would turn out to be more self-reliant than a boyfriend?
And she had helped. If Maeve told David that she’d lost her recipe book, he’d have tried to turn that into a reason she should spend more time with him instead of wasting her time baking.
The dog laid down on her blanket, crossed her paws, and rested her head on them, like they were having a slumber party and she was waiting for Maeve to start dishing about something.
Even though there was still no way she’d ever adopt a dog, Maeve had to admit she was kinda cute.
And she clearly had a good nose, at least for organic peanut butter.
“Thanks,” she repeated, tapping her fingers on the leather cover. “But just so we’re clear, you’re not staying. Not for longer than Emma needs you here. Got it?”
Baker didn’t bark or whine. She just looked at Maeve like she was wondering what she would do next.
She was used to being locked up in a cage at the shelter. Emma took her out for exercise every day, but even so, three months is a long time to be stuck in a box. That had to be depressing.
It would drive Maeve nuts, not being able to pace.
Her laundry room was bigger, with a bit of room to maneuver, but with the door closed, it was a different kind of cage.
She’d be going back to that after she left here, probably for months. To hear Emma tell it, Baker was unadoptable because she was so afraid of people. How awful would that be, terrified of everyone but forced to depend on their kindness?
Poor Baker.
“Would you like me to leave the door open, so you can walk around a little?” Maeve felt like an idiot for asking, and a jerk for not asking sooner.
Baker looked at her for a moment. Then she got up, grabbed the blanket in her mouth, and dragged it into the kitchen, where she dropped it in the far corner — as far as she could get from Maeve and still be in the kitchen.
Then she looked up at her while keeping her head low, as if requesting permission to be there.
“I can be good if you can,” Maeve said.
Baker wagged her tail, then turned in a circle twice and lay on the blanket, again resting her head on her crossed paws.
Maybe she was so used to being in a cage that she thought she had to lie down.
That made Maeve kind of sad — if it made her feel better to lie down in a bigger space, she could be brave enough to give Baker a chance to prove she didn’t need to be locked in the laundry room.
At least she could give her enough freedom to pace a bit before she had to go back to living in a cage.
Just for a while.
Okay, the contest. What could Maeve make to beat Jassie?
Something gluten-free, animal product-free, and allergen-free?
Something that tasted delicious, but that literally everyone could eat, no matter how health-conscious they were?
She chose three recipes to experiment with.
Brownies — because they would be easy to mass produce.
Mini-roly poly cakes covered in vanilla frosting, because if she could make those taste right, they’d be a home run.
And raspberry custard cups with a crispy crust.
Thankfully, she’d stocked up on vegan-friendly ingredients during her rampage the day before. She had everything she needed to get started on all three. Even tapioca flour and glucomannan fiber for thickening the egg-free custard.
Maeve set to work, hurrying back and forth in the kitchen, clanking pots and pans into place on the stovetop, heating up the oven, bringing out bowls and measuring ingredients.
When she added coconut flour and potato starch to the brownie batter in the electric mixer and it poofed some of the fine powders back at her, Baker let out a soft bark.
“I hope you’re not laughing at me,” she said.
Baker wagged her tail once.
That was something
. A tail-wag that didn’t involve food.
“All right,” Maeve said, “so, now we have to reduce the raspberries. We can use pectin or agar, those are both vegan. Which do you think we should try first, Baker?”
Talking to her was silly, but Baker wagged her tail anyway.
It had been a long while since Maeve had someone in the house to talk to. Even Emma didn’t have the patience to hang out with her when she was baking.
It was nice. Not maybe-she-would-adopt-a-dog nice, but she didn’t mind Baker being there, for the first time since Emma had dumped her in the house.
“All right, let’s look it up and see which one’s healthier. We want to make the healthiest dessert, right?” Maeve pulled up Google. “It seems like they’re about the same, and the recipe already calls for pectin.”
Baker lifted her snout, gave her another wag of the tail.
“Okay that’s settled. Now I need to figure out the best way to sweeten the raspberries.”
She’d gone a little crazy at the grocery store: brown rice syrup, coconut sugar, unrefined maple syrup, organic sugar, and something called monk fruit extract that was supposed to come from a super-sweet cucumber-like plant that grew somewhere in Asia. She’d even made a point to buy organic beet sugar to use in small quantities, because she’d read that some vegans wouldn’t eat cane sugar that had been bleached with charred bones, which was apparently the norm. Yuck.
She’d ruled out agave syrup, because some people said it was so high in fructose that it was better to eat regular sugar, and stevia extract, which was plant-based and calorie-free, but also had a licorice aftertaste that Maeve didn’t want anywhere near her treats.
Erythritol and xylitol were both out of the question. They were supposed to be healthy, but some people had a bad reaction. Like, diarrhea-bad. She wasn’t taking a chance that the HealthNut judge might think her treat had given him food poisoning.
“What if we start with the least-processed stuff first?” she asked Baker. “Coconut nectar and unrefined maple syrup?”
Baker’s ears perked up, and she wagged her tail again.
Maeve had never had someone to talk to while she baked. It was really nice.
The hours passed as she cooked, chatting to Baker, occasionally pausing to test something with a spoon.
Just before sunset, they took a break, and Maeve let Baker out into the yard to do her business again. She held the door, but kept her distance as best she could. Baker was a good dog, Maeve had to give her that — she came inside when called and didn’t chase Macavity the cat, who had positioned himself on the fence, flicking his tail every so often.
After Baker was tucked back into the laundry room, Maeve fixed herself a quick dinner — a baked potato and rotisserie chicken. Baker gave her a look, and she shredded some of the chicken for her, placed it in a saucer and slid it across the floor.
The dog waited until Maeve was back in the kitchen before starting to eat.
That was fine. If they kept our distance from each other like this, she could handle taking care of a dog. Baker was surprisingly well-behaved. And mellow.
In a way, she was easier to hang out with than Emma.
She wasn’t sure how she’d take it, but after dinner, she asked Baker, “What about some music?”
Baker, who’d already finished her chicken and lay back down on her blanket, wagged her tail.
Maeve found a happy playlist on her laptop, turned to her kitchen — which looked like a hurricane had hit it — and got back to baking.
Chapter Twelve
Baker had never smelled so many amazing scents all at once. Maeve kept placing new pans on the black top of the counter. Soon after, steam would rise, and she would take a spoon and taste whatever was inside.
If it was too hot, she would yelp and dance around on the spot, then flash a smile at Baker.
Maeve was a nice lady.
It seemed like maybe she was nice all the time.
Was that possible? There hadn’t been that many nice humans around before. Only Emma and Leslie. Maybe Dr. Dale. But they didn’t ever touch her. Maeve petted her. And fed her chicken.
Baker’s nose twitched at the memory and she licked her lips. That chicken had been tasty.
“Almost there,” Maeve announced. “Will you help me, Baker?”
Her ears perked up. Every time Maeve spoke, Baker half-expected her to shout or throw something. But she never did. It was always something nice. Like the chicken. Or when she’d asked about the music coming from the radio on the counter.
It was boppy and thumped in her ears, like a tail striking against a wooden pole, and a man howled over the beat. Baker liked it.
Maeve danced along to the music and turned in a circle. She came around the kitchen island, shaking her tail, or the spot where her tail should have been, and spun toward her. She put the spoon to her mouth and crooned a song, then pointed the utensil at her.
Baker stiffened and scrambled backward, but the spoon didn’t fly free of her hand.
She held it, firmly.
Maeve blinked and stopped dancing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She paused and lowered the spoon. “I guess we’re both scared of each other.”
Maeve walked back to the other side of the counter and continued cooking, but she didn’t dance as much anymore. She kept glancing sideways at the dog.
Baker laid back down on the blanket with a sigh.
The smells grew more intense, and Maeve flew back into action, opening cupboards and slamming doors, humming and sometimes dancing again. None of the other humans Baker had known had done this type of thing. They sat in front of the TV. A lot.
They’d never kept her inside either, not on a comfy blanket. They had tied her up outside or left her in the garden.
“All right,” Maeve said, and dumped dishes into a big silver hole in the counter. She poured water from the faucet onto some of them, and steam rose from it. She opened the window and waved the steam out.
“Whoops!” She giggled. “All right, I think we’re ready, Baker. Here goes nothing.”
Maeve returned to the counter and brought out three plates. She dished up three different things onto them, balanced them on her hands and arms, and walked through the kitchen toward Baker. She placed them on the floor in front of the door, then backed up a few steps.
“There. Please don’t try eating any of them. Just a sniff to test them and see if they’re good. Oh, wait, I have an idea. Hold on.”
Maeve rushed back through the kitchen and opened the big silver box in the corner. She took out a container, opened it, then brought it back.
“See?” She lifted out a piece of meat. “It’s chicken. If you sniff and tell me which of these is good, you can have the chicken. Good idea?”
Maeve backed up and waited next to the kitchen counter, the box clasped between her hands. She sighed. “Please? Help me? Oh my gosh, I’m silly. I’m talking to a dog.” She shook her head, hair falling around her face. “But I can’t figure out if any of them are any good. It’s like I’ve permanently confused my taste buds. Or maybe everything I’m making really is bad.” Her lips turned down at the corners.
Baker got up from her blanket and pattered over to the plates.
Maeve perked up, nodding enthusiastically.
This was like the peanut butter cookie thing at the shelter. Emma had let her sniff the good and the bad ones, then gave her treats once she was done.
Baker lowered her nose to the first plate. It had a bowl on top with gloopy stuff inside. She sniffed it, but it smelled so cloyingly sweet, she sneezed. The gloop erupted from the bowl and splattered onto the floor. She tucked her tail between her legs, waiting for Maeve to shout.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say that’s not the one I’ll be making.” She laughed, came forward slowly, and lifted that plate out of the way. “What about the brownie?”
She sniffed the square of dark stuff on the next plate. Not overly sweet, like t
he first dish, but there was a strong bitter scent — and something faintly metallic that she didn’t like underneath the good scents. She turned her face away.
“Okay, so I was right about that too. They taste okay, but they’re nothing special. They’d be a lot better with walnuts, but there’s also nut allergies to consider. Another reason I’m not making those peanut butter cookies again.” Maeve removed the square on the plate. “Okay, what about this one?”
She drew in a breath of the round cake with the streaking circles at its center, and wagged her tail. It smelled like flowers and fruit, and it reminded her of running through a field with the sun on her back.
“Really? You like it?” Maeve bit her bottom lip. “Perfect, I’ll make the roly-poly cake. Our job isn’t over yet, Baker.” She removed the cake plate, then put the container with the chicken down.
It was all ripped up and shredded already, but Baker couldn’t fit her nose into it.
“Oh, sorry.” Maeve picked it up again, glanced over at her bowl. She shifted from one foot to the other, and the sharp tang of fear wafted off her again.
She was afraid. What had Baker done to warrant that?
She trotted back to her blanket and sat down, so the human could see she wasn’t going to do anything scary.
“Thanks,” Maeve said softly, coming in. She poured the chicken into the bowl, checked the water bowl, then hurried out of the room. She switched off the light, then shut the laundry room’s funny half-door. “There. Safe and sound. Thanks for your help, Baker. Sheesh, it’s stupid of me to be talking to you, but I guess … maybe I am going crazy.”
Baker wagged her tail twice.
“Goodnight, Baker.” Maeve walked off, footsteps echoing through the hall. A moment later, the kitchen light switched off.
Baker waited until it was silent, then she gobbled the chicken down. It was so much better than the food she’d been given at the shelter, although she’d been grateful for that.
She lapped up water from the bowl, then went to lie down on her blankets again. For the first time in quite a while, she was comfortable and warm. Maeve’s house was better than the shelter, no other dogs whining or snuffling. No cold cement floors. No cage. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.
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