Baker's Dozen

by Lori R. Taylor

  Where did he get off telling her not to get her hopes up? After all the muffins he gobbled up while they were together?

  “I never thought that what you needed was to be, like, a baker," David continued. "You’ve always been more of a ‘salt-of-the-earth’ kinda person.”

  He stretched out an arm, like he wanted to take hold of her shoulder. Maeve stepped out of reach, leaving him clutching air. It didn’t stop him from adding, “Do what you’re good at instead.”

  She walked off before she could give in to the temptation to bang him over the head with her basket. What had she ever seen in him? He’d pulled the wool over her eyes for so long, she’d been blind to all his faults.

  He hadn’t been into all that woo-woo stuff when they were together, either. He’d fancied himself a gourmet with excellent taste in graphic art.

  But apparently he was a chameleon, ready to be whoever his next conquest wanted him to be.

  When they were together, he’d done what was best for him, but Maeve had never done what was best for her.

  She circled the store’s perimeter, waiting until they’d gone before returning to the fruit. She walked up and down the open fridges, searching for her raspberries. She finally reached the section and stopped. Her heart nearly stopped, too.

  There were no raspberries. The section was entirely empty.

  “Hank!” Maeve yelled and dropped her basket. “Hank?”

  “Up front,” he called back.

  She rushed through the aisles, apologizing over her shoulder to Miss Greene as she nearly ran her over. She reached the counter and caught herself on it.

  “Good heavens, Maeve, what’s gotten into you?” Hank smoothed his combover down, like he was the one who’d sprinted through the store.

  “Raspberries,” Maeve managed, gasping in breaths. “Where are the raspberries?”

  “Oh, right. Jassie came in and bought them all this morning.”

  “She what?”

  “Bought them all. And my back stock. And the new stock that came in too. Said something about making jam the right way. I should have some more coming in this weekend, though. Nothing to worry about.”

  Maeve’s stomach dove to her knees. She resisted the urge to grab Hank over the counter and shake him by his apron straps.

  “Hank, the contest is tomorrow. I can’t make my entry without raspberries.”

  “We got plenty of other fruit — a batch of summer apples, including some Red Astrachans — and lots of cherries and blue—”

  “Raspberries, it has to be raspberries.” She’d spent the last week getting the filling for the roly-poly cakes as close to perfect as she could. If she switched to another fruit, she’d never have time to get the proportions right, even with Baker’s help.

  And she wouldn’t have Baker’s help.

  Her desperation must’ve shown on her face, because Hank said, “You might be able to drive to the next town over and get some?”

  But that would take half the day. If she lost that much time to driving, she wouldn’t be able to test out her baking and timings properly. She wouldn’t be adequately prepared. She pressed her hand to her forehead, breathing hard.

  Maeve should’ve expected Jassie to play dirty. She’d probably come in here and chatted Hank up, found out that Maeve had been buying raspberries in batches. It would be nothing for her nemesis to buy every raspberry Hank intended to carry until the contest deadline was past.

  Jassie had won.

  You’re crazy. You should go straight home before someone sees you.

  But the tension had finally reached its boiling point, and the lid of Maeve's proverbial pot was about to shoot off and splatter jam all over the place.

  She stopped in front of the grand gates at the St. Clair mansion, scowling so hard her forehead hurt. She rolled down her window and hit the button for the intercom.

  It buzzed, then clicked.

  A flurry of yipping came through the speaker, then Jassie’s voice. “Who’s there?”

  The camera swiveled on the gate overhead, turning toward her car. Great. Jassie could see her.

  “What an ugly car.” That last part was whispered, but loud enough for Maeve to hear. “Shush, Angelica, we mustn’t be rude.”

  “I’ve come for my raspberries.”

  A pause. The camera turned again, whining on its track, and Maeve cleared her throat.

  “What raspberries?” Jassie asked.

  “The ones you bought from Hank. I want them back.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” She clicked off the line. The gates didn’t open.

  Maeve beat her fist against the steering wheel, strangling a scream. She knew this was pointless, but she couldn’t help herself.

  A woman walking a Yorkshire terrier peered in at her. She pursed her lips, and Maeve stopped beating her steering wheel.

  “Crap,” Maeve whispered. “No way. This isn’t fair. She can’t do this to me.”

  She hit the button again. Another buzz and a click. More yipping from the dog-rat.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not messing around. I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re going to give me those raspberries right now. Or I’ll … I’ll…” What could she do? Scream and bash the intercom box?

  That would probably get her arrested.

  “I have no problem with you. A wolf doesn’t worry about the opinion of sheep. Goodbye.” Click.

  Maeve punched the buzzer with her index finger, actually hurting it a little.

  Click. “Go. Away.”

  “I want my raspberries.” She dragged her wallet out and waved it at the camera. “I’ll pay you for them. Don’t you want to compete properly? On even footing?”

  Another pause. Click. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops. This is harassment.”

  If she couldn’t afford to spend half the day buying raspberries in the next town over, she definitely couldn’t afford to spend the night in jail, waiting for Emma to bail her out.

  “Fine, be like that! It doesn’t matter who wins tomorrow, because I’ll have won the moral victory.”

  Maeve trembled with anger.

  Don’t let her get to you, she’s not worth it. That’s what Mom would’ve said.

  But Mom wasn’t here. And Jassie was getting to her.

  No way was she letting her win, money or not.

  Maeve would do whatever it took to beat her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “We’ve got to do something,” Leslie said, crouching in front of Baker’s kennel. “She can’t go on like this.”

  Dr. Dale was hunched over next to her. “How long has it been since she last ate?”

  They consulted the clipboard hanging on the kennel door. “Two days. I don’t know what to do with her, Dale.” Leslie’s eyes were filled with worry. She smelled strange, a sharp current of fear running under the usual soft doggy scent of her clothes and skin.

  But it didn’t matter. Baker wasn’t hungry. She gnawed on her itchy hind leg, worrying the fur away from her skin until she tasted blood.

  “She’s worse than yesterday,” Dr. Dale agreed

  “I think she misses Maeve.”

  The mention of her name tugged at Baker’s attention, but she knew Maeve wasn’t coming, so there was no point in hoping. She had to keep reminding herself of that. She dug in deeper with her teeth, desperate to get at that impossible itch.

  “Baker,” Dr. Dale called, softly. “Honey, look at me.”

  She glanced up at him.

  “There we go, all right.” He opened the cage door and came inside.

  Baker didn’t growl, but she tensed. She didn’t want to be touched.

  But Dr. Dale’s hands were soft. He lifted her head, gently, just under the chin, and shone a light into her eyes. Then he touched the itchy leg. “We’ll keep an eye on this. Might have to put a cone on her if she doesn’t stop.”

  Leslie sighed.

  “Has she been getting muc
h exercise?”

  “No, she won’t go out into the yard, even alone, not without a lead, and she’s so resistant to that I don’t wanna force it too much.”

  Dr. Dale rubbed Baker’s head once, then backed out of the kennel and shut the door.

  Baker sighed and closed her eyes. She was so tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She used to dream about running through golden fields, or chasing mice. Not anymore. When she did dream now, she was alone in the dark, sometimes in the rain or thunder.

  “Was there anything that might’ve happened with Maeve? Did you see anything?” Dr. Dale’s voice was gentle like his hands.

  “Just a happy dog soliciting attention. She’d even stopped chewing at herself,” Leslie said.

  “She was eating there?”

  “It looked like it.” Leslie huffed out a breath. “I think she misses her. Baker finally found her home, and now she’s back here.”

  Baker bit back a whine of misery.

  That’s exactly what had happened, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

  She was all alone, and that’s how it was going to be for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maeve tore into her driveway, still on the brink of tears. All the happiness she’d felt in the past week was gone, and a part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that it was, in part, because Baker wasn’t around.

  When the dog had been here, things were more fun. Jassie had been a mere frustration, not a complete block.

  Maeve didn’t bang on the steering wheel again — if she broke a bone in her hand, she was out of the contest for good. She wanted to howl at the sky, but she held the noise in, just in case her next-door neighbor was feeling tetchy.

  She closed her eyes and rested my forehead on the wheel of her beat-up Honda instead.

  No matter what she did, she was doomed.

  If she drove to the next town for the raspberries, she’d barely have time to bake three or four batches before she’d have to sleep.

  Assuming she could get to a grocery store before they closed.

  And assuming that there was a mom-and-pop store there that cared enough to source their berries from a local farm. Any berries she’d buy at a big chain would be shipped in a refrigerated truck from some mega-farm where they’d been harvested a week ago. Big chain berries were bred for shelf-life first and flavor second. They definitely wouldn’t be organic, like the ones Hank bought from the grower’s co-op just outside of town.

  It was staring to get late, and each passing second heightened her panic.

  The car’s interior grew hot. She didn’t have AC in this old thing, and rolling down the window would let in the sights and sounds from outside. Her failure would feel more real if she could hear the birds chirping, the distant drone of a lawnmower or the canned laughter from the neighbor’s TV — he turned it up too loud because he hated wearing her hearing aid around the house.

  The tears spilled over.

  “This is your rock bottom. The freelance work has dried up, you’re going to lose the competition, and Baker—” Maeve choked on her name.

  What was wrong with her?

  She hadn’t wanted a dog in the first place. But now it felt like a little corner of her heart had gone missing.

  All it had taken was a few tail wags. A chase around the garden in the sun. Laughing and splashing each other with soapy water.

  She’d listened while Maeve talked and seemed to understand. She could still see her lying on that old blanket on the kitchen floor, one ear pricked upward while the other flopped.

  Maeve had never understood before why dog owners were so crazy about their pets, but now, she got emotional just thinking about Baker.

  Macavity jumped onto the hood of her car and planted his furry butt on it. He meowed loudly.

  “What?” Maeve asked.

  She half-expected him to dart off, but he just sat there, staring an accusation. Was he angry with her for taking Baker away? He hadn’t come into the house, begging for food. Not since she’d left Baker at Pretty Paws.

  “Macavity.” Maeve tried to sound stern, but her voice wobbled after all that crying. “Come on, get off my hood.”

  He flicked his tail and didn’t move.

  “We couldn’t keep her forever. The plan was always to give her back.”

  Apparently rock bottom included trying to explain her decisions to a cat.

  Thankfully, her phone rang before she could embarrass herself further.

  Emma. “Hey, Maeve, you feeling better?”

  “If I say no, will you listen to my meltdown?”

  “Your totally justified meltdown,” she said. “Let me have it.

  So Maeve told her — everything. Her failed attempts to perfect the roly-poly cakes. Seeing David in the store with Clara. Jassie buying all the raspberries, ruining Maeve’s chances of winning.

  “But that’s not the worst,” she confessed, crying again. “I can’t stop thinking about Baker. I just abandoned her, and I’m all alone, and not even seeing David with his model girlfriend upsets me as much as that does.”

  Emma was quiet for a second on the other end of the line. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know. I’m scared that she’ll turn on me, and that she might need an owner more experienced than me. But I miss her. A lot.” Macavity thumped on the windshield with one paw. “Also, this cat from next door is staring me down right now, and I’m convinced that it’s because he misses Baker. And if that doesn’t make me totally loopy, then I don’t know what does.”

  “Oh, there’s no denying you’re a total crackpot,” Emma said, laughing. “But I think … Maeve, I think you should give it a real shot with Baker. She misses you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she’s sad.” Emma’s voice hitched. “I forced her on you the first time, and that wasn’t right. Do what’s right for you.”

  Maeve exhaled, slowly. The possibility was so tempting, but she had to be honest with herself. Was she ready to have a dog? It had seemed so easy while Baker was with her. But what if there was something she wasn’t seeing? What if the dog was actually aggressive? No, that didn’t sit right. Emma had explained in a bunch of her voicemails that the other dog had been picking on Baker for a while.

  “As for the fruit debacle,” Emma continued, “why does it have to be raspberries?”

  Maeve started to explain about flavor profiles and perfect jams, but gave up a moment later. “There just won’t be time to bake and test all the batches I’d need for getting it right.”

  “What if I was your taste tester?”

  “Maybe. The cake is pretty good, so if I focused on the jam, and making it right for the version of the cake I’ve got now—”

  “Blueberries,” Em said. “I was shopping this morning before work, and Hank had loads of them. I’ll pick up everything he has on my way over.”

  Her heart flooded with gratitude — Emma had just given her back her chance to win the competition. “You’re the best, Em.”

  Macavity flicked his tail again. Then he jumped to the ground, disappearing into the neighbor’s yard. Maeve sensed that the cat wasn’t her friend anymore. At least, not until he got what he wanted.

  For her to bring Baker home.

  Emma had said she was sad. What did that mean? Had another dog attacked her again?

  Maeve could make sure that Rottweiler never bit Baker again, but could she make sure Baker never bit her? They’d already had one incident — what if there was another one? Something worse, because no one would be there to pull her away.

  Why couldn’t anything be simple?

  Maeve’s hands tightened on the wheel. She could go over to the shelter right now and claim her. She still hadn’t thrown out any of her things. She’d left Baker’s room — when did she start thinking of the laundry room as Baker’s? — exactly as it had been on the morning she’d lost her.

  You’re going to get out of this car, go in
side, and start setting up to make another batch of roly-poly cakes. You’re going to win this contest.

  And if she did, maybe, just maybe, she’d have the guts to bring Baker home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Maeve got out of her car, carrying her ingredients for the big bake-off, blood rushing in her ears. This was it. She had her apron on, her hair tied up tight, and her eye on the prize.

  Well, for now, her eye was on the check-in desk.

  The woman behind it smiled at her, took her name, then handed her a sheet of paper with the map of the area and a contestant number. There were stations for the contestants under a big white tent.

  Maeve followed her map, clutching the wicker basket that held her ingredients to her side, ignoring the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She had to find her station and get set up in time to be ready when they started the clock.

  Then the tasting and the judging, and she’d know for sure.

  She just had to keep it together until then.

  The tent was a mess. Folks from all over had come for the competition and were setting up at their stations. Each one had an oven with stove top, a counter, and all the necessary equipment.

  It was pretty awesome, and most of the contestants were in the process of setting up and chatting with their tablemates — they'd been grouped in twos.

  This was it.

  The flutter in Maeve’s gut intensified. There was so much competition, and so many of the other contestants looked happy and confident. As she passed station after station, she gawked at others’ ingredients. A lot of overlap with hers, but every time she saw something she hadn’t tried, she couldn’t help wondering if that was the secret that would’ve made her roly-poly cake a winner.

  She found her station and placed her wicker basket on the counter so she could start unpacking her stuff.

  “Oh, no way.” The voice had come from behind her, bitter and sickeningly sweet.

  Maeve turned around, and her excitement took a dive. Jassie.

  She flicked her hair and placed the basket of her ingredients on the counter beside Maeve’s.