Baker's Dozen

by Lori R. Taylor

So Maeve unlocked her phone and went to the message app.

  I’ve decided I like green. But a different shade of green. The one you used in the logo was too faded. I need something more vibrant.

  “What, like puke green?” she asked out loud, her fist closing around the phone, squeezing until the plastic creaked.

  She could ignore him and reply later. Pretend she’d lent her phone to her mom to play Silly Lizards, so she hadn't seen his text right away.

  Three dots appeared.

  Are you there? I’m on a tight schedule. We need to talk ASAP.

  Every inch of her wanted to throw the phone across the car. But Maeve couldn’t afford to replace it — or the car’s windshield — until Leroy paid her for finding him a shade of green that met his exacting standards.

  Instead, she locked the device, stuck it in her bag and took a breath. Leroy’s graphic design emergency could wait an hour. Or three.

  This morning would’ve been a lot more productive if she’d spent it baking.

  She drove home, humming a tune under her breath to cheer herself up, and failing miserably. After all, home was empty. And even though she definitely didn’t want to get back together with David, the quiet that fell over the house when it was just her felt … weird.

  She parked in front and made her way to the front gate, which opened onto a quaint stepping-stone path up to the front steps and the wraparound porch.

  Mom’s house, the only thing Maeve had left of her. The fact that she’d ever invited David to stay with her was just plain annoying. Now all her fond childhood nostalgia was tainted by memories of all the fighting they’d done before the breakup.

  Once inside, she threw herself onto the living room sofa and buried her face in the pillow. A scream built in her belly, then stuck at the back of her throat.

  She almost wished she hadn’t tried — at least then, she could have the fantasy of her own bakery to keeping her going when the world’s Leroys made her want to quit.

  But now, knowing her dream was doomed and that she had nothing but Leroys to look forward to? Leroys for the rest of her life?

  No.

  Maeve refused to let the Leroys win.

  She sat up, grabbed her laptop off of the coffee table, and fired it up.

  There it was. The stupid design she’d done for Leroy.

  “Go away,” she muttered, minimizing the program.

  Her LiveLyfe profile popped up, with a live feed to display what everyone was doing. Including David.

  Ugh. She wanted to block him, but it felt kind of petty to do it now.

  Maeve had never been able to open up to anyone. Then she’d met David, and he taught her it was okay to be vulnerable. That crying wasn’t a big deal. That allowing love into her life was the best possible thing for her.

  What a joke. Apparently, he was being vulnerable with a gorgeous blonde right now, on a boat off the coast of Hawaii.

  His feed showed everything Maeve didn’t want to see, including David’s new girlfriend’s perfectly-sculpted abs and bleached hair.

  Not that she wanted him back. Good luck to the model. Good luck to them both.

  She slapped the laptop lid shut and rubbed her forehead — she’d been frowning so hard, she was en route to a headache.

  Enough.

  She couldn't let the Davids win, either. But what was she supposed to do instead?

  She needed to bake something.

  Since she'd been dumb enough to add David to all her credit cards, she was trapped in freelance graphic design hell — all the money she earned from the Leroys went toward paying those off. But her living expenses were covered by the money she made teaching baking at the community college, for their culinary arts program.

  She could go in and prep for tomorrow, maybe whip up some cranberry-orange oatmeal cookies to take to the hospice where Mom had spent her last few days.

  Leroy could wait.

  Maeve sighed, smiling at the neatly printed recipes she’d stacked for tomorrow, and the prepared ingredients, all separated in their containers. Her class was for beginners, but they’d worked their way up to baking muffins, and she was excited to share one of her secret recipes with them.

  A basic carrot-cake-style muffin, studded with pecans, sweetened with applesauce, and spiced with cinnamon, plus a hint of cardamom.

  Okay, so not exactly the most exciting — they weren’t double-chocolate truffle muffins — but it would be a step up from the oatmeal raisin cookies they’d made last week. Or tried to, in some cases.

  Poor Freddie (her favorite student) didn’t have the gift, but Maeve gave him an A+ for always trying so hard.

  The timer on her phone dinged. She pulled two sheets of cookies out of the oven, her mouth watering in anticipation. This had been Mom’s favorite recipe. And despite the fact that the community college’s kitchen wasn’t exactly Michelin-star quality, the ovens held an even temperature, which is why the browning around the cookies’ edges where the butter and sugar had caramelized was perfect.

  It was so easy to close her eyes and imagine herself standing in her own little bakery, with a room full of hungry customers demanding more Crème Puff Supremes or donuts with maple syrup glazing.

  “Knock, knock.”

  Maeve’s eyes snapped open, and she blushed at being caught daydreaming. She checked that her hairnet was in place as she smiled at the director of the college.

  Nate was in his early fifties, but gray from having three middle-school-aged kids who couldn’t sit still in class. He gave her a grin and came over to the counter, nodding at the cookies she had yet to put on the cooling racks. “Those smell amazing. May I?”

  “Give them a minute, or you’ll burn your fingers.” Maeve grabbed the spatula and started transferring the cookies to the racks.

  While he waited, Nate picked up one of the recipes from the pile and scanned it. “I think I’ll stop by after tomorrow’s class and see if I can convince one of your students to part with a muffin or two.”

  “In good conscience, I have to warn you not to try Freddie’s. But you could come by and make your own.”

  “Oh no, I’m a terrible baker.” Nate put down the recipe. “But this is exactly why I came to see you. I’ve just heard that the campus is hosting a healthy baking competition. Sponsored by the HealthNut Corp. Heard of them?”

  “They do those vegan snacks, right?”

  “They’re offering a huge cash prize for any contestant who can come up with a delicious sweet treat for their new product line.” Nate grabbed a cookie from the rack, took a bite, and grinned. “You deserve a little reward for your talent.”

  “Talent, sheesh,” Maeve said, blushing. “I just like to bake.”

  “Freddie just likes to bake. You’re an artist.”

  She wrapped three more cookies in a napkin and handed them to Nate. “For the little ones.”

  “Seriously, enter that contest and do us all proud,” he said on his way to the exit. “I’ll be back tomorrow to steal some muffins.”

  “You gotta bake ‘em if you wanna eat ‘em,” she called after him.

  While the cookies cooled the rest of the way, Maeve loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and got it started. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the contest made her stomach feel fluttery just thinking about it.

  And hopeful was such a nice change, after the total poop fest this morning had been.

  If she won the contest, she could use that money to fund her bakery. The massive exposure wouldn’t hurt either — being associated with the HealthNut Corp would be big for anyone starting a new business.

  Her nerves swelled. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  You can do this.

  If she was brave — or stupid — enough to march into a bank and beg for a loan without collateral, Maeve sure as sheep’s wool was brave enough to enter that competition.

  Her stomach cramped with anxiety all the way down the hall to the administration offices. But t
he closer she got, the more weight her feet seemed to gain. A competition like this would be advertised heavily, and that meant she'd have serious competition. What if she didn’t make it? What if her treats weren’t good enough?

  David’s cheating had been humiliating. Having to grovel to clients like Leroy was humiliating in a different way. It was getting harder and harder for her not to feel like a total loser.

  How much harder would it be if she lost this contest, too? And with it, her last chance to start her bakery?

  Mom used to say that no one can make a person feel inferior without their consent. Maeve thought Eleanor Roosevelt had come up with that, but she'd heard it from Mom first, so she always thought of her when she heard it.

  She set her jaw. She’d just have to make something good enough to win, because no way would she let this opportunity pass her by. This was literally her last chance at doing what she wanted to do.

  The door was open, but Maeve knocked before entering anyway.

  Mrs. Lieberman, the elderly receptionist, shifted her horn-rimmed glasses and looked past the other woman in the office. “Hello there, Maeve. Come for information about the HealthNut competition?”

  Everyone at the college was familiar with Maeve and her aspirations, possibly because she hung out in the cafeteria boring them all with her dreams. Plus, she’d helped Mrs. Lieberman find her cat the other day.

  The other woman in the office, a brunette whose long, wavy locks fell well past her tan shoulders to a blue paisley sundress, turned toward her. “Well, if it isn’t Maeve Watts.”

  The cramping in Maeve’s stomach got more intense.

  There were only three things that could dampen her spirits.

  One: David. Because he was an idiot.

  Two: the fact that she couldn’t get a loan.

  And three: Jassie St. Clair, her high school nemesis.

  “What are you doing here?” Maeve asked, even though she already knew. Jassie was all about country clubs and horse riding, but they shared exactly one interest.

  Baking.

  In school, her pastimes had included pulling Maeve’s skirt up in front of the most popular guys in the school, shadowing her during Home Economics, and spreading vicious rumors behind Maeve's back. The most colorful had been about the time their teacher had gotten sick — Jassie had told everyone she’d poisoned her with a bad cookie.

  Maeve’s pastime had been avoiding Jassie whenever possible.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Jassie’s gaze wandered from her face down to her battered high-tops, taking in the old jeans and Mom’s favorite T-shirt on the way.

  Maeve wished she’d changed at home, but how was she supposed to know she’d run into her nemesis here?

  Jassie looked perfect, as usual. Seriously, shrink the woman and put her on a doll stand. Did people do that? Did they keep dolls on doll stands?

  “I’m just surprised to see you here. It’s been a long time.” It was a lame excuse, but whatever. She didn’t have to explain herself to Jassie.

  “Did I hear correctly?”

  “What?”

  Jassie twirled a strand of glossy hair — she had to be using shellac to get that kind of shine — around her finger. “That you’re entering the baking competition. For HealthNut?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I guess I forgot that you were still working at the community college. Part-time, right? Or did they finally offer you a full-time position?”

  Maeve crossed her arms. “What’s your point?”

  “I just figured you would have accepted that it takes a lot of talent to make it as a pastry chef and moved on by now. Unless you’ve got a baking show I’m not aware of?”

  That was the worst thing about Jassie, right there at the bottom of a very long list. She never just insulted you outright; she always merged onto the most passive-aggressive route.

  “Not all of us happen to be spoiled trust fund babies,” Maeve said, because she had no trouble insulting anyone who rubbed her the wrong way. “Some of us have to earn what we get.”

  Jassie pursed her lips like Maeve had just given her a handful of rotten leaves and mulch.

  “Good luck,” she said as she snatched a sheet of paper off Mrs. Lieberman’s desk. As she walked past, she whispered, “You’re going to need it.”

  Jassie wasn’t a better baker. But she was great at putting Maeve in the worst possible mood.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Mrs. Lieberman handed Maeve a piece of paper with a lot of fine print on it. “Everything you need to know about the competition. Give Jassie what-for.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lieberman.” She’d give Jassie something, all right. A kick in the pants.

  Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  Chapter Three

  Maeve set the HealthNut brochure on her kitchen counter.

  The contest rules were simple.

  She had to bake a batch of something healthy to qualify and bring it in to get taste-tested by a HealthNut judge. The deadline was in a few days.

  She needed to come up with something that tasted like heaven on a plate, but that also fell within their fat-sugar-protein ratio and was under the caloric limit. And they preferred that it contain at least one superfood.

  No problem, right?

  She was going to keep it simple. Who doesn’t love peanut butter cookies? She started with all-natural organic peanut butter, coconut nectar instead of sugar, and flour made from a mix of brown rice, quinoa, and amaranth, so they’d be gluten-free. She even substituted flax seed for the eggs, and a combination of avocado oil and walnut oil for the butter, so the cookies would be completely vegan.

  These would be the healthiest cookies in existence.

  But … how would she know if they were the most delicious healthy cookies in existence?

  Maeve wasn’t just biased, she was also in completely new territory — she was used to baking normal, buttery-sugary cookies. Did she want to win the competition so badly that she might delude herself into thinking her first attempt at a vegan cookie was delicious?

  She needed an outside opinion, just like an artist needed input. Or a writer. Or … whatever. She just needed to know if her cookies were good or not.

  “Sheesh, relax,” she told herself. “The cookies aren’t even out of the oven yet.”

  The timer rang. Maeve tugged on her oven mitts, then brought the cookies out and set them to rest on her granite countertop.

  They smelled pretty good. Not like her normal peanut butter cookies, but these were tons healthier, so they wouldn’t be exactly the same.

  Maeve glared at them, eyes narrowed.

  “You’re going to be great, right?” She was tempted to grab one and try it, but she’d learned her lesson after the first (or fifth) time she’d burned the roof of her mouth to be patient and let the cookies cool first.

  She headed into the bedroom, took a quick shower, and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a long shirt. By the time she got back to the kitchen, the cookies were cool.

  “Here we go,” she whispered, and took a bite. Semi-sweet, peanut-buttery goodness spread over her tongue. But beneath the nutty sweetness, Maeve could also taste a faint bitterness that could’ve been the flax meal or one of the ancient gluten-free grains. Or maybe it was because the coconut nectar had caramelized faster than normal sugar, and the cookie’s bottom had browned faster than she’d expected.

  The texture was different too — still dense and moist, but also a bit chalky.

  She took another bite.

  Pretty good. She was starting to get used to all the differences.

  But maybe that was a bad thing. Would the judge take the time to get used to those differences?

  Or would they expect the cookies to taste just like normal ones?

  She'd try the next batch with whole-grain, stone-ground flour — her usual go-to when she wanted her cookies to lean toward the healthy side. But then her entry wouldn’t be gluten-free, and that was
important when it came to health food these days.

  She needed a second opinion.

  She put some of the cookies into a Tupperware, closed them up, and headed for the door. Her best friend, Emma, would tell her the truth. Once she had some honest feedback, she could start tweaking the recipe.

  Em was an angel, volunteering at the local dog shelter on her off-days — and today was one of those days — so Maeve drove to Pretty Paws.

  Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot where the shelter was located, in a strip mall anchored by a Staples. Pretty Paws was tucked in between a pizzeria and a Chinese restaurant. She side-eyed the cookies where they sat fastened into the passenger seat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said, and set them free. Well, almost. They were still in their Tupperware, plotting her downfall. Or her success.

  Emma would decide.

  Maeve grabbed the cookies and headed into Pretty Paws. The reception area was quaint, with pamphlets about the shelter itself, how to volunteer, and why you should spay or neuter your pet.

  It was as comfy as it could be on a budget, but places like this always made her a little sad. The fact that these dogs had been left behind was upsetting. Not that she was going to do anything about that — she wasn’t going to get a dog herself, ever.

  Once bitten, twice shy, right? Except for her, it was once bitten, and she’d never go near another dog again, period.

  One of the volunteers emerged from a door at the back of the reception area, a young woman with bright pink hair and a name tag that read Bobbie. She was in her teens, or maybe just out of high school, and her smile was wide with excitement for life.

  “Ma’am? Are you here looking to adopt?”

  “What? No way. I mean, no thank you.” Maeve tried for a laugh, but it sounded awkward. “I’m looking for Emma. Emma Tran? Is she around?”

  “Oh sure, they’re giving the dogs their baths. Can I call her out front for you?”

  “That would be great, thank you.”

  Maeve walked over to the collection of mismatched upholstered chairs and sat with the container in her lap. A happy Labrador looked up at her from the cover of a magazine. She averted her eyes, choosing to focus on the cookies instead.