How to Bake a Perfect Life by Barbara O'Neal

favorite flower.” I gesture with wide arms. “This used to be her house, when I was your age. She left it to me when she died.”
    “Why you?”
    The answer is full of layers, and I say only, “That’s a complicated story. Mostly because I was divorced and moved in with her when she got dementia.” I smile and tell her a secret. “But it’s probably because I was her favorite.”
    She bends her head into the blossoms. “My grandma was mean to me. She didn’t like my mom at all, either.”
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    “And it wasn’t because of drugs. She just didn’t like her from the beginning.”
    “Unfortunately, it happens all the time.” Joining her on the porch, I ask, “Do you want to sweep all this mud off while I make a new sign?”
    She nods. I give her the broom and go inside to fetch the markers we use to announce specials on a big black board. Using neon pink and green, I carefully write Open Saturday morning, 6 a.m.! and, below that, Thanks for your patience . Straightening, I narrow my eyes. “Something should be on special,” I say aloud. “To make up for the trouble.”
    Katie looks at me but offers nothing.
    “What’s your favorite bakery item?”
    A shrug. “I don’t know.”
    “Raisin bread, I think. I make a fantastic raisin bread, with orange-soaked raisins.” I clap the lid on the marker. “That’ll do it.” Suddenly it seems there is a lot to do by tomorrow morning—all the upheavals have knocked me out of my routines.
    My brother’s blue truck pulls into the narrow driveway, and I can see the dog through the passenger window, sitting in the seat like a human. Katie yelps, “Merlin!” She drops the broom and runs off the porch to greet him, yanking open the door before the vehicle is barely stopped.
    He leaps out, making a howling, talky sound of greeting, and Katie falls on her knees. When he licks her face, she flings her arms around his Creamsicle neck.
    And sobs.
    Merlin tolerates it for about twenty seconds—licking her ear, wiggling forward—and then my brother comes around the truck and grabs the leash. “There’s a busy street only one block away, Katie,” he says, more harshly than is required. “You’ve got to be really careful not to let him run.”
    “Ryan.” I frown, using a hand gesture to bring it down a notch. He has no children of his own—a confirmed bachelor—so of course he knows exactly how to raise them. “Give her a minute.”
    “The way to take care of a dog is to be the master,” he says. At least he squats and gives Katie, who’s looking at him with a pale, chastened, smitten face, the leash. “He needs you to be the boss. All the time, very consistently. Do you know what that means?”
    “Regular,” she says.
    “Good.” He stands. “I’ve gotta open the pub, but I’ll be back to help you train him. Three things to remember: Never let him sleep on your bed. Never give him human food unless he does something to earn it, and never, ever from the table or while you are eating. And third, give him lots of attention. He’s a dog who likes it.”
    “Okay. I can do that.”
    He bends to scratch Merlin’s chest and comes up the stairs to me, handing over a sheaf of paperwork, presumably the dog’s shot records. At least that much is done. “Keep him fenced, or he’s going to take off. I would suggest you get some identification on him right away.”
    “Will do.” I hug him. “Thanks, Ryan. I know you’ve got a lot going on, too.” He has to fire a bartender at The Banshee, the pub he runs for the family. My father desperately wanted him to call it Gallagher’s, but Ryan stood his ground. “Can I make you some dinner this week?”
    “Sure. Monday would be good.”
    “Monday it is.”
    He turns to go and spies the fresh sod. “Damn.” He gives me a sharp look. “That had to cost a pretty penny. Or did your mentor take care of you, as always?”
    “I probably deserve that,” I say. “But just because Dad hates