17. Maggie #4
She beams up at me, wearing pink pajamas covered in cartoon dogs while Daisy circles excitedly around our feet. Winston charges into the foyer moments later, his nails skidding wildly across the marble floor.
“Sweet heaven,” I laugh while crouching down to pet both dogs at once. “Y’all are actin’ like I disappeared for six months.”
“You missed dinner,” Ivy informs me very seriously.
“That sounds tragic.”
“It was spaghetti,” she says with a solemn nod.
“Well now I’m heartbroken.” I crouch slightly so we’re eye level, and Ivy giggles when I let out an exaggerated sigh.
Irina appears in the dining room doorway, looking exhausted but warm as always. “We saved you some in the kitchen,” she says, smiling.
Ivy grabs my hand and starts tugging me toward the kitchen with enough determination for three adults.
“Come on,” she says excitedly.
“Well thank goodness,” I tell her while letting her pull me along behind her. “I was moments away from starvation.”
“You’re dramatic,” she laughs.
“That’s a horrible thing to say to a hungry woman.”
Ivy giggles loud enough that it echoes through the hallway while Daisy trots proudly beside us, carrying a stuffed monkey in her mouth. Winston barrels ahead so fast his paws slide across the floor when he turns the corner toward the kitchen.
The massive kitchen is quiet for all of two seconds before Irina walks in from the pantry carrying an armful of baking supplies balanced against her chest.
“She has been waiting all day to bake cookies,” she says.
Irina sets the bags of chocolate chips and sprinkles on the island before giving Ivy a look of tired amusement. “I believe I have heard about the cookies approximately forty-seven times.”
“Because they’re important,” Ivy explains. “They’re shaped like dogs.”
Irina pulls a plate of spaghetti from the refrigerator and slides it into the microwave before glancing toward me. “Apparently baked goods increase adoptions.”
“That’s solid marketing logic,” I say.
“She inherited her father’s business instincts,” Irina says dryly.
Ivy beams proudly at that comparison while climbing onto one of the stools near the island.
A few minutes later, I sit at the massive kitchen island, eating reheated spaghetti while Ivy talks nonstop beside me about tomorrow’s adoption event.
She already has opinions about which dogs should be introduced to which families, which animals need extra treats before visitors arrive, and why Winston absolutely can’t be allowed near the raffle baskets.
“He stole beef jerky,” she whispers.
“He stole an entire bag of beef jerky,” Irina corrects.
Winston lifts his head proudly from beside the island, as if this is an accomplishment worthy of recognition.
I laugh before taking another bite of spaghetti. The kitchen feels warm and safe compared to the rest of the mansion. Cookie ingredients cover the marble island while Ivy continues chattering happily. It feels so normal. At least as close to normal as anything has felt lately.
Once I finish eating, Ivy springs into action. “Now cookies.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She gasps happily when I wash my hands and move beside her at the counter. “You said yes really fast.”
“Well honey pie, you had me emotionally manipulated the second you brought up cookies shaped like dogs.”
“That’s fair.”
Irina laughs under her breath as she pulls the mixing bowls closer.
The next hour passes in a blur of flour, chocolate chips, and complete kitchen disorder. Ivy insists on personally measuring every ingredient, which means flour somehow ends up all over the counter, her pajamas, and Winston’s head after he wanders too close beneath the island.
“Goodness gracious,” I laugh while brushing flour from the dog’s fur. “Now you look lightly breaded.”
Winston wags his tail enthusiastically like this was the goal all along.
Daisy remains glued to my side the entire time, occasionally resting her chin against my leg whenever she decides I haven’t provided enough attention.
Every few minutes, I stop mixing dough long enough to scratch behind her ears or rub Winston’s head while Ivy carefully presses dog-shaped cookie cutters into the dough beside me.
“These ones are for the shelter,” she announces proudly.
“All of them?” I ask.
She nods firmly. “People adopt happier when they eat good food.”
Emotion wells up at the sincerity in her voice. Ivy genuinely believes cookies might help the animals find homes. She might be right.
“You’ve got a real soft heart, sugar,” I murmur while helping her transfer cookies onto a baking sheet.
Irina watches us from across the kitchen with warmth in her eyes before turning back toward the oven.
Ivy remains completely focused on arranging sprinkles across the cookies with intense concentration, while Daisy sprawls across my feet and Winston patrols beneath the island searching for falling crumbs.
The kitchen fills with the scent of sugar and vanilla as the first batch bakes, warm enough to wrap around me like comfort itself.
Men still move through the house speaking Russian into earpieces, and Alexei still hasn’t come home. But in here, beneath the warm kitchen lights with flour on my shirt and Ivy laughing beside me, it’s the calmest I’ve felt all day.