Maynard's prose is sparse, her characters are deftly drawn, and her pacing is brisk. But there's a queer hollow quality about [Baby Love], as if the author became alienated from her own work. Maynard holds her fecund females at arm's length. At times, it's difficult to tell whether she's mocking them or asking us merely to take note of their foibles. Add to this an ill-conceived and premature conclusion, and the result is a curiously misshapen novel.