The cottage isn't anything like I was expecting, tucked into a copse of trees, the roof nearly obscured by moss. From the outside it's little more than a scar on the pristine lakefront, a shack unworthy of note.
The inside, though, is all Effie; shelves of porcelain teacups and starched white doilies, shades of pink everywhere. But it's snug and bright and well appointed, with indoor plumbing and modern appliances.
I didn't even know this place existed until a month ago, at the reading of the will. Eccentric aunt Effie had no children of her own, and while I wouldn't have put it past her to leave her worldly possessions to Buttercup, her crotchety old cat, I wasn't too surprised to get a call from the executor.
She left my sister, Prim, her New York apartment, packed with a lifetime's worth of antique furniture and tchotchkes. To our cousin Johanna she bequeathed her Miami condo. But to me she left a derelict cabin, deep in the North Carolina woods.
I tried not to be hurt. Effie and I didn't always get along, but I thought we were close. We shared a love of books and writing, I'd even chosen the same career path as she had. But it felt like a slight.
I called Plutarch, Effie's lawyer and friend, a few days later, intending on listing the place for sale ASAP. That's when he told me this place was special to Effie, that she hadn't left it to me for its financial value. He said it was where Effie found her muse, and had encouraged me to visit, at least once, before letting it go.
So here I am.
I spend the afternoon airing out the small space, clearing away the dust and cobwebs, unpacking the food I've brought along. Though it's been years since Effie was last here the place is in good shape, the propane tanks full. She must have been paying someone to keep the place up. I'll have to ask Plutarch about that.
After a paltry meal of canned soup and crackers I drag a chair out to the rickety dock to watch the sun set over the lake. It's beautiful, though not exactly mind-blowing. Whatever it is about this place that inspired Effie, I've yet to find it.
Effie was a writer, and a reasonably successful one at that. Me, well, it's been four years since my last book was published. Four years since I've written anything more than a grocery list. My editor has stopped calling.
It's been four years since Prim got married. Four years since I lost my sole purpose.
Our parents died far too young, leaving me, barely 18, to care for 14 year old Prim. And for more than a decade I did. I gave up any hope of a normal life so that she could have anything she wanted. Everything she wanted.
We struggled in the early years, I worked two, three jobs at a time to keep her fed. But I always made sure to spend time with her too, doting on her in whatever ways I could. She might not have a mother or a father, but I made damned sure she never lacked for love.
That's how the stories began.
At first they were bedtime stories, silly yarns for a girl too old to believe in fairy tales. When they got more elaborate I started writing them out for her.
Prim submitted one to a magazine, who published it. And a light went off in my head.
It didn't take very long before I was making more money writing articles and essays, freelance, than I was earning at my day jobs. Especially once it became known that I was the niece of the esteemed writer Effie Trinket .
Our lives changed completely after my first novel was published. And then the second. And third. We weren't struggling anymore. I lavished gifts and trips and luxuries on Prim, got her through college, helped her get established. She grew into a strong, feisty, smart and beautiful woman, an absolute treasure, the light of my life.
And while I knew it wouldn't last forever, knew that her independence was the expected outcome, it was still a shock when, at 24, she married a man from her office, a man with a big family who welcomed her with open arms.
Outwardly I celebrated with her, played the role of ecstatic big sister.
Inside I fell apart.
My entire adult life had been dedicated to Prim. I had nothing left to do.
Around me the darkness has fallen, and the mosquitoes are swarming. I guess I was lost in my head. I head back inside the snug little cabin, not bothering to light the lamps, dropping instead into Effie's comfortable brass bed. And though it's barely 9 o'clock I fall asleep quickly to the hum of crickets through the window screen.
I wake up to birdsong and dappled sunshine through frilly lace curtains after the best night's sleep I've had in years. Maybe that's why Effie loved this place? With nowhere to be and no one to report to, I simply putter, making tea, poking through cupboards, lost in my thoughts.
The knock at the door is so unexpected that I nearly drop Effie's porcelain teacup. Who the hell is out here in the middle of nowhere? There are no weapons at the cabin, nothing I could really even use for protection save an odd limestone sculpture, which I clutch tightly as I open the door.
On the other is not a psychopathic lumberjack, but instead a man, perhaps my age. Medium height, ashy blond hair. A smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.
"You must be Effie's niece," he says, and his voice is deep and rich, like hot caramel. I can only stare, slack-jawed and mute. His cheeks flush, and he thrusts a small basket into my hand. "Here, I, uh, I made you these. To welcome you to the area." He stammers just slightly; it's adorable and his nervousness is just enough to snap me out of my stupor.
"Uh, yeah," I tell him. "I mean, yes, I'm Effie's niece, Katniss."
"Peeta Mellark," he replies, sticking his hand out to shake mine. I raise my own, realizing too late that I'm still holding the statuette. He merely smiles. "I'm glad to finally meet you, Katniss," he says. "If you need anything, I'm just over yonder there." He points off to the east, and I can just make out another cabin. I didn't notice it at all yesterday.
He turns and walks away before I can remember my manners and ask him to stay. But I'm intrigued.
When he comes back the next morning with yet another basket of warm, gooey cheese buns, I ask him to share them with me, and we chat over tea. He's warm and intelligent, ironic, encouraging, a little funny but not at anyone's expense. He seems to know just how to draw me out of my shell.
Peeta's daily visits are the nicest part of the week I stay in Effie's cabin, and by the time I'm packing my car to drive back home I've decided I won't sell the place after all.
"He was so drunk, he tried to hug her, and she was wearing this wig," Peeta gasps, trying to finish the story in between howls of laughter. "It was pink, and Haymitch managed to somehow knock it askew. So her curls were just slightly off-centre the rest of the day!" I'm doubled over, clutching my sides, tears running down my face at the thought of poor Aunt Effie, who was always the picture of decorum, trying to fend off the likes of Peeta's drunken uncle.
And the way he tells the story, so warm, so animated, it makes me almost foolishly happy.
He's full of stories about Aunt Effie and his uncle, Haymitch. It's clear they spent a tremendous amount of time together here, but I can't remember her ever mentioning him.
We're on the porch today, it's early and there's a chill in the air. I've taken to visiting the cabin every third weekend or so, despite the nearly 6 hour drive each way. I tell myself it's because being here has sparked my writing, and that's true, I have several chapters of a new novel written already.
But the golden-haired man sitting across from me, eyes crinkled in laughter, is an even bigger reason.
I have friends, a few anyway, and I've dated before, of course, I'm 32 years old. But I've never had a relationship, romantic or platonic, like the one that is growing between me and Peeta. When we're together, talking or wandering the woods or watching a movie on Effie's ancient VHS player I feel cherished. Safe.
Since my parents died, no one has ever made me feel this way.
The cabin is my oasis, my own little reality far removed from the headaches and loneliness of my city life. The cool woods cradle me in serenity, the simplicity of this place, this life, is balm to my exhausted soul.
And Peeta. His sweet, dimpled smile calls to me, a siren song.
I'm happy here. I am whole here.
The first time it happens I'm not really sure who kisses whom. We are curled up together on the couch, watching a movie. And then we're not.
His lips are so soft but there's nothing delicate about the way he kisses me. Every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth takes my breath away. His hands trail fire and I'm reduced to a squirming panting bundle of need.
"I want to make you feel good, Katniss," he moans. "Say you'll allow it?" At my desperate nod he lifts me in his arms, a move so cliched I'd laugh if I wasn't strung tight, wet and desperate for him.
He is a maestro and I sing my symphony to the sky.
He reads my body so well, it's surreal. As if he's written the instruction manual on me. Painted it into my flesh with his talented tongue. I never knew it could be like this. And now that I've experienced it, I never want to give it up.
And yet in all of these months I've never mentioned him to Prim or Johanna. I'm not even sure I understand what compels me to hide him, to keep him only to myself.
It was inevitable. The nightmares have decreased in frequency over the years, but the weeks leading up to the anniversary of their deaths are always hard for me. Even harder this year since Prim told me that she and Rory are having a baby.
It's brutal this time, over and over and over I watch them die in my sleeping mind, the car accident and explosion enormous in my imagination. It takes what feels like forever to pull myself from the horror, and only then do I realize I'm not alone.
Peeta is kneeling on the bed, holding me against his chest. My tears have soaked the flannel of his pyjamas. When I calm he pulls back, looking at me sheepishly. "I'm sorry to have just walked in," he rasps, voice heavy with sleep. "But I could hear you screaming from my place. I was afraid something was wrong."
"No," I whisper. "I'm glad you came. Thank you." He pulls back, and my heart pounds. I reach for his hand before I can think twice. "Stay?"
He slides under the heavy quilt beside me, gathering me into his arms, and I fall asleep almost immediately, wrapped securely in his warmth.
I haven't left the cabin since Thanksgiving, except for quick trips to the village for groceries. My mornings are spent with Peeta; sweet, gentle Peeta who bakes me treats and makes me feel like something precious.
Afternoons I churn out the pages, I've never been so prolific and my editor is thrilled.
And the nights.
The sex is incredible. It's not just that Peeta is gorgeous and insatiable and so damned generous in bed. It's Peeta himself. Sex isn't just sex with Peeta. He's so in sync with me, knows exactly what I need and when I need it. He challenges me in ways I never expected. He lifts me to heights I never imagined.
Even outside the bedroom (or kitchen, or shower) he can read me. He knows when I need cheering up and when I need space. He never pushes, never makes me define what's happening between us, never ever asks for more than I can give. Life with Peeta is almost too good to be true.
Christmas is coming, and Prim is expecting me in a few days.
I roll over in Peeta's arms; we are curled up together on the couch, Jimmy Stewart long forgotten on the screen. "You could come with me, for Christmas," I say tentatively.
He smiles, but there's a sadness there. "You know I can't, Katniss."
"It'll be fine," I insist. "Prim would love to meet you." And she will. When I tell her about him. But he just shakes his head.
"Sweetheart," he breathes, and I stiffen.
"Why?" It's a plea.
"You know why." And I think I do.
"No!" I scramble away from him, falling to my knees near the fireplace. He moves behind me, crouching close enough to feel his heat, but he doesn't touch me.
"Look at me," he implores, and I turn, powerless to resist that voice. The voice of a man I've fallen in love with.
"You're not real, are you?" The words, so silly in my head, ring true and bitter in the quiet.
His hand reaches for mine, pressing it firmly against his chest, where his heart beats a soothing staccato against my palm. "I'm as real as you need me to be, Katniss." His tone is soothing but his words sting, and I snatch my hand away.
"You're a figment of my imagination."
"No. Here, in this place, I'm flesh and blood."
"And away from here?" He looks away and a little choked noise falls from my lips.
Peeta doesn't try to stop me as I gather my things, throwing them into a bag. He simply watches with sad eyes.
He follows me to my car, still not touching me, still not trying to convince me to stay. But as I slam the trunk, tears streaming down my cheeks, he says my name and I look back. Look into the eyes of the only man I've ever loved.
"I'll always be here, Katniss. Whenever you need me. Here is the place where I love you."
Christmas comes and goes. Winter, then spring. Prim gives birth to an adorable little girl with bright blue eyes and just a wisp of dark hair like Rory's. I play the role of doting aunt, smothering the baby and Prim both with attention. And every day that passes I die a little more inside.
I don't know what to expect when I drive up to the cabin the last weekend of September. For it to have transformed into something dark and sinister, maybe?
But it's exactly as I left it. As if I've been gone a few days, instead of more than nine months.
I heat up canned soup and drag a chair onto the rickety dock, staring forlornly at the other little cabin in the distance as the sun sinks in the sky.
In the morning I crawl out of bed and set the kettle to boil. The bed is the same, comfortable and deep, but I barely slept.
There's a gentle tapping at my door. I pull it open with a mixture of longing and trepidation. And he's there, same golden curls, same gentle smile.
There's no anger in his expression, no judgement. He gazes at me with the same adoration as always. And I can't lie to myself. I've missed him, desperately.
I launch myself at him and he catches me, his arms strong and steady. "I wasn't sure you'd be here," I admit, my lips grazing his neck, the familiar salty sweetness ambrosia.
"Always, Katniss. I told you I'll always be here for you, whenever you need me."
Over the years I publish twelve more books, surpassing Effie.
Prim has another two babies and I lavish attention on them. From time to time Prim, or Jo, suggest that I'm too young to spend my life as a spinster, and I just smile.
I keep an apartment in the city, but it's mostly just for show, a place for when Prim or my nieces want to visit. My life is in the solitude of the North Carolina forest, and in the arms of the man who makes me feel alive, even if he isn't.