I pass along Delly's message after my mother finishes dinner and goes to the front room to listen to the radio.
"I'm glad to hear it," Peeta says. "Thanks for letting me know."
Now would be an ideal time to ask Peeta about himself. Where do you live? How do you earn a living?
But I can't figure out how to ask directly without sounding nosy. Besides if I question him about his life, wouldn't that give him the right to do the same to me? And I'm not ready to discuss my engagement.
No, I can wait a little longer to find out about Peeta.
Instead I ask, "Do you want to work on the scrapbook again?"
"Sure."
I gather the supplies that Mr. Adkins gave me at last Friday's meeting, a dozen large sheets of paper and a stack of pages from old magazines, and set them on the kitchen table.
I have grand plans for the book I am putting together. To my eye, the books the other librarians have created have no logic. They are a compilation of random photos and articles pasted onto thick paper and bound together with string.
My idea is to make an organized book that will be divided into three sections: one for women, another for men, and a third for children.
I set to sorting out the magazine pages into the three categories, while Peeta draws titles for each section - a housewife sweeping her cabin for the women's section, a man chopping down a tree for the men's section, and some kids playing with a dog for the children's section.
We work for an hour in comfortable silence before my mother appears to announce that it's time for bed.
A routine develops, working on the book every evening after dinner. It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off the Everdeens' financial problems.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch Peeta as he draws, making the borders of each page bloom with strokes of ink. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual, friendly expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside of him.
How will I say good-bye to this man when he leaves our house and I likely never see him again?
Working together, we finish the book in a week.
I glue the last clipping into place. "I feel like we should celebrate."
"It's early still," Peeta notes. "If you'd like, I could bake you some cookies to mark the occasion."
"Do you know how to bake cookies?"
He gives me a lopsided grin. "I worked at a bakery for a couple of years. I can bake practically anything."
"That would be great."
I'm puzzled, though. A baker? Delly said he was an artist.
But already he asks me what kind of cookie I'd like.
"Maybe we should take a look in the pantry to see what supplies we have on hand, first?"
After a quick inventory, Peeta suggests snickerdoodles.
I bring all the ingredients to the table, along with a bowl, a measuring cup, a wooden mixing spoon, and a rolling pin so that Peeta can work while seated. I sit beside him and watch.
To my amazement he doesn't even use the measuring cup; he just adds a heap of this and a dollop of that and presto the mixture is turned into dough.
He rolls out the dough on the tabletop and cuts the cookies out using the lip of a drinking glass turned upside town.
I clean up the kitchen and tell Peeta about my day while the cookies bake in the oven, releasing a comforting scent of cinnamon and sugar throughout the room.
Soon we are eating them and drinking milk, and taking another look through the book we've made.
"My patrons are going to love this. Your pictures are going to be a big hit. You're such a good artist."
"Thanks. It's too bad not everyone thinks that way," he says.
Before I get a chance to ask Peeta about the fool who would criticize his talent, my mother barges into the kitchen.
A look of surprise appears on her face. "You've made cookies, Katniss?"
"Would you like one?" I hold the plate out to her.
She shakes her head. "No, thank-you. And please don't drink any more milk. It has to last the week."
My face burns in embarrassment, but anger too. I've yet to receive my first paycheck from the WPA, but I fully intend to help out with expenses once I do. That's why I took the job.
"Did you come in here for a reason Mama?"
"Just to remind you that it's getting late."
Peeta picks up his glass and gulps down the last of the milk in it. He reaches for his crutches that rest against the side of the table.
"Goodnight Katniss. Pleasant dreams."
He smiles at me, gives my mother a nod, and leaves.
I stand, cover the plate with a clean dishcloth, and set the cookies into the refrigerator, before following my mother upstairs.
Not tired enough to fall asleep, I lie propped up against my pillow in bed with a book, when my mother knocks softly on the door. Before I can call out she opens it, and steps inside.
She wears her bathrobe and it hangs loose on her frame. How has my mother turned frail overnight?
I lay my book down onto my stomach. "Is something wrong Mama?"
"No, I just wanted to talk with you." Her voice is low. She shuts the door and comes closer.
"I think it would be a good idea if you paid a visit to Gale."
"Go to Frankfort right now? We can't afford for me to travel and I doubt Mr. Adkins will let me have time off since I just started.
"And we're exchanging letters, anyway."
She shakes her head. "It's not the same. Seeing Gale would bring back all the loving feelings you have for him and make you forget about…" Her voice trails off and she points a finger at the floor to the study that is beneath us.
"There's nothing going on between us."
She purses her lips. "I'm not going to argue with you Katniss. I only want you to be happy. Gale is going places. He'll be a good provider.
She points to the floorboards again. "A man who grew up in the hills in a family of lawbreakers, well, he's destined for a hardscrabble life."
Outraged at her prejudice, I defend Peeta. "You don't know anything about him.
"Just promise me you'll think about visiting Gale."
Reluctantly I agree to consider it, just to get her out of my bedroom.
It's almost as if Peeta knows about our conversation, although I don't think he could have heard us since the house has thick walls and our voices were low, but after that day he seems to take a step back in our friendship, or maybe its me who takes a step back as I remind myself that I am engaged.
Still, we complete another book for the library. This second book is meant for children. Each page has a border of alphabet letters cut from magazines. There are also magazine photos of animals and silly sketches Peeta draws about a group of children who argue over the most trivial things.
Peeta continues to recover, soon setting his crutches aside.
But one evening, nearly a month after he arrived, I come home from work to find that he is gone, without even telling me good-bye.
"Did he say where he was going next?"
"Home, I expect. Dr. Snow said his wound was healed, so he left."
My mother pulls a crumpled dollar bill from her sweater pocket. "Peeta gave us this before he went, though. It was kind of him, considering Coriolanus didn't reimburse us for any of his meals."
That is first and only nice thing my mother ever says about Peeta.
Dr. Snow stops by two days later to tell us he has another person for us to take in - Mags Russell, an elderly widow that my mother and I know well.
Mags isn't sick – just old and delicate. She needs someone to prepare her meals and make sure she eats regularly.
"Maybe you should write to Uncle Haymitch and ask him to help us out," I say to my mother after the doctor leaves. "At this rate we'll have boarders living with us forever.
My mother scowls. "Haymitch? He's no family to me. He'd moved clear across the country to Oregon when you were a baby. He ignored me when my husband died and didn't even have the decency to come to your grandparents' funeral. Just had the lawyer send him his half of the inheritance.
"Besides he's always been stingy. Even as a child. He takes after great-grandpapa who came over from Scotland."
Surprisingly my mother seems pleased that Mags has replaced Peeta in the study because the old widow is company for her. The two spend hours talking about the good old days in Dandelion when they were both healthy and wealthy.
While my job keeps me busy during the day, loneliness creeps up on me in the evenings. Perhaps my mother was right, and I allowed myself to develop a silly, little crush on Peeta, but all I know is that I miss him.
To make things worse, the letters Gale writes trouble me. He seems to spend a lot of time with Madge Undersee, the senator's daughter.
I'm not naïve enough to think that Gale has lived the life of a monk. I've heard gossip over the years. But we were only friends then; now we're engaged. I am his and he's supposed to be mine.
If my mother was right about my fond feelings for Peeta, could she also be right about another woman thinking Gale is fair game since we haven't set a wedding date?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Would it be possible to take next Friday off," I ask Mr. Adkins, in late February. "I have some personal business to attend to in the state capital."
He gives me permission, and I write Gale a letter to tell him of my trip. It will likely use up most of my recent paycheck, but I want to be sure that things are fine between us.
It's still dark when I get on the bus early Friday morning. Other passengers are picked up along the way, and by the time we roll into Frankfort, it's almost noon. The weather is cool, but the sun shines in a cloudless sky.
Gale suggested an inexpensive hotel I can lodge at for the next two nights. He is at work, but we arranged to meet for lunch at 1:30 p.m. at a diner close to the statehouse.
I drop off my suitcase at my hotel, and then head out to find the diner.
Frankfort is a busy city, streets filled with cars and sidewalks full of pedestrians - unlike sleepy Dandelion. Everyone appears purposeful as they stride down the sidewalk, while I am completely lost.
Frustrated in trying to locate the diner, I eventually go into a bakery to ask for directions. The smell of sugar and cinnamon that permeates the shop reminds me of baking cookies with Peeta.
You're engaged, you're engaged, you're engaged, I repeat to myself as I hoof it to the diner.
By the time I get there, I am starving, and doubting the wisdom of my visit altogether. I wait inside the door for Gale and study the dark stone on my ring. I haven't worn it since he left Dandelion, and it feels curious, like an encumbrance on my hand.
Gale is ten minutes late, but when he arrives I am relieved. He is the same, yet different too. But I can't put my finger on it.
He kisses my cheek and loops his arm through mine as the waitress leads us to a booth.
I sit across from him and drink in his presence. He's dressed in a dark, rumpled suit. His eyes are lined with circles.
"You must be working hard, you look tired."
He grins at me. "I am. Senator Undersee keeps me on my toes."
He describes a piece of legislation he is helping the Senator to write, but I hardly listen. I'm just soaking in the sight of my friend.
The waitress interrupts to take our order and Gale asks me about home. I tell him about Mags.
"It's nice of your mother to help her out," he says.
I had written to him briefly about Peeta staying with us, describing him in the most vague way, hoping that Gale would assume we are taking in boarders to help with expenses.
While Gale is aware of my mother's reckless spending, I'm ashamed to tell him that we are obligated to take in Dr. Snow's patients to pay off debt my mother has accumulated.
After a sandwich, a slice of pie, and a cup of coffee, Gale tells me he must return to Senator Undersee's office.
"The senator is holding a reception that includes refreshments, at the statehouse at 5 p.m. for one of President Roosevelt's friends who is in town. I'd like you to attend and meet the senator."
He gives me directions, and then kisses me on the cheek, squeezing my hand lightly before he goes.
I walk back to the hotel to officially check in and rest up before the evening. I hardly slept the previous night because I was excited about the trip.
The room is small with a double bed, dresser, and armchair. I kick off my shoes, remove my dress and place it over the chair. I lie down in my slip to nap.
I wake up startled, think I've overslept and have missed the reception. I look to the bedside clock. It's already 4:45 p.m.
It would be nice to take a quick shower, but I don't have time. Instead I wash my face, take the pins from my hair, rearrange my braid and re-pin it up. I open my suitcase and search for something suitable to wear. I didn't know about it, though, so I didn't bring anything special.
But it dawns on me that Gale is going to the reception straight from work. I doubt anyone will be dressed up in anything other than business attire. So I put the dress I traveled in back on, shaking out the wrinkles first, and set off for the capital building.
A guard stands just inside the statehouse door. When I ask for directions to the reception Senator Undersee hosts, he tells me it's at the top of the stairs on the second floor.
"Second room to the right."
After leaving my coat at the cloakroom near the entrance, I hurry up the ornate staircase.
Gale's place of business with its marble floors, large chandeliers, and massive oil paintings of past legislators, is certainly far different than my work setting in the hills and valleys around Dandelion.
Clinking glasses and loud conversation greet me as I enter a large ballroom. Men drink, smoke, and jabber with each other. A handful of older women, likely secretaries, stand at the periphery conversing.
My eyes land on Gale immediately. He's talking to the most attractive woman in the room. She has strawberry-blonde hair that is fashionably short and stylishly arranged to curl around her face, her skin is as smooth as porcelain, and her eyes are a pale shade of blue.
But it isn't her beauty that catches my eye first. No, it's her outfit. She wears an expensive party dress with a full skirt and a bodice made of sparkly fabric. In comparison, every other woman in the room looks like a frump.
Suddenly, I feel out of place in my out-of-style dress that is wrinkled from the long bus ride and my out-of-fashion long hair that is pinned up on my head.
Taking a deep breath, I walk over to my fiancé. I tug at his sleeve to catch his attention, so engrossed is he in conversation.
He tilts his head to look down at me. "You're late Katniss. Our guest of honor has already come and gone."
"I took a nap and overslept."
"Well I'm glad you made it. I'd like to introduce you to Madge Undersee, the senator's daughter."
I give her an innocent smile, all the while studying her carefully.
She sizes me up as well, including the ring on my left hand.
"Madge, this is my fiancée Katniss."
"How are you liking Frankfort?" Her voice sounds like a cat's purr, soft and cunning.
"Fine, I've only been here a few hours."
Gale reaches for my arm. "Excuse me Madge, I'm going to get Katniss something to eat."
He leads me away to a long table at the back of the room where there is a feast waiting. Platters with different kinds of breads, sliced meats, cheeses, tiny cakes and cookies. It's been a long while since I'd seen so much food in a single spot.
"You said there would be refreshments," I exclaim, eager to forget about Madge. "This is dinner."
We both pile our plates high. I follow Gale to the bar that is set up in the corner of the room where a man dressed in a suit mixes drinks.
I rarely imbibe. My mother doesn't keep liquor in the house - she's still upset about the end of Prohibition - but I accept a glass of wine.
Gale asks for a mixed drink, I've never heard of. He offers me a sip and my throat burns as it goes down.
There are a few tables set up at one end of the room. We find a spot and sit down. Our meal is interrupted numerous times as Gale introduces me to people passing by.
"You know a lot of people."
"Senator Undersee has his fingers in a lot of pies."
When we're done eating, Gale walks me around to meet even more people, including his boss.
"You've been hiding her from us," the senator says to Gale.
"So when's the wedding?" Senator Undersee asks.
"We haven't set a date yet," I mutter.
Gale changes the conversation. "Katniss works for the WPA in the library pack horse program."
The senator's eyebrow's rise and he questions me about my job. We talk for a long time, but when we stop I realize that Gale has left my side. He stands a few feet away, again engaged in conversation with the senator's daughter.
The reception is over by seven o'clock. Gale and I walk down the steps of the statehouse.
"I didn't have anything else planned for this evening. Want to see a movie?"
"All right."
We stroll to the business section of town.
The marquee for the first theater we pass is for a Shirley Temple movie, Poor Little Rich Girl.
The child actress' movies are entertaining, my mother certainly likes them as she says Shirley reminds her of Primmie as a child, still I'm willing to continue our walk and look for a different movie.
But Gale reaches for my arm and pulls me into line. "It's starting in a few minutes."
I don't' argue since he's paying for my ticket, but I wonder at his selection.
The story is the usual Shirley Temple plot – a rich child wanders away from her governess and meets up with some show people who get her a job on the radio. Through a series of coincidences, she is reunited with her father.
I'm entertained and even smile at Shirley's big tap dance number at the end.
"Didn't know you were into Shirley Temple movies," I tease as we leave the theater.
"I've been to a couple. Madge likes Shirley Temple."
My head jerks back at his comment. "Do you go to the movies with the Senator's daughter often?"
He never mentioned it in any of his letters to me.
"Twice," he says. "She was going to go with her father, but he couldn't make it. He asked me to take her instead."
A wave of anger washes over me. Gale is my fiancé. Why is he going to the movies with Madge?
Before I can stop myself, the words spring out. "Do you think that's appropriate behavior for an engaged man?"
My mother's voice sounds in my ears, reminding me of my friendship with Peeta. But that was completely different I tell myself.
"I knew you wouldn't like it," Gale replies. "That's why I didn't tell you. But I didn't have much choice. I don't want the Senator to take a disliking to me."
"Do you think Senator Undersee would fire you for not entertaining his daughter?"
That's absurd. How could Gale even think that?
"He wouldn't fire me. But I want to stay on his good side. Anyway it probably won't happen again, now that he's met you."
Somehow that knowledge doesn't comfort me.
A thought occurs to me. "Doesn't Madge have a beau? She's very pretty."
Gale's flushes. "She used to date the Senator's old assistant, the one I replaced."
A suspicious line of thinking comes to mind. Does Madge make it a habit to become involved with men that work for her father? Was that the reason Gale was so eager to become engaged to me before he left for Frankfort – because the senator preferred to hire an assistant who was unavailable to his daughter?
"Did Madge and the other assistant have a falling out?" I ask Gale, attempting to feel out the situation.
"I'm not sure. But I know she's sad over the breakup."
"And you've been trying to cheer her up?"
We arrive at my hotel. Gale reaches for my hand and pulls me around to face him. "It's not like that Katniss. I'm engaged to marry you. Not Madge."
I think now would be a good moment for him to declare his love for me. To tenderly claim my lips and confirm that I am his.
But instead he says, "Wouldn't it be something if we had a daughter that looked just like Shirley Temple?"
The chances of the two of us with our straight, dark hair making a blonde, curly-haired daughter is against the odds. He'd have a better chance of producing a child like that if he married Madge Undersee.
Besides, with all the affection he's shown to me, I wonder if our marriage will ever get so far as to result in a pregnancy.
Gale kisses my forehead. He tells me he has to work Saturday morning, but will stop by the hotel at noon to pick me up for lunch.
I lie awake a long time wondering why I am engaged to Gale. He is a friend. I am comfortable around him. But there is no passion between us.
It didn't bother me before, but now it does, and I can't for the life of me figure out why.
Unfortunately, I wake up early with a lot of time to kill. I decide to take a long walk to clear my head of the growing doubts about my engagement. A few miles later, I come to the conclusion that I must try harder to make things work.
I pick up a postcard at a shop, and go the post office to purchase a stamp and write a brief note to Primmie telling her about my short trip.
The post office reeks of paint fumes and I comment on it to the clerk who sells me the stamp.
"Look around the corner," she says. "The government has funded a mural for our building. The painter is working on it now."
I leave the counter to take a look. The long wall across from the postal boxes has been marked off and primed white.
A man stands on a ladder. He's dressed in a white jumpsuit and wears a white cap. His back is to me as he sketches an outline in charcoal. The scene reminds me of the landscape around Dandelion, the hill country and the creeks that wind through the valleys below.
The painter climbs carefully down the ladder. He turns and my heart pounds when I catch sight of his profile as he moves the ladder a few feet along the wall.
Why is Peeta in Frankfort working for the WPA?
Author's Note: President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the 32nd president of the United States. He served from 1933 until his death in 1945.
Shirley Temple was a child actress who made movies during The Great Depression. She was American's number one box office star from 1935 to 1938. She was famous for her curly, blond hair, and her ability to sing and tap dance.
Most of the post office art were funded, not through the WPA, but through commissions under the Treasury Department's Section of Painting and Sculpture, a successor agency to the Public Works of Art Project. For the purposes of this fictional story, Peeta is painting a post office mural in 1936. In truth, the painting of murals in post offices did not begin until 1937 and continued until 1941. More than 1,100 artists, including Stuart Davis, Jackson Pollock, and Arshile Gorky, worked for the WPA.