He tries to get by without fanfare, but I squash that plan like a bug. He is the unofficial official king of celebrating birthdays, and this year I am determined to finally out do him. Since he refuses to conveniently forget my birthday, this year I invite everyone we even remotely socialize with to dinner. Everyone is under strict orders that it is to remain a surprise, and he doesn't seem to have any clue that I have something planned.
Glad for an excuse to stay out of the sweltering heat for the day, I skip hunting and enlist Greasy Sae's help. Even Hazelle offers a hand as she sees Greasy Sae and I loaded down with baskets full of food as we take the back paths through town to avoid being within sight of the bakery. Though I feel guilty accepting her help, we gladly take it. Greasy Sae hands over a woven basket and a cloth bag.
Our little party treks through, down and up the front path to my house. We pass by Haymitch lounging on his front porch. Legs propped up on the railing, he tilts on the back two legs of his chair with a hat tilted down over his head. Seeing our trio shuffling down the street past him, he makes no offer to help. Instead, he offers only the advice, "Try not to poison the boy too much, Sweetheart."
I remind him that he's attending dinner and to perhaps worry about his own plate instead. But I'm so out of breath and over exerted that my threat falls idly as he laughs.
Buttercup darts in and out of everyone's legs, excited at the prospect of fresh food. "Don't even think about it," I warn him, shooing him away with a gentle shove of my leg as I try not to trip over him. I make a mental note to keep an eye on him throughout the evening. He is prone for daring attempts at food from the table, as the last thing I need is for him to make a diving leap while we have company over.
In the kitchen, we divide and conquer with amazing efficiency. We work with hardly any spoken dialogue as we maneuver around each other in the vast kitchen. Hazelle chops while Greasy Sae stirs. I stare down at the abomination in the mixing bowl, my shoulder already aching. I will not be defeated, not this time. I will bake this blasted cake, and it will be delicious. I send these thoughts silently to the batter with each turn of the wooden spoon, as if I can bend my words into truth by simply repeating my plea over and over in my head.
It takes us all day, yet it seems far too early when people start to trickle into the house. When I glance at the clock, my heart hammers in my chest realizing the time. Checking the oven, I immediately turn it off and pull the cake out. Sidetracked by the fruit salad, I'd almost lost track of it, which would have been a disaster. As it is, it looks a little browner than it should be.
Feeling hopeless, I turn to face Hazelle as I carry it toward the only vacant space on the counter. "Don't worry, dear," she says kindly, "he's going to love it."
My shoulders sag a bit as I set it down and pull off the oven mitts. I've done the best I can. There's nothing else I can do for it now except smother it with a sweet buttercream icing and hope it masks any off flavors.
As the cake cools, I make an entrance into the sitting room where people stand, lean, and sit casually about. One person in particular sticks out in the crowd. Her snow white hair, though the most muted color to date, is a stark contrast to the natural colors around her. I will admit, though, that her outfit is much more subtle than usual. If it weren't for the hair and the touch of vivid makeup, I would almost say she looks normal.
"Effie!" I exclaim in surprise and delight. "I didn't know you were going to make it." I'd sent her an invitation as a long shot, never once thinking she would come. My eyes immediately scan the crowd for any sign of publicity, but it appears she is off duty and solely here as a friend. My shoulders relax.
"Oh, look at you." Effie beams as she extends her arms and lets me pull her into a hug.
Naturally, I scoff at her comment. Flour has left white smears about the front of my shirt and even in a few spots on my pants. And, no doubt, I have hardened batter in my hair. I'm surely an unsightly visual, but there's no time to change now that so many people have already arrived. "You are too kind," I tell her gravely. I give her an extra squeeze for comfort before I pull away. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"Yes, well," she daintily clears her throat, "I apologize profusely for not sending word ahead of time." The mere thought of such terrible manners deeply offends her. "I thought I would be tied up, but my schedule cleared at the last moment and I found myself on the next hover out."
A change in her schedule must have left her an absolute wreck, but she looks pulled together. I chat as much as I can but find myself drawn to check in on the kitchen soon. As I move to open the door, Greasy Sae pushes it open with her back. Taking a few steps back, I give her room to pass through the entryway and swing around to face me. She startles a bit, but quickly recovers. "Don't be silly," she tells me as I move to pass her into the kitchen. "Go socialize with the guests. Hazelle and I will handle the kitchen for the rest of the evening."
I protest that she doesn't have to, but she insists. I remind her about icing the cake, and she reluctantly lets me pass as she carries a tray of appetizers toward the sitting area.
As soon as I'm done icing the cake, Hazelle shoos me from the kitchen. I thank her profusely, but she waves it off without a thought. As I return to the guests, I am filled with intense emotion. These two women have spent the entire day away from their families to help me with something as trivial as a party. I don't think I'll ever deserve them. Especially not Hazelle. She doesn't owe me anything, and yet here she is. Here they both are.
Deep in thought, I'm jarred roughly back to reality as a shout rings through the house. "Surprise!" everyone yells collectively. Shocked by the outburst, I look up to see Peeta standing in the front doorway. He looks surprised indeed. With a wide grin, he laughs aloud. His eyes rove the room until they land on me. When they do, he gestures me towards him with a few successive curls of his index finger.
Like a guilty child, I weave my way through the crowd. I feel everyone's eyes on me as they watch with bated breath, wondering what his reaction will be. I sink a bit into my heels just as I reach him. "Happy birthday?" I try. Several people close by chuckle.
"Well, aren't you the crafty one," he replies, pulling me to him and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Not to be rude to all our guests, but I do hope there will be dinner at this party. It's been a long day and I'm famished."
Laughter fills the air, defusing the slight tension. Peeta turns to greet the closest person as soon as he closes the door behind him. I move to pull away, but his arm wraps around my waist and holds me gently at his side. For a moment I worry. I hadn't stopped to think what effect a crowd of this size might have on him. Though Snow turned very few memories of this house against Peeta when he was hijacked, a crowd always elevates his internal struggle. Conscious that a gathering might not have been the best idea, I pay close attention as I stand beside him and chat with our guests.
As fortune would have it, the evening passes without incident. Everyone eats until a few top buttons have been released on pants and then someone hollers for cake. Several sets of eyes zero in on me and I wonder who spilled the beans about the cake. It was supposed to be a secret. Even now, I'm not sure I want to bring it out in public. But at the mention of cake, Peeta claps his hands together once, then proceeds to rub them together enthusiastically. "My favorite part about getting older."
Hands find their way to my back. Sensing my hesitation, guests usher me towards the kitchen. My feet propel me forward, and then I give in. Though Haymitch's quip this afternoon rings clear in my mind, I highly doubt the cake will be so bad as to poison anyone. I have yet to prefect anything in the kitchen at the bakery, but I've come a long way and I'm fairly certain I remembered all the ingredients to the correct portions this time.
Hazelle holds the door for me as I carry the cake out of the kitchen. I catch the look in her eyes, and it makes me involuntarily blush. Her gaze is knowing but far from judgmental. Like the way my mother used to look at me before my father died in the mines and the world forever flipped upside down.
I realize as I set the cake in the middle of the table and everyone gathers around to sing a short birthday tune that I haven't had many causes to celebrate for most of my life. Even when my father was alive, we were too poor to splurge on such delicacies as cake. And though I had always assumed Peeta ate like a prince, I know now that he probably hadn't gotten much in the way of birthday desserts growing up either. I have so much to be thankful for now that it pushes aside any bitterness I still carry with me about my circumstances growing up.
As everyone reaches the last stanza of the song, Peeta leans into me. When his lips touch the skin of my temple, I close my eyes. I vow to memorize this moment, to lock it away in my mind. I promise to hold it close, for when the darkness tries to creep in.
Haymitch is the only one who has the heart to tell me that the cake isn't very good. He takes pride in the words, even as he shovels another bite into his mouth and talks through the crumbs. Effie tsk-tsk's and shakes her head at his rudeness. It seems to do the trick, for he closes his trap and remains silent on the subject for the rest of the evening.
The congregation slowly says their good-byes until just Hazelle and Greasy Sae remain to help clean up. I insist they leave the mess to me, that they've done more than enough already, but they won't hear of it. I also strike out on convincing Effie to stay the evening since she missed the last train. It seems Haymitch's offer is more enticing.
Hazelle and Greasy Sae work with lightning speed that can only come with years of practice. I do my best to keep up but feel like I haven't come close to carrying my share of the burden from this evening. I thank them over and over again as I load them up with all the leftovers they can carry, leaving just the last few wedges of cake.
As I see them to the door and say good night, Peeta moves to the kitchen island. When I return to the kitchen to find him, he's helping himself to another slice of cake. "This is amazing," he says, a few crumbs falling from his mouth as he speaks.
Stealing the fork from his hand, I break away a piece and try it myself for the first time. My face slightly contorts as I swallow. The dry mixture catches in my throat and takes two more tries to swallow. "You are such a liar," I tell him as I hand him back his fork.
"No, I insist," he says as he takes another bite. His Adam's apple bobs and I wonder if he's having the same difficulty choking it down. "It's perfect. Thank you for the surprise dinner. And the cake. Especially the cake," he adds with emphasis, which only proves he's trying too hard to sell it. "It's the best birthday present I've ever gotten." Setting down the fork, his hands find my waist and pull me gently to him as he swivels the barstool to face me.
"I haven't even given you your present yet," I confess. Dropping my hands onto his shoulders, my fingers absentmindedly stroke the sides of his neck. "Did we actually manage to surprise you?"
With a devilish smirk he confesses, "Almost."
Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I shake his shoulders slightly in disappointment. "We tried so hard!" I complain, though I know it isn't his fault. "What gave us away?"
"Some of the girls in the bakery this afternoon were complaining that they didn't get invited to the party." Leave it to his doting fans to ruin it. "But you almost got away with it," he reminds me.
So close, but yet so far.
"So," he draws out the word into three syllables. "If none of this was my birthday present, what is?"
"It's up in the bedroom if you want to come see," I tell him.
His eyebrows perk up and a large grin splits across his face. "Really?" he asks. Drawing me closer, his pulls me down into a kiss. "Do I get to unwrap it first?" he whispers as he pulls away a fraction of an inch. His breath smells of cake and sweet wine. It makes my skin shiver.
"I don't think I wrapped it," I tell him, trying to think back. Then I recognize the way he's studying me. Gasping, I jerk back from his grasp, my cheeks flaming red in embarrassment. "No," I insist, sputtering over the word. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I guess I implied it, but honestly, I have a box under the bed-"
He laughs, pulling me back. "Katniss," he tries to say with all seriousness but his expression cracks before he can even finish my name. "It's not like we haven't done it before." With a devilish smirk, he adds, "A lot."
"I know," I tell him defensively. "I just... I didn't mean…" Words are a constant struggle. "I would never suggest…" Giving up, I sigh and just look at him.
That stupid grin still covers his face. I want to smack it off. I want to shove him and tell him that it isn't funny. But that would only make it worse and make me look more naive than I already feel. So I clamp my lips together.
"There is a box hidden under the bed upstairs with your present in it," I try again after pausing to collect myself. "If you would like to open it. Or I could just send it back on the next train."
Standing up, he spins me around and starts to push me towards the door. "Lead the way," he insists, pausing only for a moment to lean in and peck my neck sweetly.
A hand crafted box is waiting upstairs. Inside is a full set of paints and new brushes. His eyes light up when he sees it. Immediately, he proclaims to love it. I warn that they were expensive, even by our new standards, and that these particular paints should not be used for body art. He laughs and says he cannot make any promises. The wicked gleam in his eye tells me I shouldn't have even brought up the idea, that I've laid a trap for myself. And when I wish him happy birthday and tell him I love him, he pulls me to him and I willingly let myself fall into his trap.