"Did you give her the strudel?" I ask when Peeta and I are alone in the kitchen the next day.
He shakes his head.
"Peeta, I'm sure she would have appreciated it." I pause, thinking of Katniss's mother. Another thought crawls into my consciousness. "You asked why her mother went with the coal miner, didn't you? Well, I don't think it matters now, but she never knew I had a thing for her. I was always too shy to approach her and talk. Don't let that happen to you or she might slip away."
He's quiet, absorbing what I've said. That I too was shy. That it cost me. After a moment, his eyes train on my hands as they knead dough for tomorrow's loaves. Forward and back, push and pull. The waves of heat emitted from the ovens plaster his curls to his forehead and little pearls of sweat form on his upper lip.
"Can I try?"
I nod, giving him a small chunk. After explaining the difference between using the heel of your hand and the fingers, I let him have a go. He's not bad and I make a mental note to have him help me with the kneading when he's old enough. My strength, my shyness, and his mother's perseverance.
Not a bad combination.
Fall turns to winter turns to spring turns to summer and then back to fall. The seasons march on, as do we. I was right about Peeta being a natural born baker. He spends most of his free time apprenticing me. Years later, his face still lights up when I show him a new way to mold or a technique for piping. Like it is for me, the kitchen is a safe place - so different from the coal-stained world outside. The warmth, the smell... it's not hard to fall in love with it.
All my children are great bakers, come to think of it. Raw talent, I suppose. But there is one thing that Peeta outshines everyone else in the kitchen - even me. He frosts his first cake when he's nine years old and we're all so shocked at it's beauty (even his mother although she tries not to show it) that it becomes his unspoken job. The older boys don't have the patience to frost, and my hands are old. They shake sometimes and lines turn to squiggles. But Peeta has the steadiest strokes I've ever seen. The window is stunning when filled with his creations. It's just too bad that most people can't afford to buy them.
His steady hand reflects his personality. Even and patient. He's also quite resourceful. Peeta's figured out how to slip away from his mother when she's in a mood. He doesn't like it when she starts yelling and usually finds an excuse to leave until she's worn herself out. But sometimes, there's no way out of my wife's hurricanes. I see the places where her angry hands have hurt our children, the way they skirt around her, how they're afraid to make a mistake.
Like his brothers, Peeta is dead terrified of his mother, but there's also a shadow of something else. I don't quite know what it is, but he's the first to say something to me about it. When he's about eleven, I see he's sporting a black eye.
"Did you get into a fight?" I ask.
He shakes his head and continues towards his room. He doesn't have to say anything, but I know. He's taken another beating from his mother. I try to turn a blind eye towards the way she mistreats our children. I'm not good with confrontation; I'll only make things worse. Maybe even get beat myself. It may be the cowardly thing to do, but it's how I keep the balance.
Halfway up the stairs, Peeta stops and turns around. "Why don't you ever say anything?" he mutters. His voice is unusually bitter.
Keeping my eyes on the ground, I don't answer. How can I? Should I apologize? Tell him I'm sorry that I try to keep myself safe too? When my wife gets angry, there's nothing anyone can do. It's the years of suffering and pain that come through. Agonizing, silent minutes pass and then, I hear my son turn and continue to his room.
After that, there's a definite coolness between us, as if he no longer completely trusts me. I know I've failed him.