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On the steps of a Boston courthouse stand Benoit Blanc and Marta Cabrera, huddled together under his umbrella as a drizzle falls. Hugh Ransom Drysdale has been convicted of the murder of Harlan's housekeeper Fran, the attempted murder of Miss Cabrera, and arson.
Sometimes, when she blinks, Marta sees Ransom hovering over her, his striking features warping into a frown when he realizes his murder weapon is but a toy.
A black car rolls up in front of the steps. “There’s my cab,” Marta says. She descends. Benoit follows her, continuing to shield her from the rain with his umbrella, though sacrificing his own dryness in the process. Marta reaches for the door but, before her fingers wrap around the handle, she pauses and turns to look at him.
His eyebrows, previously furrowed in contemplation, relax under her scrutiny.
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Blanc,” Marta says.
A corner of his mouth tugs upward. “It was my pleasure, Miss Cabrera. And please, call me Benoit.” His Southern drawl floats into her ears and makes her feel more at peace than she has in the last few days, what with the tension of the trial.
“Then I’m Marta to you,” she says. “I hope we can keep in touch.”
Benoit's eyes widen in surprise. “Of course. You can call me anytime at…” He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a business card, offering it to her. When she takes it, he points to the ten digits at the bottom. “This number.”
Marta looks up from the card and they exchange soft smiles.
“I think your driver is getting impatient,” he observes, not breaking eye contact with her.
The moment dissipates. “Of course. I’ll call you,” she promises, swinging the door open and dipping into the car. Benoit closes it for her. As the driver starts to pull off, she looks out the window and watches him wave her goodbye with his free hand, the other gripping the umbrella lazily and resting it on his shoulder.
~*~
The mansion, though cramped with decorative objects and full of Harlan's personality, feels incredibly empty to Marta without his presence, especially at night. There are the dogs, and her mother and sister, to make the place feel a bit less like a museum, but she still feels like an interloper in the otherwise unoccupied house.
Sometimes she pushes the door to the study open, expecting to see Harlan sitting at his desk, hard at work on another novel. She is always met with the sight of an empty chair and the smell of blood (real or imagined, she still cannot tell) as if his ghost lingers to taunt her.
When she was Harlan’s caregiver, Marta liked to stay in everyone’s good graces, never one to stand up for herself and antagonize a Thrombey. They had even started to refer to her as “part of the family." But when it really came down to it... Well, obviously they hadn't meant it.
While there's no lack of people in her life who do value her, it hurts to think that to the Thrombeys, Marta Cabrera was nothing more than a package deal with their father.
As she sits on one of the couches in the living room, Marta reaches into her pocket and pulls out the business card. Her thumb runs over the grooves of the numbers on the bottom. She remembers the warmth of Benoit's hand when he pressed the card into her palm.
Before she knows it, she’s walking quickly over to the phone, an old rotary one. She twists the dial, putting in each digit of Benoit’s number with painstaking care. After she puts in the last number, she waits anxiously while the phone starts to ring.
After two, there's a click. Her throat goes dry.
“Hello?”
At the sound of Benoit's voice in her ear, Marta calms slightly. She licks her lips nervously before announcing herself.
“Benoit? It’s Marta. Marta Ca—”
“There’s only one Marta with whom I happen to have the pleasure of being acquainted,” he interrupts warmly. “I’m glad to hear from you, Marta. How are you?”
She smiles and lets out a shaky breath. It feels nice to hear his soothing voice. She imagines momentarily what it would be like if he recorded an audiobook, his drawl taking its time with every word as if they are all worthy of the same care in their pronunciations.
“Marta?”
Her cheeks redden in embarrassment. She’d been too caught up in her own thoughts. “Yes! Sorry. I’m…” She considers lying because he’s just making small talk and doesn’t want to bother him, but she doesn’t think it’s worth the nasty taste of bile in her mouth while she continues this conversation. “I’m having a difficult time,” she admits.
Benoit’s voice adopts a concerned tone. “Are the Thrombeys still harassing you?”
Marta chuckles nervously. He shouldn’t care so much, and yet, months after the craziness of the case, it’s like they’d just seen each other yesterday. “Well, yes,” she concedes, “but that’s not the reason I called you.”
“Then why, Marta? I must know.”
She exhales to settle her nerves, and then it's surprisingly easy to get the words out. “The house feels too big for just me and my family.”
In the wake of her confession, there is a pause which almost makes her consider taking it back, before—
“I don’t want to presume, but are you asking—”
“Yes,” she says quickly, too flustered to hear him guess at her intentions. “I’m wondering if you can find it in your schedule to visit m— us some time.”
“Of course,” he says, sounding gently surprised. “I can come this weekend if that isn’t too soon.”
“Okay,” Marta breathes. Something akin to excitement flares up within her chest at his acceptance. “I’ll see you then, Benoit.”
“Until then, Marta.”
Marta carefully sets the phone onto the base, smiling despite herself. Benoit is coming.
For the first time since before Harlan’s death, she is happy.
~*~
A few days later
“Mama, Mr. Blanc is coming today,” Marta says over the eggs her mother prepared for her.
“The private investigator?” The older woman asks, pouring herself a cup of coffee from Harlan's — their rather expensive coffee maker. Marta nods.
“How do we know he’s not a weirdo?” Alice asks, settling into the chair across from Marta’s at the kitchen table.
“Alice," her mother warns.
“What? Isn’t it a fair question? We’ve never met the guy,” Alice defends, beginning to tuck into her eggs.
Marta frowns. “He’s not a weirdo. He’s an honest, kind man. And I invited him up here.”
Her sister notices the look in her eyes and relents. Marta exhales and sips her coffee. She doesn’t know why she feels the urge to defend him in front of her family. She’s sure he’ll be able to prove his honorable character to them himself.
After her mother insists that she’s fine to do the dishes, Marta busies herself by tucking into one of Harlan’s books. He left so many of them lying around that she can dabble in whatever she pleases. With every word she reads off the page she’s absorbing a memory of Harlan himself. It makes her feel a little bit less lonely.
She doesn’t know how much time she spends reading, but it must be a while because in the middle of a chapter she hears the telltale running of a car’s motor. Marta rockets up from her armchair, gently laying the book down in her seat and walking to the door. A black car sits idling in the distance. She leans against one of the supporting beams of the porch, watching a man sidle out of the car and stand to his full height. His short hair and full-rimmed glasses confirm his identity. Benoit.
He leans through the passenger-side window and says something to the driver. When he stands again, the car pulls off. Benoit turns and strides across the lawn toward the porch. When he gets closer, Marta notices a bright smile on his face, one she ends up mirroring. Finally, he climbs the steps of the porch and stops a respectful distance away from her. She almost rolls her eyes.
She takes a step toward him and wraps her arms around his neck, having to rise to her tiptoes to do so. “I’m so glad you could come, Benoit,” she says, her head tilted up to rest on his shoulder.
His hands land on her back. “It was my pleasure.”
She pushes herself gently off of him and gestures for him to follow her inside. When they enter, she turns to see Benoit sweeping the foyer with his eyes, a familiar, inquisitive expression settled in his features.
After he completes his sweep, he speaks. “So, how are things going?”
Marta shrugs. “They’re going.” Then, realizing this is an inadequate answer, she adds, “I suppose I’m making do. I found someone to run the publishing company and I’m working on getting my mother’s citizenship.”
Benoit’s brilliant white teeth show in a smile. “That’s wonderful, Marta.”
“It feels good to be doing something,” she admits. “But… once in a while, I’ll get a call, or an email, from Walt or Linda and it’ll mess up my flow.”
His expressive eyebrows tilt downward and his eyes, they might as well be searching the inner workings of her mind. God, his eyes. “I know it’s your decision, but I wouldn’t let that bother you too much,” he says. “They never deserved you. You were far too good for those cold-hearted people.”
Marta's face feels hot, and her lip quivers when she amends, “Except for Harlan.” A burning sensation takes hold beneath her eyes. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Except for Harlan,” Benoit repeats. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, and his expression softens. His arms open slowly and he whispers, “Oh, come here.”
Without hesitation, she falls into his embrace, allowing the first tears to fall. Well. She’s officially crying on one of Benoit Blanc’s expensive suits. He seems to take no issue with it, though, for he gently strokes her hair with one hand and holds her close with the other. This is nice, she thinks.
Words spill out of Marta's mouth before she can halt the flow. “He was a smart man,” she says, tears continuing to fall and soak into Benoit’s jacket. “But so impulsive. God, I can’t believe he left me with all of,” she gestures loosely to their surroundings, “this.”
“His decision might have seemed unexpected to you,” Benoit says, and the rumbling of his chest as he speaks reminds her of the waves of an ocean, “but nobody else deserved that money. And I know you’ll figure something out. You’re a damn smart woman if your help during the case was any indication.”
Her face warms at his words and she pulls away from him, looking into his eyes while she wipes her tears from her face. “I was just following you around,” she protests.
Benoit scoffs. “‘Hugh did this'? Give yourself some credit for once, Marta,” he insists.
“That’s — that’s nothing,” she argues weakly. Benoit rolls his eyes, and her face heats up again. He’s having none of her polite denials, and it frustrates her slightly, but at the same time makes her stomach feel funny. In a good way. In a butterflies-fluttering-around way.
“Come on now, Marta,” he says, sounding exasperated. “You need to stop being so humble. I thought a few million dollars might have helped effect that change.” As he says the last sentence, his face morphs into a smile, a pleading yet humorous one. Meanwhile, she can’t help but frown, her eyes starting to burn again.
“Why are you saying these things, Benoit?” She finally asks, helplessly. “Why are you being so… so good to me?”
His smile falls and his hand rises to cup her face. She leans slightly into his touch without realizing, and his thumb strokes her cheek absently.
“I'm merely speaking the truth," he says.
Marta lifts her hand to cover his, and they look into each other’s eyes, a confusing mix of emotions clouding her thoughts.
Benoit’s hand falls from her face, landing at his side lamely.
“Well,” he starts, beginning to lean away. “I suppose—”
Marta stands up on her toes and kisses him. She wants to laugh at the way his eyes widen, but instead, she focuses on his pliable lips while she rests her hands on the back of his neck for leverage. He does little to reciprocate, offering a hesitant hand on her waist. At the very least, he kisses back, offering polite pressure against her lips and making blood rush to her head.
When Marta’s calves start to ache, she settles once again on her feet, but her eyes never leave his. He still looks decently surprised.
“You are a good man,” she hears herself say. “You stood with me when everyone else wanted my head. Thank you.”
He takes a moment to respond, his breath slowing, until his tone is even, at least similar to his normal, steady voice. “It was the right thing to do.”
Marta reaches for his hand, and he takes hers without looking down between them. “You were the only person in this house that ever did the right thing,” she says, finding a new fire in her eyes.
They look into each other’s eyes for a moment, in their own private silence, until it is broken by a voice: “Marta?”
Her mother and sister stand in the doorway, mouths slightly agape.
Never too late for an introduction.