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Benoit Blanc got home three days after the entire debacle in Greece. As he took the elevator home, he wondered whether Miles Bron would face the consequences for his actions. Wealthy men seldom did. It had not been a good case intellectually but watching the Glass Onion burn down had been cathartic.
He got out of the elevator, and turned towards his apartment. He noticed that the Monstera (or Toby, according to Phillip) had grown slightly larger and was as green as when he'd left home. They'd received Toby as a thank you-present after plant-sitting for a neighbour and her wife. At his door, retrieving his keys from his pocket, he smiled at the door sign declaring "Phillip and Benoit Blanc" with pretty lavenders surrounding the words. His mother had painted his childhood chalk board to be a door sign as a house-warming present. He walked through the door and was putting on his fluffy kitten slippers when Phillip walked up to him and kissed him.
"You're back. How did it go?"
Blanc noticed a dusting of flour on Phillip's forehead. The house smelled of cinnamon and sugar with a hint of citrus. "Not good. There was a murder and an attempted murder, the entire system of consequences depends on whether a bunch of morally compromised shitheads will lie in court for the truth, and the Louvre doesn't have a Mona Lisa to house anymore. Are you baking cinnamon rolls?"
Walking towards the kitchen with Blanc, Phillip said, "And making marmalade. River got us oranges from a local farm. They are absolutely lovely and I'm so glad they moved in to the building last month. Is Helen doing okay? She was such a lovely girl and I hope she's faring well. Also, what is this about the Mona Lisa?" He bent to retrieve the freshly baked rolls from their oven. It had been a vintage, and Blanc and Phillip had walked through countless thrift stores and flea markets over months before finding the perfect oven and stove and refrigerator. They were all a vibrant turquoise yet somehow fit perfectly with the rest of the home. Phillip's collection of cast iron pans hung proudly above the stove, and the beautiful collection of cookbooks from countless independent book stores around the world was displayed in a pretty book rack beside Blanc's coffee machine.
"Helen seems to be doing fine. She got to avenge her sister's death, and got to destroy everything Miles Bron stood for, and she didn't have to depend on the courts for it. It was cathartic to watch the house burn down. And, she set the Mona Lisa on fire. He's a dumb, dumb man and I'm glad his stupid fuel set his entire credibility ablaze," Blanc said, as he plated two cinnamon rolls. Phillip was placing his marmalade by the rest of the preserves he'd made over quarantine.
In the living room, as they sat on the couch, Blanc took inventory of his succulents and cacti. He also noticed that the plants in the balcony looked healthy and had all flowered beautifully. Phillip was eating the cinnamon roll with great gusto, and said "The house must have been beautiful."
"Not really, my darling. It was very cold," Blanc said, as he bit into his roll.
He'd initially thought the Glass Onion was an architectural marvel, and it was definitely a beautiful house. But he now wondered if Bron ever felt at home there. Blanc looked around his own home and smiled at how everything had some story to it. The throw on the couch was from a trip to Morocco. There were picture frames from trips they'd taken and accolades they'd received. The ottoman reminded him of the countless hours at the flea market they'd spent together. They'd always ended those days by going to a quaint restaurant, irrespective of whether it was a successful thrift or not. He looked at the painting above the dining room. A friend had painted that and gifted it to Blanc, just before they'd succumbed to the disease in the 80s. He thought of the quilt Phillip's mother had given them. It wasn't perfectly shaped but was perhaps the most comfortable blanket they owned. He thought of the leather jackets and tartan skirts from Phillip's punk days, and his own feather boas and flapper dresses from when he vogued. Blanc wondered if Bron's upside down Rothko gave him any memories other than writing a cheque. He thought of Bron's room with the glass monstrosities and wondered what value they held. He wondered if Bron would ever want the Mona Lisa if some art dealers somewhere hadn't decided it was a status symbol. Bron was a shallow, shallow man and Blanc was disappointed that people like that even existed.
He sighed, and then smiled to Phillip, "Tell me more about River. They seem nice. How was your week here?"