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Marta didn’t know what she had been expecting.
She stood in the narrow hallway of a quiet apartment building, the city noise muffled behind brick and old radiators. Her hand was still half-raised from knocking on the blue painted door, when it swung open.
Marta blinked.
An older man stood in the doorway, and stared back at her.
He was tall, with mostly grey hair that was thick and slightly unruly, with a slight dusting of what looked like flour in it.
And then there was the pink apron, and jar of sugar in his right hand.
Marta’s brain stalled.
This wasn't at all what she had been expecting.
“I-”
The man smiled warmly. “Good Afternoon," he greeted in a smooth english accent. "Can I help you?”
Marta stared at him, and opened her mouth, only to close it again.
She needed to say something.
Her brain finally caught up, allowing her to try again.
“I um...hi.” She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I’m Marta. Marta Cabrera. I-”
Immediate recognition crossed the man’s face. “Oh!” He smiled. “Marta, of course.” He stepped back and pulled the door open. “Please come in. Benoit told me that you would be stopping by. Lunch, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Marta nodded. “Yes, lunch. He-he said-”
“Well then, you’re exactly where you ought to be.” He gestured her inside. “Come in. I’m Phillip.”
Marta nodded again, and stepped through the doorway. “I’m Marta,” she said again.
He chuckled kindly, and closed the door. “Blanc!” He called over his shoulder. “Your guest has arrived.”
Benoit’s familiar southern drawl came back from another room deeper in the apartment. “I’m comin’! Give me a minute!”
Marta shoved her hands deep into her pockets and looked around the apartment.
It was warm and cozy. Lived in.
Sunlight spilled in through wide windows, catching on soft rugs and wooden furniture that was worn smooth by years of use. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed full but somehow organized. And photograph covered a vasat majority of the walls.
Marta moved before she realized that she was, and stepped closer to the wall closest wall to get a better look.
The first she looked at was of what had to be a young Benoit and Phillip, laughing somewhere that looked like a beach. The next was the two of them dressed sharply, arms linked at a gallery. And then a photo that made Marta’s chest tighten: both men older, dressed in elegant suits, hands clasped while the two of them stood under an archway. It had to be their wedding.
Marta stared at that one for a long moment.
She had assumed Benoit was married, or at least in some sort of relationship. But she hadn't known...hadn’t realized...
But now that she did, it made sense.
Everything made sense.
She moved on to the other photos, of holidays, vacations, and quiet moments.
Intimate moments of a life well lived.
“Tea?" Phillip asked. "I’ve just put a kettle on. I'm afraid it's an occupational hazard of being British.”
Marta turned, just as he disappeared into the kitchen. “Yes, please.” She followed him into a brightly lit kitchen that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
Phillip set the jar of sugar down, brushed his hands on his apron, and gestured toward a stool at the counter. “Make yourself comfortable. Benoit was just in his study, he’ll be out in a moment. He gets… focused.”
“Yes. I, uh, noticed.”
Phillip chuckled and placed a mug in front of her. “Is Peppermint okay?”
“Yes.”
He brought the kettle and a tea bag over. “Honey?”
Marta watched him pour the water over the bag, and curled her hands around the mug. “No, thank you.”
Phillip nodded, and set the kettle back on the stove before returning to his baking. “How was your trip?" He asked, as he measured flour into the mixing bowl. “Ben told me you were traveling in from upstate Boston. The city hasn’t scared you off yet, I hope.”
“No,” Marta smiled and shook his head. “It’s nice. Busy. Different. I like it.”
“Good, good. That’s good. Different is good. It keeps things interesting.”
She laughed softly, feeling herself relax slightly as some of the shock wore off.
Benoit had revealed next to nothing about his personal life, and it felt odd to be sitting in his kitchen watching his husband bake.
“How long have you been with him?” She asked before she could stop herself.
“Oh, with Ben?” He paused in dumping a teaspoon of nutmeg into the bowl. “We’ve been together since we were young. We met in college and have been together since. We got married about 14 years ago when it became legal in the state of New York." He glanced across the kitchen at another photograph that looked to have been taken at their wedding as well. "In total it’s been 35 years. Coming up on 36.”
Marta nodded slowly. “Wow. That’s...that’s amazing.”
Phillip smiled, and dumped the nutmeg into the bowl. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he?”
“No.” She shook her head. “He barely said anything about his personal life.”
“That sounds about right. He’s terribly protective.”
Marta nodded again. “I imagine.” She looked down at her tea. “You seem to have lived a..a lovely life together.”
“We have. It’s not always been easy, but we’ve always found ways to be happy.” He turned on the mixer, and turned to look at her. “Ben told me a bit about your case, and how you inherited everything from Harlan Thrombey. Have you adjusted?”
“It’s still a work in progress,” Marta admitted.
“I imagine. Ben told me how much of a shock it was.”
“Yeah...”
“You know it’s very rare that Benoit invites a former...client over. He must have really liked you.”
Marta stared at him in surprise. She hadn't considered that before. “Oh.”
Footsteps suddenly came from down the hall, before Benoit appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in a long shirt with his sleeves rolled up, dark pants and a nice vest.
“Marta!” He smiled brightly. “The good nurse. You found us.”
She smiled back at him, immediate warmth flooding through her. “I did.”
“And you’ve uh-you’ve met Phillip.”
Marta nodded, and glanced at the other man. “I have, and he’s lovely. This apartment is lovely. Everything is lovely.”
Benoit smiled, almost relieved. “I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
He clapped his hands together and looked around the kitchen. “Lunch.” He turned to the fridge and pulled out a plate of sandwiches and a vegetable tray. “Please. Eat.” He settled next to her. “Tell me about your life since we parted ways. What have you been up to?”
Marta looked at Benoit and then glanced at Phillip who continued to mix whatever he was making.
“Oh don’t worry about him. He’ll grab a sandwich when he’s done.”
“Right.” She nodded and picked up a sandwich.
“Tell me about the inheritance. Have you settled into it?”
Marta hesitated for a moment, before shrugging. “It’s still strange. I don’t think it’ll ever feel normal. I kept the house, but I didn’t want it to become this…monument. I’ve been fixing it up. Helping my family. Making sure no one can take advantage of my mom.” She smiled faintly. “I hired lawyers. Good ones.”
Benoit beamed at her. “Good. Now that is my favorite genre of justice.”
“You like all genres of justice, dear” Phillip said.
“True. But I do prefer justice that leads to good old fashion...justice.”
Phillip chuckled and poured the batter from the mixing bowl into a sheet pan. “What’s next for you?” He looked at Marta. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I’ve been volunteering,” she said. “Community health clinics. Translation work. And…I’ve been studying again. Expanding my knowledge in nursing.” She glanced down at her sandwich. “I want to do something good with what I have.”
“Good for you,” Benoit said.
Phillip glanced between them fondly. “You know,” he said, “Benoit talks about you like you’re a chapter that changed the whole book.”
Benoit cleared his throat and glanced at his husband. “Phillip-”
“Oh hush.” Phillip grabbed the sheet pan and placed it in the oven. “You and I both know that you talked for weeks about the good nurse who came out on top. She deserves to know.”
Benoit sighed exaggeratedly.
Marta smiled as gratitude and embarrassment rushed through her.
They finished lunch, while the smell of cake began to fill the kitchen. Conversation drifted from stories of past trips, to Phillip teasing Benoit about his dramatic retellings of cases, and Benoit countering with exaggerated indignation.
It was light and affectionate, but also deeply settled.
Marta relaxed easily into the emotion of the room, and the ease of the relationship in front of her. They were nothing like any of the relationships that the Thrombey’s had flaunted.
It was wholesome.
Refreshing.
And Marta slowly began to feel the weight that had settled on her shoulders since the case wrapped up, start to lift. The grief that had wrapped itself around her heart loosened slightly as she watched the two men in front of her.
Benoit caught her gaze and winked, before leading the conversation into what Marta needed to see first in the City.