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Back in the living room, Mr. Benz had changed, too. He wasalso wearing sweatpants, and Mr. Benz wassonot a sweatpants kind of person. Even better, on top he was wearing a Taylor Swift 1989 World Tour sweatshirt.
She failed to contain a snicker as she sat on one end of the sofa.
“My brother is an aficionado of popular music,” he said with a touch of indignance.
“Not just an aficionado, a scholar,” Armend said, with the same tone of affront. The two brothers were near-clones, differentiable only by age. Armend transferred his attention from Mr. Benz, whom he’d been glaring at, to Cara. “I am studying music engineering, and I want to be a music producer, so I immerse myself in pop music. Where are you from in the United States?”
“New York.”
He seemed pleased by that answer. “Have you ever been to Los Angeles?”
“I have. In fact, I’ve spent several weeks at a time there, a few times over.”
That pleased him even more, and he proceeded to interrogate her about the merits of New York versus Los Angeles, stopping only when his sister interjected with “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
Mr. Benz paled. Instantly. All the color evaporated from his face.
“Just kidding!” Martina trilled. She turned to Mr. Benz. “I have this new method for getting Armend to stop talking. I say something really dramatic, and the conversation grinds to a halt.”
Everyone laughed, including Mr. Benz, but he added, “While your strategy may be effective in the short-term, you should consider the longer-term potential for harm, namely, giving your other brother a stroke.”
“Oh, you love babies.” Martina waved dismissively and turned to Cara. “You should see him with our older sister’s children. He turns into that emoji with the hearts for eyes.”
“Martina,” Mr. Benz scolded, but there wasn’t much fire in it.
It was hard to imagine Mr. Benz getting gooey over a baby, but then, an hour ago, she would have said it was hard to imagine Mr. Benz growing up in an apartment with a Britney Spears–playing brother and a practical-joking sister.
“How are you finding Eldovia, Cara?” Inge asked when she returned from the kitchen with a tray containing a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies with perfect little dots of red jam in the middle of them. “I understand you’re here to drag Morneau into the twenty-first century?”
“Eldovia is lovely.” It was. The people were warm—Imogen, for example, was becoming a real friend, and was someone Cara would miss when she went home. “And so... Christmasy.”
“Yes. It can seem a bit much, but I try to remember the meaning behind Christmas—a time to be with family, treat oneself a bit, count one’s blessings.”
She sounded like Cara’s mom. “That’s a good way of thinking of it.” She accepted a cup of tea, but Mr. Benz waved away the one his mother offered to him and got up and went to the window.
“How is it out there?” Cara asked.
“It’s still coming down in earnest. I’ll call the inn. No point in setting out in this unless they have a room.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here, Cara?” Inge asked. “You’d be most welcome.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“It’s no trouble,” Martina said. “I’ll bunk in with my mother,and you can have my room. And then Armend can interrogate you about Los Angeles. Really, you’ll be doing him a favor.”
“But where will you sleep?” she asked Mr. Benz.
“My old room—Armend and I used to share a room.” He shot an affectionately exasperated look at his brother. “Assuming my bed can be excavated from beneath your recording equipment.”
It didn’t take much to convince Cara. It was so warm and cozy here, which was only partly to do with the apartment. Mr. Benz’s family was so welcoming, and so clearly fond of one another. Being with them reminded Cara of being at home.
After more lively conversation and a light dinner, Inge declared it bedtime, and Cara followed the family down the hall. Martina’s room was across from Armend’s. Cara hovered awkwardly in the hallway between them, her offers to help Martina strip and remake the bed rebuffed. Armend was moving stuff around inside his room and came out to set some speakers in the hallway.
“You know, Armend,” she said, deciding to start earning her keep, “early in my career, I worked on a project at EMI in Los Angeles.”
His head jerked up like a dog’s upon hearing a silent whistle. “Youdid?”
“Yes, it wasn’t as exciting as it sounds. It was related to how their A&R people kept track of contacts with artists they were scouting.”
