Blessing in Disguise Read online

And lonely, she thought, although she wouldn’t have dared to say it. She wondered if he had a wife or children. But there was something very solitary about him, and a sad look in his eyes when he gazed at her. The butler reappeared then and asked her with a pinched expression what she’d like to drink. She asked for water as Putnam walked her out to the terrace and invited her to sit down. He had put the wrapped painting on a desk in the living room and seemed in no hurry to open the package, nor to have Isabelle leave, now that her mission was accomplished. And he made her feel it would be rude if she left immediately. The view was spectacular, and he watched Isabelle with pleasure as she looked out to sea.

  “What brought you to Paris?” he asked, curious about her. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He had thought she was someone’s niece helping at the gallery for the summer. Instead she turned out to be a surprisingly poised, very pretty young American, whom he had begun to suspect was older than she looked. Initially, he had liked the idea of a young summer intern delivering the painting so he wouldn’t be obliged to get trapped in conversation with one of the regular gallery employees, which was why he had asked for her. And this enchanting young woman had appeared, and he was enjoying talking to her instead of fleeing, as he normally did.

  They sat on the terrace in the sun, chatting for an hour and looking peacefully out to sea. When he asked, she told him about her year at the Sorbonne and growing up in Newport, at the Vanderbilt cottage. She explained that as a child, she had been surrounded by great luxury, without really being part of it. He said it sounded like the movie Sabrina, and she laughed at the idea, and said there had been no son to fall in love with, and her father wasn’t a chauffeur, he was a museum curator turned property manager. She had always thought he’d go back to working in a museum when she was older and went to college, but he was happy where he was, and grateful to his employers for the life they had provided for him and his daughter for fifteen years. He enjoyed living on the property, and his time outdoors overseeing the groundskeepers, not just the art collection.

  “You’ve had a very interesting life, Miss Isabelle McAvoy,” Putnam said, once he asked her name. He was intrigued by her. She seemed at ease in his environment and undaunted by him, while still respectful, and knowing her place.

  He invited her to stay for lunch, much to the butler’s amazement. Putnam never invited anyone to lunch and preferred to spend his time alone, reading or walking on the beach. He had a small sailboat he took out by himself, and told her he was an experienced sailor, from his Cape Cod summers as a boy and young man. The butler knew that a boating accident had brought him to France initially, but he knew no more than that. While they shared the simple but delicious meal of cold chicken and a big green salad that the cook had prepared for them, Putnam told Isabelle that he was an only child of older parents and had been left to his own devices and was very solitary in his youth. He mentioned that his parents had been very cold, and it sounded sad to her, unlike her very affectionate father who had lavished time and love on her, and she felt sorry for Putnam and the life he described. After his brief references to his early years, their entire conversation during lunch was about art, which was a safe subject. He showed her some of his favorite paintings after that, and then they looked at the small painting she’d brought.

  “I think I’ll keep her,” he said pensively. “I’ll put her in my bedroom.” There was nothing suggestive about the way he said it, it was simply the musing of an avid collector. Isabelle was relieved that he didn’t offer to show her his bedroom. She had no sense during lunch that he was flirting with her. He just seemed like a lonely man who wanted someone to talk to, and they shared common interests. He had been to the Vanderbilt cottage, before she was even born. During lunch he had told her he was forty-seven years old, but he seemed ageless to Isabelle, as though he was suspended between his old world and his new one, and time had stopped for him. He had come to France at twenty-five and hadn’t been back to the States since. He said he had no desire to return to Boston. His parents had died years before, he had no siblings, wasn’t close to his other more distant relatives, and his life at the château suited him perfectly. He admitted to being a recluse, and didn’t seem to regret it. Once they’d looked at the painting the gallery had sent him, she said she ought to leave. It was four o’clock by then, and she mentioned wanting to get the car back before the gallery closed.

  He walked her to her car, and she thought he looked melancholy as he said goodbye to her, and then in a soft voice, he said, “I really enjoyed your visit. Thank you for coming,” as though she’d had a choice in the matter and had accepted an invitation.

  “Thank you for lunch, and for letting me stay so long,” she said, smiling at him, and meant it. Talking to him had been fascinating, and she was planning to tell her father all about it the next time they spoke. “I’m glad you’re keeping the painting. She’s so pretty, she belongs here.” He smiled in answer and watched her go, and waved as she turned into the driveway. Then he walked into the château, thinking about her. Her visit had been like a breath of fresh air. He went down to the beach after that, and took off in his sailboat. She had brought back memories for him, some of which he wanted to forget. Being alone in his boat on the sea always cleared his head.

  * * *

  —

  When she got back to the gallery, Isabelle told them that Mr. Armstrong had decided to keep the painting, and they were very pleased.

  “We thought you’d run away with the car,” Monsieur Pontvert’s assistant teased her, but they had in fact been concerned that something might have happened to her, and the painting. It was small but valuable.

  “He had me wait while he made up his mind,” she said simply, not wanting to explain that they’d spent the afternoon together. She suspected they wouldn’t have approved of that.

  “I hope the butler gave you something to eat at least.” He was never pleasant to the employees they sent to deliver paintings, so she thought it unlikely.

  “They gave me lunch.” She didn’t want to tell them either that she’d had lunch with Putnam on the terrace, and they might not have believed her, nor approved.

  The gallery closed shortly after that, and she went back to her small student room on the Left Bank, thinking of the day she had spent with Putnam, and how pleasant it had been. His home reminded her a little of the Vanderbilts’ cottage. There was something familiar about it. It had been an interesting detour from her usual job, and something to remember and tell her father.

  Four days later, Putnam called the gallery to arrange for payment and asked to see another painting that had caught his interest. He requested that Isabelle deliver that one as well.

  “You’re turning into our best salesperson,” Monsieur Pontvert teased her, as he handed her the car keys, and one of the gallery helpers put the painting in the back seat.

  She knew the way this time, and the drive went quickly, as she thought about seeing Putnam again. He bounded down the stairs to greet her himself this time, without the butler, who had taken the cook to buy food in the village. Putnam looked happy to see her, and greeted her like an old friend.

  He took her for a walk on the beach almost as soon as she arrived, and showed her his sailboat. He was proud of it, an old wood boat that he had restored himself.

  “Do you like to sail?” he asked and she nodded. “I’ll take you out sometime,” he promised, and they walked for a long time before they went back to the house. Marcel, the butler, and the cook were back by then, and Putnam asked for sandwiches to be served on the terrace. They relaxed as they sat in the sunshine, and forgot all about the painting she had brought him. He asked what she’d been doing since he’d last seen her. He sounded as though he was hungry for news of the outside world, but he was only interested in what she did, and was surprised by how menial her job was.

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting,” he said.


  “It’s not,” she laughed, “except for coming to see you. I like being an errand girl, so I can bring you paintings.” He smiled at that. She seemed totally at ease in his presence, and Marcel stared at her in amazement when he served them lunch. There hadn’t been a woman in the house in years, and never one as young as this. She could easily have been Putnam’s daughter, and in twenty-five years, the butler had never known his employer to be a womanizer, even in his youth. There had been one or two female visitors in the early years, but they never lasted long. And none at all in the last decade.

  After lunch, they examined the painting she’d brought him, it was by an Italian artist Isabelle didn’t know. It was a small fishing village with sailboats on the water. They had sent him a photograph of it and he’d said he would like to see it in person. He decided to keep that one as well. She got ready to leave after they’d looked at it, and he asked her to stay for dinner. She didn’t know if they’d worry at the gallery, but she decided to stay anyway. She knew how to get into the garage now with a key they’d given her in case she got delayed.

  They had dinner in the dining room at a formally set table, and she looked more than ever like a schoolgirl, at one end of the enormous table, seated next to him. There was an innocence about her, which touched him. They chatted for hours and lingered over dinner, and he seemed regretful again when he said good night to her, and warned her to be careful on the road on the way back to Paris. His attitude toward her was more fatherly and protective than anything else, like a big brother, or an old friend who had known her forever. She felt the same way about him, and she was surprised by how at ease she was.

  “Bring clothes and I can take you sailing the next time you come,” he said to her as he stood next to the car when she was leaving. “A bathing suit and some shorts. We can go swimming.” There was a pleading look in his eyes as he said it, as though he were begging her to return and not sure she would. But as long as he kept buying paintings, they were sure to send her. Whatever was happening at the château, from their perspective, seemed to be working. They asked Isabelle no questions when she returned. Whatever Putnam’s reasons for wanting her there, they were his business, not theirs.

  For the rest of the month, Putnam asked to see a number of paintings, and for Isabelle to bring them to him. He bought most of them. He took her sailing when she came to see him, they lay on the beach together, and went swimming. He enjoyed her company as much in conversation as in silence.

  They’d known each other for a month when she dared to ask him some questions about why he never went back to the States, and why he’d never married.

  “I was engaged once,” he answered carefully, looking out at the horizon as he said it. “We met in college. She was my closest friend. My only friend when I was at Harvard and she was at Radcliffe. Consuelo. She was two years older than you are now when we got caught in a storm in my sailboat, and it capsized. I tried to save her and I couldn’t. We were in Maine, and I got washed up on an island where they found me the next day. They found her body a week later. I never wanted to be with anyone after that. The responsibility was too enormous. I felt like I’d killed her. Everyone insisted it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t feel that way. The responsibility of another human being is too much for me. I feel the same way about children. My parents ruined my childhood with the way they brought me up. They were harsh and never approved of anything I did. I never measured up to what they expected of me. I was always being blamed for something, or ignored. I wouldn’t want to do that to someone else. They should never have had children, nor should I. And then I killed the only person I ever loved.” He blamed himself entirely for Consuelo’s death, and she could see he had never recovered.

  “You’re not a cold person,” she said gently. “You’re a very kind man.”

  “I have no role models, no idea how to be a good parent. I come from an icy world where form mattered, and never love. Consuelo was different, she was a bright, sunny, happy girl, a free spirit…a lot like you,” he said, forcing his gaze back to Isabelle with a serious expression. “I don’t have that kind of joie de vivre in me. I never did. My parents stamped it out of me. I live in a dark place and rely on other people’s light, but I can only tolerate it for so long, and then I need to be alone again. She understood that and she didn’t seem to mind. She was a lovely girl, I don’t know if the marriage would have worked, but I was happy with her.” Isabelle instinctively understood his need for solitude too, and sensed how painful it was for him to be around people. She never intruded on him when he was quiet, and waited peacefully until he wanted to talk again. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but she could tell he had been badly damaged as a child. And instead of letting his wounds heal, he had chosen to isolate himself, so he wouldn’t be hurt again. He had built walls around himself a mile high. It was tempting to try and get behind them, but something told her no one could.

  “I came to France six months after the accident. I couldn’t stand everyone knowing about it and telling me how sorry they were, even though I’m sure most of them blamed me. No one knew about it here, it was easier to leave and start again than to look into their eyes and see my guilt. I bought the château and stayed. It suits me better here. I have nothing to go back to there anymore. My parents had both died before the accident. I was living in their home full of ghosts. I sold it after I bought the château. Sometimes the past is better left behind. I have no bad memories here.” But he had no good ones either. All he had now was peace, which seemed a shame to her. He was too young to give up on life. And she wondered when he had. As a boy, or later? “I don’t think I’d be good at marriage. I’ve never missed it. The idea of it terrifies me. I feel safe alone.” He smiled at her then, and she thought there was something so achingly poignant about him in his self-imposed solitude, running from the past, and the girl he thought he’d killed, and an unhappy childhood. “What about you,” he asked her, “no boyfriend to go home to after your year in Paris? Or a boy here, who’ll pine for you after you leave?” She shook her head to both questions. And then he wondered about something else. “Are you a virgin?” She shook her head in answer to that too. He felt comfortable enough to ask her now, and she wanted to be honest with him. He didn’t press her about it.

  “One mistake, when I was fifteen. I’ve been good ever since. I learned the price you pay when you do something stupid. A big one. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

  “You’ll have to one day,” he said, “or you’ll wind up like me, alone.” They were both wounded in a way. He smiled at her as they lay on the beach in their bathing suits after a long swim. They were both strong swimmers.

  “It will have to be right next time. Otherwise everyone gets hurt,” she said and he nodded agreement.

  “You look so young and innocent, I thought you were probably a virgin.”

  “Not as innocent as I look.” She gave him a knowing glance and he laughed at her.

  “Not exactly a femme fatale either. The people at the gallery probably think we’re having a torrid affair by now. It’s funny. Things are never what they appear.” He leaned toward her as though he wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t, and she wondered if he ever would. He lived behind the walls he’d built around himself, and he had let her inside them more than any other human in twenty years, since Consuelo, but she could tell that he was afraid of letting anyone get too close to him. He was like a wild animal who had been badly injured, by loss and bad circumstances and the cruelty of his parents in his youth. He didn’t offer more details about his parents, but the results were plainly evident, from the seclusion in which he lived, and had chosen instead of marriage and children of his own.

  June fed into July with more visits and more paintings, more lunches on the terrace and quiet dinners. The butler was used to her visits now, and was stone-faced at her arrival, which was an improvement. He wasn’t sure why she was there and didn�
��t fully trust her, but he saw plainly that his employer enjoyed her company, and he could see why. Isabelle was a sweet girl, or appeared to be, and accepted Putnam with all his scars and limitations. She never asked for more of him than he wanted, or felt able, to give. He felt safe with her.

  It was in the last days of July that she reminded him that she was leaving in a week to go back to Newport, to spend August with her father before school started in September. Putnam was silent for a long moment after she said it, as though weighing something difficult in his mind and wrestling with his demons. Then he finally spoke to her.

  “What if I asked you to stay? Would you? Not forever,” he clarified immediately, not wanting to mislead her. He liked her too much for that. In fact, he was falling in love with her, but didn’t want to admit it to her or himself. “I mean for another month, until you have to go back to school in New York. You could stay here with me at the château.” It was new territory for him, and for her as well. He had never done anything like this before, and they had never even kissed. She looked confused.

  “As friends?” she asked, wanting to know how he viewed it, and what he meant.

  “Not exactly,” he said, as they sat on the terrace in the moonlight after dinner. Marcel had served their coffee there. And with that, Putnam leaned over and kissed her. It was a searing kiss, filled with all the emotion they had both felt for two months and hadn’t expressed, and she responded as the floodgates opened and tossed them toward each other. It was a long time before he pulled away from her with a tender expression. “As lovers, not just friends,” he said gently and kissed her again. His gentleness as a person was contradicted by the force of his passion. She hadn’t expected him to be so ardent, and she knew her answer by the end of the second kiss.

  “If you want me to, I’ll stay,” she said hoarsely, and he was barely able to keep his hands to himself.