The List

by Anne Calhoun

  “One of your connections?” Daniel said. He offered Tilda the napkin holding the crackers and cheese, but she shook her head to decline. Knowing Daniel, that was his dinner.

  “I introduced them,” Tilda affirmed. “It’s one of my most satisfying connections.”

  Daniel’s brow furrowed a little more. “What did they need?”

  “Each other,” she said quietly. And while she was thrilled beyond measure to have been the instrument to their happiness, she felt that pang again, that unfamiliar emotion that was so difficult to identify. She didn’t begrudge them their happiness. Far from it. She wondered if she would ever feel that happiness herself. She should feel it; she knew she should. She was married to an amazing man who loved her and supported her. All she had to do was claim what was already hers.

  Why was that so difficult?

  A sleek, polished woman wearing a vintage Chanel suit gave them a cool smile and an excuse me. Tilda turned in Daniel’s arm as they stepped back, and kissed him properly. Colin and Penny were chatting near the door, Colin’s head bent attentively, his gaze alternating between the art and Penny’s vivid eyes while she talked. Good, Tilda thought. That was an excellent connection for both of them. Penny had a brilliant eye for marketing and design, and Colin worked for a global corporation in the business of selling expensive things to the very rich. With luck, the conversation and Penny’s bare shoulders would focus his attention somewhere more likely to bear fruit.

  Penny turned to answer a question posed by Edith, the gallery owner. Colin made eye contact with Tilda, detached himself from the conversation with a smile and a quiet word, and started toward her.

  “Enjoying yourself, Colin?”

  “Very much,” he said, then tapped the side of his nose. “You sly girl. You never mentioned your connections in the art world.”

  Right response; she’d wanted to surprise Colin in a very good way, show him and through him Quality’s upper management that she was exactly what they needed. But the tone sent her tumbling back through space and time. She stiffened ever so slightly. “This was a team effort. Penny knew exactly what I’d stumbled on, and Edith’s was the only choice for an opening.”

  “That’s exactly why Quality’s so excited to do business with you,” he said. “Imagine doing this on a global scale.”

  In an effort to settle her nerves, she slipped her arm through Daniel’s. “Colin, allow me to introduce Daniel Logan. My husband.”

  “A pleasure,” Colin said as they shook hands. “I was beginning to doubt you existed. What do you think?” he asked, gesturing expansively at the walls with the hand holding his wineglass.

  “I just got here so I haven’t had much of a chance to look around,” Daniel said.

  “The art is spectacular, really, a visceral statement on the fluid relationship between art and artist and the viewer’s place in that relationship. And perspective,” Colin added belatedly. Tilda felt Daniel’s amused huff more than heard it. Colin was looking at the wall, so he didn’t notice it. Tilda nudged Daniel with her elbow. “But from Tilda, it’s rather surprising.”

  “Really?” Daniel said.

  “Based on the shop, the stationery, the ink, the look of the shop’s interior, well, her,” he said, his gaze traveling from Tilda’s sleeked-back curls to the tips of her Louboutins. Colin was far too well-bred to leer, which meant he was tipsy. Not drunk, just loose enough to take a few liberties with their professional relationship in front of her husband. “This kind of instinctual art isn’t the kind of thing I expected Tilda to take on. I mean, look at her.”

  She felt her smile freeze on her face. Yes, look at me. Tell me what you see, exactly. Dark clothes, dark hair, gray eyes, sharp angles and long, lean lines, demanding precision and perfection. Do you have any idea what it cost me to attain this, maintain this? Look at me, Colin, and tell me what you think you know.

  “If this surprises you, you don’t know her very well,” Daniel said. His baritone voice held the vibrating edge of honed steel. The talk and laughter in the room almost muted it, but Tilda heard it, felt the slight tightening of Daniel’s hand on her hip.

  Colin’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “No,” he said. “No, I rather suspect I don’t. But these kinds of business instincts are exactly why we want her with Quality. You really must convince her to join us.”

  A nice recovery. Smooth. A bit of male bonding at the end, the two of them against Tilda. There was something about the voice, the accent, the aristocratic drawl, British public school, cultured and smooth and confident, that made her stomach do a flip in her abdomen.

  Daniel’s smile flashed in her peripheral vision, a hint of shark in it, although how she knew she couldn’t say. “I don’t convince her of anything,” he said. “She knows exactly what she wants, and exactly how to get it. Colin, excuse us for a moment. Tilda, this way, please.”

  He took her hand and drew her through the crowd, using his shoulders and hips and voice in a way she’d never seen to clear a path. One hand still holding hers, he released the clip on the velvet rope blocking the stairs, and down they went, into the brick-walled basement. Edith had her office down here, and a bathroom off-limits to everyone except staff . . . and FBI agents. The restrooms were downstairs, behind Edith’s office, and as gorgeous as the rest of Edith’s space. The sink was a bronze trough set on a slab of rough-hewn granite, the fixtures brushed bronze, the door and bench seat made of similarly cut logs.

  Daniel backed her into the granite slab. With her heels on she was almost exactly his height, so they were face-to-face, inches apart. Tilda stared at him, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the stall door across from her. Gleaming, tousled hair, red lipstick, wide gray eyes accented by dark shadow and thick mascara. For a moment a ghost stared back at her, her younger self drawn out of the past by Colin’s voice into this place and time, with Daniel.

  “You okay? Tilda.” His hands cupped her jaw. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Jet lag. That’s all. Just . . . touch me.”

  Without speaking she shifted her gaze to the mirror behind her. It was odd to look into Daniel’s eyes via her own reflection. His gold brows drew down, as if he was trying to work out what she meant, his blue eyes the only flash of color in the room, other than her mouth.

  He hunkered down on his heels in front of her, leaving her with the top of his head and the back of his body reflected in the mirror. She inhaled sharply when his hands closed around her ankles and skimmed their way up her calves, over her knees, to catch on the hem of her dress and coax it up. The fabric’s movement stopped at her hips, while he continued to stand up. He leaned into her, looming over her so quickly he startled a gasp from her throat. Then he reached around and unzipped her dress just enough for the fabric to gap forward. Still silent, he tugged her bra straps down so the cups loosened and dropped away from her breasts.

  Thirty seconds, perhaps fewer. Perhaps twenty, and she was naked in a bathroom with a hundred people milling about upstairs. She could love him for this alone, for understanding that she needed the physical connection of skin and blood and bone, not pretty words. Right now she felt like she had at Louise’s party, when the noise and chaos and demands became too much, and she’d walked out onto the terrace for some air. Then Daniel found her.

  Trapped in her dress, she gripped the rough edge of the countertop with her hands and stared up at him. The image in the mirror, the slim silver band on her ring finger, her disheveled appearance, his completely unruffled one, sent a shock wave through her. She flicked a glance at the door.

  “I locked it.”

  Had he? She couldn’t remember. He braced his hand beside hers, straightened his arms to bring his mouth in alignment with her breasts, and lapped at her nipples. She groaned and let her head fall back.

  “What if someone comes in?”


  “No one’s going to come in,” he said, and sank to his heels at her feet. The image in the mirror was beyond carnal, her body more than bare, Daniel’s blond head at the crux of her thighs as he tugged her panties to midthigh.

  She groaned again, slow and low and utterly helpless. Her head fell back and her eyes closed. Daniel’s fingers closed over hers, then wove between them, holding her while his tongue slid into her folds and found her clit. In short order, her head dropped forward and her gaze slid out of focus, but not before she watched him show her exactly how well he knew her body.

  “Shh,” he said.

  “I can’t, Daniel, it’s too much.” Heat coiled out from her clit. She tried to spread her legs, heard stitches in her knickers give, and settled for another whimper. When she came it took everything she had to choke back her cries.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  He pulled his wallet from his front pocket. “Unzip me,” he growled, then used his hips to hold her upright when releasing the counter proved her knees weren’t ready to bear her weight. She fumbled with the belt, button, and zipper of his dress pants, then freed him from his boxers.

  “You still carry a condom?” she asked, stroking him. Something about this found a setting on the dial she didn’t know he had.

  “Stop that, woman. Sometimes the mess isn’t convenient,” he said as he smoothed it down. “Like now. Up you go.”

  With one arm under her bottom he hoisted her to the right height, then braced his palm on the mirror. She wound her leg around his and muffled her moan in his suit jacket. His thrusts were shallow, working the bundle of nerves inside her with each quick, rough stroke.

  “Can you—?”

  “Yes, yes,” she gasped. His tweed jacket rasped against her nipples, and the sensation of fine cotton and his tie against her bare breasts and abdomen excited her almost unbearably. Not to mention the sight of him in the mirror, so clearly in the act. Heat gathered sharp and tight in her core.

  “I’m going to—”

  “I’m there,” she said almost inaudibly, and tipped over the edge again. He followed her with a groan that reverberated around the small room, and for one blissful, unsustainable moment he held her together, body and soul.

  —

  He flushed the condom and zipped up; she wet down some paper towels and cleaned up, then adjusted her bra and dress. When he stepped out of the stall, she smoothed down his lapels. “You know,” she said conversationally, “most men, when confronted with a woman on the verge of fainting, sit her down and tell her to put her head between her legs while he gets her a glass of water.”

  He turned her to face the mirror and zipped up her dress. “I’m not most men,” he said quietly, then turned her full circle to face him again. “More practically, there was nowhere to sit upstairs, and you don’t take coddling well.”

  She smiled and pressed her face into his jacket. “I don’t?”

  “You get all tense and ruffled, like Jessie’s cat when she goes from purring to hissing in a split second.”

  She smiled again, this time against the lump in her throat. It was true. “I do,” she said.

  “Anyway, I put my head between your legs,” he said. “Close enough?”

  This time the smile came with a huff of laughter. “Your filthy mouth.”

  “This entire relationship started because I have a filthy mouth. You love my filthy mouth.”

  “I do,” she said again. “I really do. Were you staking your claim in front of Colin or making me feel better?”

  “Yes.” Completely seriously. The possessiveness startled her. He’d said she knew how to handle herself, and yet he’d done the most primitive, caveman thing possible. “Another man was looking at you in a way he had no right to look at you.”

  It wasn’t fair to blame Colin because he reminded her of someone she wanted to keep in her past, but it was such a small moment of weakness, an alignment of the planets and stars and ley lines jerking her into a past she’d left behind. Colin just reminded her exactly why she couldn’t reach out and claim what was rightfully hers. And yet she couldn’t stop stepping onto the ledge; this time she’d brought Daniel onto the ledge with her.

  “He’s a man. Men look. Quite frankly, I encourage them to look. They often make stupid decisions when they do.”

  “It’s your husband’s job to remind them not to look,” Daniel said. “Or be a little more subtle about it.” His gaze skimmed her and apparently found her sufficiently refreshed to go back upstairs. “You’re going to be pink for a while,” he said, and stroked her cheek with the back of his index finger.

  “I’ve brazened that out before,” she said. “As have you, I suspect.”

  “You suspect right.” He kissed her gently. “Let’s go.”

  – SEVENTEEN –

  March, Vernal Equinox

  Uuntil the swollen clouds opened to dump their contents on the city sidewalks, the task was simple: visit Sheba to celebrate the show’s success. Stopping at the shops to buy sandwiches, salads, fresh fruit, two packages of cookies, and several bottles of mineral water was a chance to get out of a cold March rain. Fat drops pelted her Burberry and Wellingtons as she tightened one gloved hand around the plastic shopping bags’ handles and tilted the umbrella against the wind with the other. Her coat was thoroughly soaked, rainwater trickling down her shins when she rang the buzzer at Sheba’s door.

  A click was all she got. “It’s Tilda Davies,” she said loudly, then the door lock clicked open.

  Tilda climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. This time the door was cracked, heat billowing into the hallway. Tilda left the umbrella in the industrial hallway, shut the door behind her, and began the process of shedding a thoroughly wet coat. Her boots were cheerful, practical, and thoroughly unprofessional, and stayed on, although she dried them on the mat. When she turned back around, she found Sheba watching her, a mischievous smile on her lined face.

  “You look like a drowned rat, child,” Sheba said, then laughed.

  Tilda scrubbed her fingertips across her scalp, sending droplets to the floor. “It’s absolutely pouring out there,” she said, and reached into her bag for the statement carefully zipped into the lining. She held it out to Sheba.

  “How much?”

  “Open it. It’s just an estimate, mind you. Edith will have a check in a couple of weeks.”

  Sheba took the envelope, slit it with an X-ACTO knife, puffed air into the body of the envelope, and extracted the page. Tilda knew exactly how much it was, a considerable amount less the commissions paid to herself and Edith. Written in red ink at the bottom of the statements in Edith’s careful hand was, We really must do this again! Sheba whooped and danced in a wide circle around the worktable before enveloping Tilda in a huge hug. “We did it!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Tilda said into Sheba’s shoulder. “The palimpsests are your work. I just found someone to host the show.”

  Sheba let her go, twirling away to toss the statement on her worktable. “I’ve had twenty phone calls from critics and former gallery owners, another twenty from former students, and ten people I hadn’t seen in ages stopped by. I’m practically a social butterfly.”

  Tilda said, “If you want to resume working with someone more familiar with the art world, I understand.”

  “No. No no no, child. Not a chance. You’re my girl now. They want anything of mine, they have to come through you.”

  She blinked. Sheba didn’t know about the impending Quality deal, or what it might mean for West Village Stationery; long-term relationships like this weren’t her area. “I don’t have the right connections to get you the prices you deserve. You need an agent from Sotheby’s, or a dealer.”

  “Nope. No way. They didn’t want me when I was a washed-up nobody. I need exactly what I’ve got. My Lady Matilda.”

  “I’m not a lady,”
Tilda said, but she couldn’t help laughing. Sheba’s delight was infectious, just as Daniel’s calm grounded her. “It’s a title bestowed on the children or wives of peers. My mother lectures at uni—”

  “You brought lunch,” Sheba said, and pulled the bottle of champagne from the bag.

  “I thought we should celebrate.”

  Sheba wore a men’s white long-sleeved undershirt under a paint-smeared wool sweater and equally ruined jeans. “I like the way you think,” she said, and took the bottle over to the kitchen lining the back wall of the loft. “My son followed the tweet stream from LA. He says there was even a write-up in the LA papers.”

  “I’ve also been inundated with calls,” Tilda said as she unpacked the white carrier bag. “Every art buyer in the city wants one of these, either for a museum or a private collector, but I think we should wait a bit. Build the anticipation rather than flooding the market.”

  “Agreed,” Sheba said as she got down mismatched plates, followed by two very expensive champagne glasses. She handed Tilda serving spoons to scoop out salads. “In the meantime, take a few pieces that will look very good in your display cases.”

  Her gaze skimmed over Tilda, then lingered on the thin silver ring on her left hand. “I met your husband at the show.”

  Her husband. Daniel. Even three months after the wedding, she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. There were moments that felt exactly like they did before Daniel asked her to marry him, moments like the one on the beach. But there were others when she felt like she was living someone else’s life, when the ring glinted in the sun or someone noticed it and commented, usually with an enthusiasm that surprised Tilda. It felt odd for her, a permanency she never thought she’d claim. She told herself it took a while for the change in status to set in, that the honeymoon period was an adjustment on every level.

  “What did you think?” she asked lightly as she set sandwiches on the plate.