The List by Anne Calhoun

over tended to stick with known quantities like Smythson of Bond Street, Cartier, and Mrs. John L. Strong, but like any business serving the rapidly changing consumer market, they kept their finger on the pulse of the up-and-coming as well as catered to the traditional. Quality’s distribution channels and connections in the high-end sales markets could take her business from a single shop in Manhattan to a global entity.
    “Hello, Colin,” she said, and held out her hand.
    “A pleasure,” Colin said.
    Dierdre excused herself to greet a newcomer, leaving the two of them on the edge of the party. “It’s nice to hear a familiar accent,” Colin said.
    “Have you been in the country long?”
    “A few weeks. You?”
    “I went to university here, and never left,” she said. “How do you know Dierdre?”
    “Trent plays racquetball at my fitness club. He mentioned the party at the juice bar. I’m not sure I was meant to be included in the invitation, but he was quite insistent I come.”
    “He meant it,” Tilda said. “That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do. They host parties like this every few weeks. It’s one of the few places you’ll find where New York’s social circles overlap.”
    “Dierdre says you’re in stationery?” Colin asked.
    She had her elevator pitch down pat. “Yes. I sell the standbys, Crane and Company, Dauphine Press, Smock, but I also search out companies with an artistic edge.”
    “Who are your latest finds?”
    “A couple of really interesting, independent letterpress companies in Chicago and Brooklyn, a papermaker just outside Paris, and another in Istanbul,” she said. This was not the time to go into specifics, but rather the time to radiate confidence and sophistication, not an easy task when the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world stood in front of her in wingtips and a Bond Street tie.
    He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Interesting.”
    “I’d be happy to show you my current stock,” she said. From her silver Cartier card case she withdrew a business card for West Village Stationery and offered it to him. “Stop by anytime,” she said, resisting the impulse to offer to put together a portfolio of samples eminently suitable for Quality’s distribution channels.
    With a smile he took the card. “I was there last week, actually. Your reputation precedes you. I’ve been here less than a month and heard ‘you really should meet Tilda Davies’ half a dozen times.”
    He’d taken the time to scope out the shop and determine if the introduction was worth pursuing. She respected the approach, as she would have done the same thing. “I’m sorry I missed you.”
    “Penny was very helpful. I’d like to talk to you further. May I call you?”
    She reclaimed the card and added her mobile number to the back. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
    Colin tipped his head in an old-fashioned leave-taking and faded into the crowd. Tilda found Dierdre against the windows, pretending not to watch the conversation. “Thank you,” she breathed.
    “He asked to see
you
,” Dierdre said. “I just plowed through the crowd in search of you. Good connection?”
    “Maybe life changing,” she said.
    “We’re even, then,” Dierdre said with a nod at Trent. Tilda had introduced Dierdre to her adoring husband three years earlier, and toasted them at their wedding the previous summer. It wasn’t a formal list connection, simply a matter of chemistry. She’d thought they would be good together, and they were. “Get yourself a glass of wine and celebrate.”
    She made her way back to the island bristling with wine bottles and glasses. As she poured herself a fresh glass she felt a tremor ripple along her nape moments before a male voice spoke.
    “Hello, Tilda.”
    At the words her whole body went into a little humming alert, like a tuning fork gently tapped. She didn’t need to turn around to know Daniel Logan stood behind her, but she did anyway,