The Matchmakers Forgot One Thing

Chapter 1

Queens of the Farewell

The first thing most people noticed about Trinity St. Clair was her confidence.

The second thing they noticed was everything else.

At forty-eight, Trinity carried herself with the easy assurance of a woman who had spent decades becoming exactly who she intended to be.

She was tall, elegant, and impossible to overlook when she entered a room.

Her long dark weave flowed across the shoulders of a tailored black coat that looked expensive because it was.

Her posture was straight. Her smile was warm without being overly familiar.

Her voice possessed a richness that made people lean forward when she spoke, whether she was discussing business, family, travel, or something as ordinary as where to find the best doubles in Brooklyn.

What people rarely noticed was that confidence had not protected her from loneliness.

The thought came to her as she stood near the front window of her brownstone, a steaming mug of herbal tea warming her hands while morning sunlight spilled across polished hardwood floors.

Outside, the neighborhood was waking slowly.

Dog walkers moved along the sidewalk. Delivery trucks stopped and started.

A cyclist rolled past rows of historic brownstones that had stood through changing decades, changing fashions, and changing generations.

The city never stopped moving. It simply changed pace.

Inside, however, the house was quiet.

Beautiful.

Comfortable.

Successful.

Quiet.

The distinction mattered.

There was a difference between peace and silence. Trinity had learned that years ago.

The brownstone reflected everything she had worked to build.

Original moldings framed high ceilings. Caribbean artwork hung on carefully painted walls.

Bookshelves lined one side of the living room.

Fresh flowers occupied a table near the staircase.

Every room carried evidence of discipline, achievement, and taste.

Visitors admired the home constantly. Friends complimented it. Family members bragged about it.

Yet none of them remained when evening settled over the neighborhood and darkness gathered outside the windows.

That reality bothered her more now than it had five years earlier.

Across town in the Bronx, Dominique Toussaint was having a similar morning.

Unlike Trinity, Dominique preferred movement when she was thinking.

She crossed her living room carrying a tablet in one hand and her breakfast in the other while checking messages, appointments, schedules, and reminders for the day ahead.

Her brownstone possessed the same mixture of elegance and personality that characterized its owner.

Rich earth tones decorated the walls. Family photographs occupied prominent places.

Decorative pillows covered oversized furniture.

Music played softly from speakers hidden throughout the house.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifted from the kitchen.

Dominique glanced toward the large front windows and smiled as sunlight poured into the room. She loved mornings. She always had.

What she did not love was answering the same questions from well-meaning relatives.

"When are you getting married?"

"Have you met anybody yet?"

"You're such a beautiful woman."

"You need somebody."

The comments arrived during holidays, birthdays, family gatherings, church events, and nearly every phone conversation lasting longer than ten minutes.

Dominique understood the concern.

She simply grew tired of hearing it.

She was forty-seven years old.

She owned a successful business.

She paid her own bills.

She traveled when she wanted.

She maintained friendships she cherished.

She loved her family.

Still, when she returned home after a long day and locked her front door behind her, there were moments when the house felt larger than she remembered.

Those moments had become more frequent recently.

Her phone buzzed against the countertop.

The caller ID made her smile immediately.

"Good morning, troublemaker."

"Good morning yourself," Trinity replied. "Tell me why my cousin called before seven o'clock this morning to tell me about another eligible bachelor."

Dominique laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.

"Because our families have formed a committee."

"I believe that."

"No, seriously. I think they have meetings."

"They probably do."

The women laughed together, the familiar ease between them smoothing away the irritation.

They had been friends since mortuary school.

Not casual friends.

Not occasional lunch friends.

The kind of friends who knew each other's strengths, weaknesses, heartbreaks, insecurities, and dreams.

The kind of friends who had celebrated promotions together, survived disappointments together, and spent years proving doubters wrong together.

Back when they were students, many people had questioned their decision to enter the funeral profession. Some questioned whether two young Black Caribbean women possessed the emotional strength for such work. Others assumed they would eventually leave the industry for something more glamorous.

Instead, they had graduated at the top of their class.

Then they had built careers that earned respect throughout New York City.

"How's your schedule today?" Dominique asked.

Trinity walked toward the front staircase and sat on the polished wooden steps.

"Busy. Two family consultations this morning. Staff meeting after lunch. Service tomorrow."

Dominique nodded despite knowing Trinity could not see her.

"Almost identical over here."

For a moment neither woman spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

It was thoughtful.

"You ever wonder if we worked too much?" Dominique finally asked.

Trinity leaned back against the staircase railing.

The question surprised her because she had been asking herself the same thing lately.

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Fine. More often recently."

Dominique laughed.

"I knew it."

"You knew nothing."

"I know you."

That was true.

Few people did.

Many people admired Trinity.

Very few understood her.

Dominique was one of them.

The friendship had survived because neither woman felt compelled to pretend around the other.

Neither needed to perform success.

Neither needed to explain ambition.

Neither needed to apologize for wanting more from life.

"I've been thinking," Dominique said.

"That always worries me."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Dominique ignored the interruption.

"We have good lives."

"We do."

"We have careers."

"We do."

"We have homes."

"We do."

"We have money."

"We do."

"We have no husbands."

Trinity burst out laughing.

The laughter lasted longer than either expected because the observation was impossible to argue with.

By the time it faded, both women were smiling.

Then Dominique said something that would quietly alter the course of both their lives.

"What if we actually did something about it?"

Trinity's smile softened.

Outside her front window, Brooklyn continued moving through another ordinary morning. Cars passed. Neighbors greeted one another. A city of millions carried on with its routines.

Inside the brownstone, however, something shifted.

Not dramatically.

Not immediately.

Just enough to suggest that a chapter neither woman expected might finally be beginning.

By the time Dominique Toussaint said, “What if we actually did something about it?” Trinity St. Clair had already started regretting answering the phone before breakfast, because Dominique never asked a question like that unless she had already built a whole plan, decorated it, added music, booked the caterer, and found a way to make Trinity look unreasonable for not immediately clapping.

Trinity remained seated on the staircase of her Brooklyn brownstone, one ankle crossed over the other, her black silk robe falling neatly around her knees, her long hair swept over one shoulder like she had posed herself for a luxury lifestyle magazine nobody had the nerve to publish.

She stared toward the large floral arrangement near the foyer, a tasteful spray of white orchids and deep red roses left over from a family consultation the day before, and wondered when her life had become so polished that even her loneliness looked expensive.

“Dominique,” she said slowly, letting the warning sit in her voice, “before you start talking like you downloaded courage from the internet, I need to know what exactly you mean by ‘do something.’ Because the last time you said that, I ended up at a charity gala in a dress that had me breathing like I owed somebody money.”

Dominique, across town in the Bronx, was already smiling because she knew exactly which dress Trinity meant, and she also knew Trinity had looked so good in it that three men had forgotten their conversations mid-sentence and one woman had quietly asked for the designer’s name.

Dominique stood barefoot in the middle of her living room wearing a fitted cream lounge set, gold hoops, and the kind of fresh morning face that made people accuse her of having secrets she did not owe them.

Her brownstone was warm where Trinity’s was dramatic, filled with honey-colored light, framed Trinidad carnival prints, velvet chairs, and a dining table currently buried under invoices, sympathy card samples, a half-eaten slice of toast, and a tablet flashing reminders like it was trying to be her business partner.

“You looked amazing in that dress,” Dominique said, picking up her tea and walking toward the mirror above the fireplace to inspect herself while still talking.

“And don’t act like you didn’t enjoy every second of that man from Queens asking whether you were married, engaged, promised, reserved, complicated, or under federal protection. ”