Chapter 1 #3
“I’m not ashamed,” Dominique said at last, her voice lower now.
“Let me say that before you start sharpening your principles. I am not ashamed of what I do. I am proud of what we do. But I am also tired of watching a man’s face change before he even knows me.
I want him to meet Dominique first. Let him meet the woman who loves calypso, hates weak tea, can make a room laugh, knows how to run a payroll, and still looks good walking into a restaurant at forty-seven. Then I will tell him the rest.”
Trinity wanted to argue, but the honesty in Dominique’s voice made the argument harder.
She understood the temptation because she had felt it herself, that desire to be encountered as a woman before being categorized as a profession.
Funeral director was not just a job title; it was a whole atmosphere in other people’s minds, and too often those minds filled the space with discomfort before she could fill it with truth.
“And what happens when he feels tricked?” Trinity asked.
“What happens when he says you should have told him upfront?”
“Then I say I told him enough to begin.”
“That sounds like something a woman says before she has to apologize in chapter five of her own bad decision.”
Dominique laughed despite herself. “You are so dramatic.”
“I own black hats for a living.”
“You do not own black hats for a living. You own a funeral home.”
“And you see how easily the truth arrives?”
Dominique smiled, but her eyes drifted toward the stack of sympathy cards on her dining table.
One card sat open, handwritten by a woman who had thanked her for making her mother look peaceful and dignified without looking artificial.
Dominique had read it twice the night before and once again that morning, not because she needed praise, but because some reminders mattered when the work became heavy.
She knew men did not always understand that.
They saw the flower stands, the polished cars, the black suits, the quiet rooms, the careful makeup, the hushed voices, and they missed the heart beating inside the profession.
They missed the daughter who needed someone to help her choose a program photo because grief had made decisions impossible.
They missed the widower who did not know how to stand beside a casket until Dominique quietly guided him.
They missed the families who came in broken and left feeling, if not healed, then held.
“Maybe chapter five needs some trouble,” Dominique said softly. “Maybe we have played it safe so long that safe started looking like wisdom.”
Trinity walked toward the kitchen, her robe swaying around her legs, and set her mug beside the sink.
Her reflection appeared in the dark glass of the microwave door: beautiful, rested, polished, guarded.
She thought of the men who had wanted her body but not her burdens, her smile but not her schedule, her elegance but not her calling.
She thought of the last serious man she had dated, an educator from Harlem who had kissed her like he meant tomorrow, then stopped calling after attending one community event at her funeral home and seeing how many grieving families greeted her with trust. Later he had claimed he needed “lighter energy,” a phrase Trinity had mentally buried without ceremony.
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” she asked, already knowing the answer would irritate and interest her in equal measure.
“I’m suggesting you sign up too.”
“No.”
“You did not even think about it.”
“I thought about it quickly.”
“That does not count.”
“It counts at my age.”
Dominique made a sound halfway between laughter and annoyance.
“At our age, quick thinking is how we avoid wasting foundation on men with unresolved issues. But this is different. We do it together. We control the pace. We do not lie. We do not overexplain. We let the men meet us first. If they cannot handle the truth later, then at least they rejected the real women after having enough sense to be tempted.”
Trinity leaned against the counter and looked toward the hallway leading back to the foyer, where the flowers stood in solemn beauty.
The idea was reckless in the quietest possible way.
It was not running off with a stranger or gambling a business decision or pretending to be younger than she was.
It was simply opening a door she had allowed to remain closed, and sometimes at this stage of life, opening a door took more courage than walking through a storm.
“You already made my profile, didn’t you? ” she asked.
Dominique’s silence answered first.
“Dominique.”
“I drafted possibilities.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I selected photographs where you look approachable but not available to foolishness.”
“Delete them.”
“I will not.”
“You will.”
“I will revise them.”
Trinity pressed a hand to her forehead, but she was laughing now, and that made Dominique laugh too.
This was how they survived their own seriousness, by finding the ridiculous edge of it and leaning there until the weight shifted.
“Let me hear it,” Trinity said finally, though she tried to sound reluctant enough to preserve her dignity.
“And if you made me sound like one of those women who enjoys hiking, sunrise journaling, and being equally comfortable in heels or sneakers, I am hanging up.”
“You do own sneakers.”
“For exercise, not personality.”
Dominique cleared her throat with theatrical importance.
“Trinity St. Clair is a sophisticated Brooklyn-based entrepreneur with Caribbean roots, a passion for service, a love of architecture, fine arts, meaningful conversation, and quiet evenings in beautiful spaces. She values emotional intelligence, ambition, maturity, faithfulness, humor, and a man who understands that real partnership is built through honesty, consistency, and mutual respect.”
Trinity said nothing for several seconds because, annoyingly, the description was good.
It did not mention her funeral home, but it did not make her sound like someone else either.
It sounded like the woman she was when people were not flinching at her profession.
It sounded like the woman she wished men would meet before fear got in the room ahead of desire.
“You left out that I can spot cheap tailoring from across a restaurant,” she said.
“I listed that under special skills.”
“You are not funny.”
“I am very funny. You are simply emotionally moved and trying to disguise it.”
Trinity did not deny that fast enough.
Dominique softened again. “Look, we do not have to do anything today. But I think we should stop letting men’s discomfort make decisions for us before the men even arrive. Let them arrive. Let them be grown. Let them surprise us or disappoint us in person.”
The words settled between them with more force than Trinity expected.
Let them arrive. Let them be grown. Let them surprise us or disappoint us in person.
That, perhaps, was what she had stopped allowing.
She had become so efficient at anticipating disappointment that she had mistaken prevention for peace.
Her life was full, but full did not mean complete, and admitting that did not make her weak. It made her honest.
“What photographs did you choose?” Trinity asked.
Dominique squealed so loudly Trinity pulled the phone away from her ear.
“I have not said yes.”
“You asked about photographs. That is a yes wearing a church hat.”
“It is curiosity.”
“It is surrender.”
“It is review.”
“It is destiny with better lighting.”
“Dominique, I will hang up.”
“You will not, because the first picture is the one from the museum gala where you wore that black off-the-shoulder dress and looked like you were about to reject a prince for poor communication skills.”
Trinity smiled before she could stop herself.
She remembered that night, not because of any man present, but because she had felt spectacular in her own skin.
The dress had fit her like confidence made fabric.
Her hair had fallen in soft waves down her back, her makeup had been warm and precise, and the photographer had caught her mid-laugh beside a sculpture she pretended to understand better than she did.
It was a good picture because she had not been trying to seduce anybody or prove anything.
She had simply been happy. “Fine,” she said. “Send me the profile.”
“Already did.”
“Of course you did.”
“And before you fuss, I only saved it as a draft. You have to approve it.”
Trinity picked up her tablet from the kitchen island and saw the notification waiting.
Forever Forward. Her stomach tightened in a way that felt foolish and adolescent and inconveniently thrilling.
She opened the message and found herself staring at her own face, her own biography, her own curated possibility.
It should have been ridiculous. Instead, it felt intimate, almost exposing, as if the act of wanting love had become more vulnerable than confessing any professional truth.
“You know,” she said carefully, “if this turns into foolishness, I am blaming you.”
Dominique lifted her chin even though she was alone. “If this turns into marriage, I am accepting flowers, a speech, and credit at the reception.”
“No reception.”
“There will be a reception.”
“I have not even joined.”
“But you are about to.”