Chapter 1 #6
When the family left, her assistant brought in an updated schedule and a small crisis involving a florist who had confused white lilies with white roses, a mistake Trinity corrected with a phone call so calm that the florist apologized three times before Trinity finished her second sentence.
She could be gracious because she believed in graciousness, but she could also make incompetence feel personally disappointing without ever raising her voice.
That was one of the reasons her staff both admired and feared her.
At St. Clair Memorial House, excellence was not a slogan painted on a wall; it was a living standard enforced through clipped instructions, careful training, and Trinity’s ability to notice when a hallway table had been moved two inches from where it belonged.
By four o’clock, she had handled a family follow-up, approved two invoices, spoken with a minister, reviewed transportation timing, and checked her phone only seven times, which she considered restraint under developing circumstances.
Dominique’s day was no lighter, though she handled hers with more visible warmth and more verbal seasoning.
At Toussaint Family Funeral Services, she moved from chapel to office to preparation room corridor to lobby with the ease of a woman who could comfort one person, correct another, and flirt with nobody because she was still deciding whether the world deserved that privilege.
Her staff knew her moods by her shoes. Red soles meant she expected brilliance.
Low heels meant she would be hands-on. Black patent pumps meant somebody somewhere had already annoyed her and everyone else should proceed with accuracy.
That afternoon she wore black patent pumps, and the office operated with the reverence of people hoping not to become examples in a staff meeting.
Still, Dominique’s humor never abandoned her completely.
When her younger cousin Patrice stopped by with lunch and a face full of curiosity, Dominique knew trouble had entered wearing lip gloss.
Patrice worked part-time in the office when needed and full-time in everyone’s business by natural calling, and within three minutes she had noticed Dominique’s phone lighting up with a Forever Forward notification.
“Auntie Dom,” she said, though Dominique had corrected her on that title for fifteen years, “is that a man?”
Dominique took the container of roti from her cousin’s hand and gave her the look she reserved for relatives who mistook access for permission. “It is a notification.”
“From a man?”
“It is from an app.”
“A dating app?”
“A private matchmaking platform.”
“So a bougie dating app.”
Dominique opened the roti container and inhaled with gratitude. “You have work to do.”
“I knew it,” Patrice said, leaning against the office doorframe with the delight of a woman who had discovered gossip with nutritional value. “You and Miss Trinity finally got tired of being fine by yourselves.”
Dominique pointed at her with a plastic fork. “First of all, nobody is tired of being fine. Fine is not a burden. Fine is a ministry. Second, grown women can explore companionship without relatives forming a parade.”
Patrice grinned. “Does he know what you do?”
Dominique’s fork stopped for half a second, and that half second was enough for Patrice’s grin to widen. Dominique recovered quickly, spearing a piece of potato with more force than necessary. “He knows I am an entrepreneur.”
“That man does not know.”
“He will know.”
“When?”
“When timing and wisdom agree.”
Patrice laughed and pushed herself away from the doorframe. “Timing and wisdom better hurry up before feelings get involved. Men be brave until they see one condolence spray and start acting like funeral flowers chased them down the street.”
Dominique tried not to smile because Patrice was too young to be that accurate and too pleased with herself to deserve encouragement. “Go update the guest register.”
“I’m going, but I want it on record that I support love. I also support full disclosure before a man is sitting in your parlor asking why there are three sympathy arrangements beside the staircase and why your little black dresses come with business hours.”
After Patrice left, Dominique stared at the doorway longer than she meant to.
The comment should have been funny and only funny, but it lodged somewhere tender because it named the very scene she had been trying not to imagine.
She pictured Jamal in her brownstone, tall and warm and interested, his eyes moving from her to the floral arrangements she sometimes brought home after services when families insisted she take them.
She pictured him noticing a stack of memorial program samples on her dining table, a black dress hanging from a closet door, a late-night call from a grieving daughter who needed one more question answered before morning.
She pictured his smile thinning, his posture changing, his attraction wrestling with discomfort right in front of her.
Dominique had faced bereaved mothers, angry siblings, unpaid invoices, complicated family disputes, and pastors who thought a microphone gave them ownership of time, yet the imagined silence of one unsettled man made her chest tighten.
That evening, Trinity and Dominique agreed to meet in person at Trinity’s brownstone, partly because they wanted to compare messages and partly because grown women sometimes needed to sit in the same room with somebody who knew all the facts before pretending to be reasonable.
Dominique arrived close to eight wearing a fitted emerald dress beneath a black trench, her hair falling in soft waves, carrying a garment bag over one arm and enough opinion in her expression to season a whole pot.
Trinity opened the door in a deep plum lounge dress that skimmed her curves without begging for attention, the house behind her glowing with lamplight and the rich quiet of expensive taste.
For a moment they simply looked at each other, both amused by the fact that neither had dressed down for an evening of discussing men they had not met.
“You look like you are about to seduce somebody’s board of directors,” Dominique said, stepping inside.
“And you look like you came to announce a merger between romance and poor judgment,” Trinity replied, kissing her cheek and taking the garment bag. “Why did you bring clothes?”
“In case we need outfit strategy for first dates.”
“We have not scheduled first dates.”
“We have conversations moving in that direction, and I refuse to let either one of us meet destiny in something last-minute.”
Trinity closed the door, but not before glancing at the flowers in the foyer again.
Dominique noticed. She always noticed. The arrangement was larger than it had seemed in daylight, its white orchids, crimson roses, and glossy greenery rising from a tall ceramic vase like a formal announcement.
In the evening glow, it looked beautiful, dramatic, expensive, and unmistakably connected to the world both women inhabited.
Dominique removed her coat slowly, her eyes moving from the flowers to Trinity’s face.
“You are thinking about whether Cedric would find those romantic or disturbing.”
Trinity exhaled through her nose. “I am thinking I dislike that I am thinking about it.”
“That is fair.”
“This is my home.”
“It is.”
“My taste.”
“It is.”
“My flowers.”
“They are.”
“My life.”
Dominique nodded, more serious now. “And if a man enters this house and cannot understand that, he should not be here. But wanting him to understand and trusting him to understand are not the same thing.”
Trinity accepted that because it was true, and together they moved into the living room where the city beyond the windows shimmered through a light mist. They settled on opposite ends of a velvet sofa with their tablets, a plate of fruit, and the shared concentration of women preparing for something far more delicate than a date.
It would have looked comical to anyone else, two stunning women in elegant dresses analyzing messages with the seriousness of attorneys reviewing contract language, but neither found it silly.
At their age, romance was not casual entertainment unless one wanted casual consequences.
A first date was not just a meal; it was the opening argument in a case neither side fully understood.
Cedric had suggested coffee first, then revised himself with a second message that Trinity appreciated more than she wanted to admit.
He wrote that coffee felt too brief for a woman who seemed interesting, but dinner might presume too much too soon, so perhaps an early evening walk through a gallery followed by dessert would strike the right balance between intention and patience.
Dominique, reading over Trinity’s shoulder, pressed a hand dramatically to her chest and declared him dangerous.
Trinity told her to hush, but her smile betrayed her.
A gallery and dessert was thoughtful. It gave conversation room to move without trapping either person across a table for three courses if the chemistry failed.
It also suggested Cedric had considered the experience, not merely the access.
Jamal’s invitation to Dominique carried a different rhythm, warmer and more playful but still grown.
He suggested meeting at a quiet restaurant with live piano, no pressure, no performance, just conversation good enough to make them forget to check the time.
He added that if the conversation disappointed, they could both blame the app and return to their lives with dignity; if it did not, they could pretend they had known all along that strangers sometimes arrive on schedule.
Dominique read the last line twice, then looked away as if annoyed by its effectiveness. Trinity smiled slowly. “He has rhythm.”
“He has words,” Dominique said.
“He has rhythm.”