Chapter 3 #6
While Trinity was standing in a restored Harlem townhouse with Cedric’s hand at her cheek, Dominique was in the Bronx facing Patrice, Marva on speakerphone, and a level of cousin-and-staff interference that would have embarrassed a less seasoned woman.
Patrice had discovered that Jamal was taking Dominique to the Metropolitan Opera the following night, and somehow that information had traveled through the family side of the business and crossed borough lines to Marva, who claimed she was only calling Trinity’s office for a vendor number but stayed on the line once Patrice began describing wardrobe options.
Dominique stood in her bedroom doorway with one hand on her hip, staring at Patrice seated on the bed beside three dresses while Marva’s voice floated from the phone on the dresser like a senior advisory board.
“I did not request a committee,” Dominique said.
Patrice lifted a gold dress against herself and shook her head.
“Committees are for people who still have time. This is emergency styling.” Marva’s voice came through dry and amused.
“Wear the navy. Opera requires elegance, not panic.” Dominique looked toward the phone.
“Miss Marva, with respect, why are you involved?” “Because Miss St. Clair is pretending not to be involved, and somebody must represent mature judgment.”
The absurdity of it would have annoyed Dominique if affection had not been threaded through every word.
Patrice teased because she loved her. Marva advised because she cared.
Trinity, who texted moments later asking whether Dominique had selected “the dress that says dignified but not available to foolishness,” was clearly involved despite her claims otherwise.
In the middle of it all, Dominique realized how much of her life had been built around women holding one another up while pretending they were merely offering opinions.
That support had carried her through business uncertainty, family pressure, lonely holidays, difficult services, and now the strange vulnerability of being wanted by a man who made her want to be less guarded.
“You all are enjoying this too much,” she said, but her voice lacked real complaint.
Patrice stood and held the navy dress against Dominique’s shoulder, her teasing expression softening.
“We just like seeing you happy. You been everybody’s strong person for so long, Auntie Dom.
Let somebody be nervous about impressing you for once. ”
The words stayed with Dominique long after Patrice left and the advisory board dissolved.
She stood alone in front of her mirror wearing the navy dress, the fabric elegant against her curves, her hair pinned loosely to show her neck, and for once she allowed herself to look not like a funeral director, not like a business owner, not like a woman responsible for smoothing the hardest days of other people’s lives, but like a woman preparing to be admired.
Jamal’s message arrived while she was fastening her bracelet, and she smiled before reading it because her body had begun to recognize him before her mind caught up.
Tomorrow night, I intend to behave with dignity, but I make no promises about not staring when you walk in.
Dominique lowered the phone slowly, pressing her lips together to contain the smile that threatened to make her look foolish in her own mirror.
“This man,” she murmured, but the words carried pleasure rather than complaint.
The Metropolitan Opera outing began with the kind of elegance Dominique secretly loved but rarely indulged without making a joke first. Jamal met her near Lincoln Center, and when he saw her crossing the plaza in the navy dress beneath her camel coat, he did not speak right away.
That silence affected her more than any rehearsed compliment might have because his face said what words would have complicated.
He took her hand when she reached him, lifting it briefly, not to perform for anyone nearby, but as if greeting her required a gesture with history.
“I had something prepared,” he said, his voice low enough to belong only to her.
“It is gone now.” Dominique looked up at him through the glow of the plaza lights.
“That is unfortunate. I was looking forward to judging it.” Jamal smiled, but his eyes remained serious.
“Judge this instead. You look like a woman a man should thank properly for showing up.” Dominique felt warmth rise beneath her skin, and because humor remained her safest bridge, she said, “You may begin with excellent conversation and not stepping on my shoes.” He laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Then I will work my way up.”
Inside, the opera house surrounded them with grandeur, but Dominique found herself more aware of Jamal beside her than of the chandeliers, the velvet, or the sweeping staircase.
He did not overexplain the evening or pretend expertise he did not possess.
When he did not understand something, he said so with ease, and when something moved him, he did not hide that either.
During one intermission, they stood near the balcony overlooking the lobby, watching the crowd move below in formal coats and glittering fabrics, and Jamal admitted that part of him had spent years learning how to look comfortable in rooms where he once felt out of place.
Dominique turned toward him, surprised by the confession.
“You?” she asked. “You walk into places like you negotiated the floor plan.” Jamal smiled faintly.
“That is the walk. The boy from Brooklyn who used to wonder if everybody knew he was pretending took longer to quiet down.” Dominique’s expression softened because the vulnerability was not decorated, and that made it more powerful.
“I understand that,” she said. “People see polish and think it means you never had to practice standing tall.” Jamal looked at her then, and something between them settled deeper. “Exactly.”
Their conversation remained with her through the rest of the evening.
Jamal’s willingness to show uncertainty did not make him smaller; it made him more human, and Dominique found humanity far more attractive than perfection.
After the performance, they walked slowly across the plaza beneath the cold night sky, neither eager to call for the car too quickly.
He asked whether she had ever felt out of place in her work, and the question came so gently that she almost answered fully before fear tightened its hand around the truth.
“In the beginning,” she said. “Some rooms were not ready for women like me and Trinity. Young, Black, Caribbean, ambitious, pretty enough for people to underestimate us and serious enough to make them regret it.” Jamal stopped walking and looked at her with admiration so clear it made her wish honesty did not feel so risky.
“I would like to hear that story one day.” Dominique held his gaze, knowing there were several stories inside that one, all of them leading eventually to the funeral home. “One day,” she said softly.
By the end of the night, when Jamal walked her to the car, the kiss between them carried more than desire.
It held recognition, respect, curiosity, and the growing ache of two adults discovering that attraction was only the beginning of what they wanted from each other.
Dominique let herself lean into him for a moment longer than she had before, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the warmth and solidity of him beneath her palm.
Jamal drew back slowly, his forehead nearly touching hers as the city moved around them.
“You make it hard to be careful,” he said.
Dominique’s smile trembled at the edges, but she did not look away.
“You are doing well so far.” “That is because I keep reminding myself that anything worth having deserves discipline.” His words moved through her with the force of tenderness because they made her feel valued rather than hunted, desired rather than consumed.
Still, beneath the sweetness, fear stirred again.
A disciplined man could still be frightened by what he did not understand.
That same night, Trinity returned from Harlem to find Cedric’s message waiting: Thank you for trusting me with even the rooms you did not open.
She sat on the edge of her bed in her black robe, reading the message more than once while the house settled around her.
He had understood that she had held something back, and instead of pushing, he had thanked her for what she had given.
That kind of patience felt almost unbearable.
Downstairs, the roses in the foyer were beginning to open wider, their fragrance drifting upward through the quiet house, and Trinity imagined Cedric standing there, seeing them, asking questions, trying to connect the pieces she had left scattered.
Across the Bronx, Dominique sat near her bedroom window with Jamal’s last words still warming her and the navy dress draped over a chair, elegant evidence of a night that had moved her closer to a man she still had not fully trusted with the truth.
The happiness was no longer simple. It had become layered with longing, guilt, hope, and fear, and because it contained all of those things, it had begun to feel less like dating and more like story.