Chapter 4 #5
Jamal rose slowly then, not rushing, and came to stand a few feet behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence but not so close that she had to decide whether to lean back into it.
“I understand wanting to be known before being judged,” he said.
“I do. But you have to give me some credit, Dominique. I am not a boy trying to date a fantasy. I am a grown man trying to learn a grown woman.” She turned toward him, and the vulnerability in her eyes made his voice soften further.
“Whatever you do, whatever this is, I may need time to understand it. I may ask questions badly. I may not react perfectly. But I would rather stumble through the truth with you than keep dancing around shadows and pretending I do not see them.” Dominique searched his face, wanting to believe him, terrified that belief might make the eventual disappointment worse.
“You say that now,” she whispered. “Because right now the truth is still shapeless. Once it has a name, you may feel differently.” Jamal took one step closer, his gaze steady.
“Then let me be responsible for my reaction, and you be responsible for your honesty.”
The words unsettled her because they were fair, and fear hated fairness.
Dominique had built a life around responsibility, yet here she was trying to manage Jamal’s reaction before he had even been allowed to have one.
She looked down at her hands, then back at him, and the distance between them seemed to hold every kiss they had shared, every laugh, every voice message, every patient look he had given her when she danced around something important.
“I am not ashamed,” she said, more firmly now.
“I need you to know that before anything else. I am proud of what I do. Proud enough to have fought for it, studied for it, built a business around it, and stood tall in rooms where people expected me to be decorative instead of excellent.” Jamal nodded, not interrupting, and she continued with more courage because his silence felt respectful rather than empty.
“But I also know what happens when people hear certain words. They stop seeing care and start seeing discomfort. They stop hearing service and start imagining sadness. They make my work smaller than it is and heavier than it has to be.”
Jamal’s eyes moved briefly toward the flowers, then back to her.
Something in his face changed, a flicker of realization beginning to form but not yet landing fully.
“Dominique,” he said slowly, “are you telling me your business is connected to families after a loss?” She inhaled, and because she was Dominique Toussaint, because she had faced difficult rooms with grace and still nearly trembled before one good man’s understanding, she answered almost fully, but not quite.
“Yes,” she said. “That is where the door begins.” Jamal absorbed the answer, his expression still open, though more serious than before.
He did not step away, and that steadied her more than he knew.
“Then I need you to take me through that door when you are ready,” he said.
“Not because I am entitled to every room tonight, but because I am already inside enough of your life to know when I am standing in the hallway.”
Across Brooklyn the next morning, Trinity sat at her kitchen island with Dominique on speakerphone while both women prepared for work and attempted to pretend they had slept well.
Trinity wore a black robe and stood beside a bowl of fruit she had not touched, while Dominique moved between her bedroom and bathroom narrating the previous evening with the flair of a woman who was not yet ready to admit how shaken she had been.
“He said I was editing the captions,” Dominique said, appearing on video now with one earring in and one missing.
Trinity paused with her tea halfway to her mouth.
“That is annoyingly good.” “Do not compliment him while I am trying to be offended.” “I am complimenting the line, not the man.” “The line came from the man, Trinity.” “Then be offended with accuracy.” Dominique pointed at the screen with a makeup brush.
“This is why people need less intelligent friends. A less intelligent friend would say, ‘Girl, he had no right.’ You say, ‘Unfortunately, the man has phrasing.’” Trinity smiled despite the heaviness in her chest. “He does.”
The humor carried them for a moment, then faded into the deeper concern both had been circling.
Trinity told Dominique about her conversation with Cedric, about how he had asked her to show him how to see the truth rather than simply naming it.
Dominique sat on the edge of her bed, still holding the makeup brush, and listened without interrupting because she understood that the line mattered.
“That is a good man,” she said finally. Trinity looked down at her tea.
“Yes. That is what frightens me.” Dominique nodded slowly, her own expression softening.
“Jamal said he would rather stumble through the truth with me than dance around shadows.” Trinity lifted her eyes.
“That is also a good man.” “Yes,” Dominique said.
“And that frightens me.” They sat with that for a while, two accomplished women in two beautiful brownstones, both facing the ridiculous and tender problem of having found men who might be worth trusting.
Bad men made decisions easier. Good men made fear more complicated.
At St. Clair Memorial House later that day, the profession refused to remain in the background.
A grieving family arrived early, a florist delivered the wrong color ribbon, a staff member needed guidance, and Trinity moved through each issue with the calm precision that had made her respected and relied upon.
Yet underneath her composure, Cedric’s words kept moving: Tell me how to see it.
That request changed everything. It was not enough now to simply confess her title and hope he understood.
She needed to help him see the work through her eyes before his own discomfort invented a story for him.
As she stood in the chapel adjusting a memorial table, placing a framed photograph beside a guest book and a small arrangement of white roses, Marva entered quietly and watched her for several seconds.
“You are thinking about him again,” she said.
Trinity did not look up. “You have become bold in your observations.” “I have always been bold. You were distracted by being in charge.” Trinity smiled faintly, smoothing the edge of the guest book.
“He asked me to show him how to see it.” Marva’s expression softened.
“Then perhaps invite him to see the part that is not frightening. Let him see the care before he hears the title.”
Trinity turned toward her, the suggestion both sensible and terrifying.
“Here?” Marva shrugged lightly. “Not during a service. Not around a family. But perhaps in your office, your chapel when it is quiet, the consultation room where you help people choose dignity when grief has stolen their words. If he only imagines the parts people fear, he will never understand the parts people bless you for.” Trinity looked around the chapel, at the polished pews, the soft light, the flowers, the orderly beauty created for people in pain, and for the first time she imagined Cedric standing there not as a shocked outsider, but as a man being taught.
The idea did not erase the fear, but it gave the fear direction.
“And if he still cannot handle it?” she asked.
Marva stepped closer, her voice low and kind.
“Then you will grieve the disappointment, not apologize for the calling.”
That evening, Cedric asked to see Trinity again, and this time she invited him to walk with her near Prospect Park rather than meet at a restaurant or cultural event.
The park edges were quiet beneath winter trees, and the cold gave them an excuse to walk close, though neither needed one anymore.
Cedric listened as she spoke about the difficulty of being seen in pieces, about how people often admired service in theory but became uncomfortable when service touched subjects they preferred to avoid.
He did not interrupt, but his hand remained around hers, warm inside his glove, steady enough to make her continue.
“There are people,” she said, watching a family cross the path ahead of them, “who think strength means nothing ever hurts you. They do not understand that strength often means something hurts, and you have trained yourself to remain useful anyway.” Cedric looked at her then, his expression unreadable for a moment.
“Is that what you do?” She held his gaze.
“Yes.” “For families?” “Yes.” “After a loss?” Trinity’s steps slowed, and Cedric slowed with her, giving the question space to breathe. “Yes,” she said. “After a loss.”