The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(62)

David drove Erik to the airport to pick up Christine. At the gate he accepted a hug and took her carry-on bag, retreating tactfully so she and Erik could have a moment alone.

Christine, warm and loving on the phone yesterday, now stared unblinking at her eldest. She had been a competitive swimmer in high school and still retained a long, broad-shouldered physique. It gave her an uncompromising presence and made her appear taller than she was. Her golden-brown eyes matched Erik’s—right down to the red rims and circles beneath. Two deep lines angled from the sides of her nose, framing her full, proud mouth. Lines Erik had not seen before. The grey at her temples was new to him as well.

“I need a minute to be angry,” she said.

“I know.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

He nodded. “I know.”

She took Erik by the shoulders and shook him. Hard. Like he was seven and had run into the street without looking. “You could have been killed,” she said, her voice a razor-edge hiss through her teeth. “My God, Erik, what were you thinking?”

He let her do it. He had surpassed her in height years ago, he could have easily disengaged. But she was angry and frightened and he let her.

“Never again,” she said. “Don’t you ever…” She held him away, a finger held up by his face. “If I lose you, I will die. Do you understand?”

He nodded, closing his palm around her pointed finger and pulling her hand toward his face.

“Never again,” Christine whispered as he pressed his mouth into the heel of her hand. “You see someone with a gun, you hide or get the hell out of there. Don’t you ever…” She closed her eyes. The moment of fury passed through her. She shivered and drew a long breath in through her nose. Her eyes opened. Both her hands touched his face. “Oh my God,” she said, her voice worn down to a thread. “Honey.” Then her arms gathered Erik up and he crumpled into their grip. Together they sank on a pair of leather chairs and she held him tight. Her hand strong on his head. Her mouth on his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she said, rocking him. “You’re all right.” Her voice was unwavering. “I’m here now.” She took his head in her strong hands. Her brown eyes swept his face. She seemed to be looking for something. Erik stared back, defenseless, without guile. Christine smiled, her eyes bright with tears. She kissed his face. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered and pulled him to her again.

She took up a firm position behind Erik’s back, keeping a gentle hand on his shoulder through the hours and days. She took David under her wing as well, shocked nobody had come for him.

The truth was, David didn’t have many to come. At the time of the shooting, his Aunt Helen was clear across the country, visiting friends in California. David spoke to her on the phone, but Erik didn’t know if an offer to come to New York was made and declined, or if the offer hadn’t been there. Either way, David did not seem to need her presence.

“You don’t want her to come?” Erik asked. As he was practically sitting in Christine’s lap at any opportunity, he couldn’t understand it.

“No.”

“Why not? I mean, she’s all you have.”

David shrugged, squinting through the smoke from the cigarette he never seemed without these days. “What could she do?”

Erik was bewildered but he didn’t press it. All his own resources were reserved for getting through the days and being strong for Daisy. He had none to spare. David shadowed him nearly everywhere, somehow drawing whatever sustenance he needed by appointing himself Erik’s bodyguard. Erik was glad to have him. But he could not take care of him.

Erik and Christine stayed in the suite at the Sheraton for two days and then moved back to Colby Street. Erik took Will’s bed and gave his mother his own. They stayed because funerals lay ahead.

Four funerals in three days.

Not including James, the death toll rested at six. Marie Del’Amici, shot in the chest and head, lingered three days in a coma and died Wednesday. Her husband had her body cremated and took the ashes back to Italy. Likewise, Allison Pierce’s body had been flown home to Indiana for burial.

The remaining victims were Pennsylvanians and Erik and David went together to pay their respects. Neither of them owned a decent suit, so Christine took them shopping. Groomed down to the shoelaces, they went on Thursday to Trevor King’s wake in Allentown. The next day—on what should have been opening night of the dance concert—they went to South Philly and attended Manuel Sabena’s funeral in the morning, Aisha Johnson’s in the afternoon. Will, finally discharged from the hospital, came to Aisha’s as well, his arm in a sling, his hair brushed back into its ponytail by Lucky.

Taylor Revell’s funeral, on Saturday in Narberth, was the hardest. Daisy desperately wanted to go but her incisions were still open and she was confined to the hospital. Erik said he would go for both of them. He didn’t want to. He was sick to his stomach over it, thinking of how Taylor had switched roles with Daisy. A simple act of goodwill and she signed her own death warrant. What did you say to acknowledge such cruel, karmic events?

“Thank you”?

“I’m sorry”?

Words were useless.

He sat in the pew of the church, bolstered by Christine on one side and Will on the other, needing their bodies pressed right up against his arms. David and the Biancos sat in front of him. Behind were Leo Graham and his wife, and Kees with his lover, Anton. Safe at the center of this battle formation, Erik got through the funeral service. They drove back to Colby Street but he could not get out of the car. Hunched over in the passenger seat, his body refused to move. He didn’t cry. He felt quite calm. But the reserves were depleted. He was an old, weary man. It took the combined effort of David and Leo to get him back inside where he fell on his bed, still in suit and tie, and slept.