The novel is complete… but… HERE is something I tried to write to tie all the stuff together. After the story exposition. Perhaps. The characters have lives after the novel; I’m in the process of deciding that doesn’t have to be explained. I probably will cut Grant Murdoch out of the novel, or at least, edit him down. SIDENOTE- I really didn’t want the dialogue to sound TOO HIP. I read some of my stuff; most likely too hip. Shit!

‘Let me show you my latest acrylic.” Grant Murdoch, Jr.  moved his foot against the Costco cooler bag that was leaning against the chain link fence and turned toward the shower between us and the bathroom building.

I pulled two old PeeChee folders, three notebooks in each, from the bag, coughed, and said, “I hope you’re not… perving out, Grant. I don’t want… guilt by association.”

“Because you’re a local?”

“Because it’s… yeah; the local thing. It’s…”

            Grant was smiling when he turned back toward me. “So, my father said that what he learned from all the notes was…”

            “The notes stolen from me.”

            “I thought you said it was a relief.”

            “It was. I didn’t know shit. People thought I did and told me… everything.”

            “Exactly. You and Grant Fucking Murdoch, Sr. agree. But… then you did.”

            “And… I am curious as to who stole my folders.”

            “Attorney-client privilege?” Grant nodded. “Inherited clients?” Grant smiled.

I put the folders back into the bag, pulled out the twelve-by-eighteen stretched canvas.

            A woman shuffled toward us. She was wearing a spring suit; short legs, full length arms; half-wrapped in a towel and wearing sandals. She leaned a well-used mid-length board against the fence, said, “Boys,” and moved toward Grant for a hug. Not a long one. Greeting length.

“Joey tells me you think he should cut me out of the book?” She didn’t respond. “I don’t move the plot… enough.”

“We’ll see. Joey can’t seem to let the… writing… go.”

            I handed the seascape to Grant, pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of my sweatshirt, and handed them to Julie. She looked at the painting, put one hand on Grant’s shoulder, the other on mine. “You almost caught the magic there, Grant.”

            “Almost,” Grant said.

            “Magic,” Julie and I said, me just a moment behind her.

COPYRIGHT Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading. NOW, WHERE are the waves?