The Other Mr. Bax Read Online Free PDF Page A

acknowledge. Roland, after all, had only been gone a few hours. But then his leaving unannounced was something he’d rarely done before—only once, that she could remember. He was upset at the time… very upset.
    She took a bite from her rollup—her thoughts drifting from the conversation with her sister, to Roland, then skipping to the day following her arrival in Tampa—all those years ago.
    Her sister had left for work by the time she woke that first morning there. Joyce had her day pretty well planned out: the Dalí Museum, lunch at Ted Peter’s Seafood Shack, a walk on the beach, and then back to the apartment to spend the evening with her sister. She put the couch she’d slept on back in order, showered, dressed, helped herself to a bowl of granola, then headed out for the day.
    As was typical of Florida, the day was hot, humid, and sunny. Her drive into downtown Saint Petersburg was dotted with memories of her earlier life there: Tampa Gardens, Disney World, high school, a canoe trip with old friends, a Zappa concert. She wondered about the boy who’d taken her to the concert, Alec Walker—their first and only date. Fifth Street… Alec… talked like he had only minutes left to live. 1957 Chevy … the poor kid… Fourth Street… Was that my first-ever rock concert ? No, it was that really big place on Kennedy. Who was it ? Chicago ? Third Street …
    Joyce was about to make a right turn when she noticed a crowd of people mingling about the park near the South Yacht Basin, a block ahead of her car. A banner stretching across the road read, “Mainsail Art Festival.” On impulse, she turned left, found a public garage near the park, and left her car there.
    The park was laid out like a miniature village with displays of paintings, sculptures, and various crafts, lining shaded, grassy lanes—and people shuffling about in every direction—dense crowds around some displays, a thin smattering around others. The air carried the fried food smell of a carnival: sausage, onions, peppers, potatoes. Joyce entered a small, white, tent-like structure with watercolors hanging, inside and out, from its walls. The paintings were mostly cityscapes, the older parts of southern coastal villages, traditional in style, and skillfully rendered. She stepped out and around to her right to look at the work hanging outside the tent. An old man under a white, Panama hat, a rather bulbous nose, and a tired smile on his whiskered face, sat in a chair near the display.
    “How ya today, Miss?”
    Joyce gave him a quick smile. “Fine, thank you.” She pointed to the painting hanging next to her. “These yours?”
    “Been painting for over thirty years now. This is my sixth year here at this show. Not what it used to be, though.”
    Joyce glanced from the art to the artist, wondering what wasn’t what it used to be.
    “Used to be more fussy who they let show at these things. See that crazy kid with the sticks in the ground down the way?” The man tipped his head to his right. “Whaddaya make of that? Art?” He shrugged. “You just wait and see. They’ll go an’ pin a ribbon on those sticks before it’s over. Simply amazes me.”
    “Well, now I’m curious.” She grinned. “I’ll have to have a peek at that.”
    The old man rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What is that? They call it controversy, don’t they… which automatically makes it good.” He chuckled.
    Joyce complimented the man on his work, wished him luck, then continued her exploration. The majority of displays she passed attracted no more than a cursory glance. To her left was a crowd of people absorbed by what appeared to be framed illustrations from children’s books, and to her right, largely devoid of spectators, was a display of drawings that looked promisingly different. She stepped in for a closer look.
    The drawings were done with pen and ink, black on white, in an abstract style. Upon close inspection, she saw they were far more intricate