The Other Mr. Bax Read Online Free PDF Page B

of—
    “Can I be of any help?”
    She started, spun around—a nametag, right there, Roland Bax, almost chin level. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck bristled as their eyes met.
    Before she could gather a reply, he said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”
    “Uh…” She practically had to coax the words from her mouth. “I really like your art pictures… art works… your art.” Her face bloomed with heat.
    “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.” He indicated the drawing she’d been admiring. “One of my more spontaneous and… I think you’re the first to ever notice it.” He grinned. “And right there is why I make art, you know—attention and praise.”
    She again looked at the drawing, wondering if she was hearing a sales pitch. “I was here a bit ago, when you were… You weren’t here. They’re all really fascinating though.”
    He threw his hands up. “I just can’t get enough of that.”
    “You’re making fun.”
    His eyes were all at once serious. “Having fun. And maybe being a little naïve.”
    “Okay.”
    “Who doesn’t thrive on praise?” he said. “I joke about my motives for making art because I sound too much like a cliché otherwise.”
    Joyce glanced into his eyes—deep set, dark, intense, but inviting when he smiled. She was painfully aware of every word she spoke—aware of her hands, her feet, her lips, her eyes, aware of her awareness. She noted his height—nearly a head taller than she—and his hair—black with a smattering of white, cut short, Caesar style, short bangs, no part. She wanted to stare, not because she found him attractive, which she did, but for a reason she couldn’t quite get at.
    “Are you from around here?” she said.
    “Illinois. I just came down for a couple weeks to try my hand at the festivals. A kind of exploratory vacation.”
    A couple in their fifties stepped up to his display, giving each piece a glance before the woman stopped to inspect a particular drawing more closely.
    “I’m obviously no expert,” Joyce said, “though I’d imagine you’d be doing okay here with the awards they offer.” She held up a festival pamphlet she’d picked up on her way in.
    He shrugged. “I manage to cover my expenses and maybe take home some change.” His eyes swung toward the display to the north of his—life-size wooden ducks—then back to his. “It’s fun though.”
    “Well, I’d be surprised if you didn’t take the top prize.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “You’re one of the judges, aren’t you?”
    The woman who had been looking at his drawing broke in. “Excuse me. Are these prints?”
    Roland turned to Joyce, lowered his voice. “Would you excuse me for a moment.”
    As he moved off toward his potential sale, she whispered, “Good luck.”
    She returned to the drawing they’d been discussing, and every so often glanced toward Roland as he engaged his prospective buyers. She overheard the husband asking how much time was involved in a particular drawing and then another. The wife wanted to know if he had anything with color in it. A second couple stepped up, and the first walked away. Roland introduced himself to the new couple, who were even more inquisitive than the first: the husband asked about his technique, wanting to know what it was called, where he studied, who his influences were.
    Joyce stepped around to the outside of his display and pretended to study a drawing hanging there. The conversation taking place inside the display was engagingly transpicuous: Roland talking about impressionism and expressionism, and a piece he’d recently completed. And then, there they were, coming around the corner to see the drawing he was describing, which happened to be the one she was standing before. She stepped back out of the way. The wife stepped forward, taking her place. Roland slipped Joyce a sheepish, embarrassed smile, and an apologetic shrug. She took another few steps back.
    Someone walked by, stepping