The Ylem by Tatiana Vila Read Free Book Online Page A

paintings
hanging everywhere. Crystal chandeliers shed light on every
section, painting the floor with flowing, graceful shadows. Roman
columns with white dangly flowers lined the walls, reminiscent of a
goddess temple. Baroque velvet chairs filled several spaces,
offering comfort amid the glimpses of creativity, and small
sculptures were set below the paintings, resting on pale, pristine
marble tables—beautiful and elegant, not what I would have expected
from a small town like this.
    Amid the beautiful concerto of paintings,
“The Hunters,” a beautiful pack of wolves in the snow under a
mystical moonlight, caught my undivided attention. The fusion of
white, silver and black was magical.
    Even though this painting was completely
different, it reminded me of one of my favorites: Van Gogh’s Starry Night . The night sky, filled with swirling clouds and
stars blazing with their own orb of light and bright cresset moon,
was otherworldly. The clouds looked like water, curving and
creating a visual dance with the stars, the movement astonishing,
something you could keep staring at for a long time and never get
bored. This beautiful pack of wolves was doing the same to me.
    “Kalista?” called a distant voice, snapping
me out from the trance. It was my dad.
    “Coming!” I said and hurried toward him. He
was standing in front of the doorway with another man, a few years
younger than my dad. But where he won in age, the man won in
height. He was tall, an imposing six four, with big emerald-green
eyes, brown hair, and light honey-colored skin. It reminded me
somehow of a certain person.
    “There you are!” my dad said when he spotted
me. “Let me introduce you to Julian Winfield.” He waved his hand
toward the imposing man.
    “Kalista, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The
man greeted me, holding out his hand in a well-mannered
gesture.
    “Mr. Winfield.” I said, shaking his hand.
Winfield? Wasn’t that Tristan’s last name also? Could he be a
relative? It would explain the resemblance.
    “Please, call me Julian,” he told me with a
stunning smile.
    Yep, they were definitely related.
    “Julian is in the Ruidoso Regional Council
for the Arts and, of course, he’s the owner of this exquisite
gallery.”
    That would explain the W in the
gallery’s name. “You have a beautiful gallery Mr.—I mean,
Julian.”
    “Thank you, Kalista. You’re welcome any
time.” His manner was gentlemanly, like an old-fashioned man from
another century. Could he be Tristan’s uncle?
    “You know, honey…this is one of the largest
art galleries in the north-southwest region, and one of the
finest,” my dad said.
    “It’s very kind of you, Peter,” Julian
said.
    I had to ask something to find out.
Something fast. “Do you live alone?”
    Jesus. What a stupid question!
    “Oh, no. I have two sons.” He smiled warmly.
“In fact, my youngest is with you at school.”
    I felt like a heavy rock had been dropped
into the pit of my stomach. Of course he was his father. The planes
of his face weren’t as perfectly outlined as Tristan’s—his nose was
a bit crooked, his thick eyebrows slightly uneven—he had the looks
of a Spartan soldier, stoically handsome. Still, that entrancing
emerald in his eyes and that soothing shade of his skin should have
given him away immediately.
    “Do you know him, honey?”
    “I…yes. I think I do. Tristan, right? I saw
him for the first time in school today.” I said.
    “Ah, yes. He left for a week to North
Carolina to run some…errands.”
    “North Carolina? Wow, beautiful place,” my
dad said. “My wife and I went there once, before she gave birth.”
He looked at me with a smile, as if remembering the trip.
    “It is beautiful. We used to live there
before coming here. But we love this town and its surroundings,” he
said.
    Okay, Tristan did go to North Carolina, and
he obviously had a girlfriend over there. Model or not, it
didn’t matter. It was his life. I should mind my own