Path of Breath Read online

  “What?” Nick rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Kate. Don’t you have a test to study for?” He made quotation marks in the air as he continued down the cobblestone path.

  Kate still didn’t move. “You two have the same eyes,” she finally said, salivating. She couldn’t wrap this information around her mind. “Nick, come back. Let me…”

  “So? We have the same color of eyes? You have the same eyes as Mrs. Hampton, the librarian,” retorted the broody teenager, who was in obvious need of beauty sleep.

  “No, no, no,” Kate shook her head, not aware that Mr. Leiden’s eyelids were closed and his mind was reeling. “It’s that same familiar shade of blue. It’s not like the usual colors.”

  “Kate, cut it out. We need to keep going.”

  “It’s not dark, and it’s not light. It’s that bright, unfamiliar tint of blue that everyone wishes they had…not sea, and not cerulean. Well, of course you both know your own eye color, but I’ve never noticed it before. And, well, you’re the same height, too!” She jumped up in nervous excitement. “Sorry, both of you, I’m lacking in sleep. I think I need an energy bar.”

  Mr. Leiden’s eyes flashed open and he remembered where he was. He felt dizzy and discombobulated for a moment before falling over like an abandoned doe without its mother. He landed on his side as he coughed in pain. He was alive again, his veins rejuvenated by adrenaline. As his neck fell against the stone path, a sudden memory had flashed through his mind. But just as quickly as it had returned, it vanished, and Mr. Leiden was left with two frightened teenagers in the middle of an especially dark Maine night.

  “Mr. Leiden!” Katherine screamed, falling to her knees. She lifted his head as he coughed again and gently attended to helping him while Nick pulled the grown man to his feet.

  “Are you drunk?” Nick’s mumble wasn’t meant to sound cynical, but it did.

  Mr. Leiden ignored Nick’s harsh comment and looked back at Katherine. Somehow, the memory seemed to be connected to her. For a brief moment, he could see a bright light shining on her, electrifying her into pure radiance. Soon after, the normal darkness covered his surroundings and he continued walking along with the kids. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Yeah, well, I fainted earlier, so it’s not like you’re the Grim Reaper or anything.”

  Kate looked back at Mr. Leiden and gave him a small smile, trying to atone for Nick’s sudden moodiness. They had entered the residential district where Nick lived. In fact, his meager cottage was located on the invisible line separating the cottages and the town. Despite its size, his cottage had more land than most of the other brick abodes.

  Kate knew it was his because she had passed it many times on her drive to school, and she could see Nick and his brothers, who strangely didn’t look alike, playing ball together outside. Sometimes, it was too cold for them to be out, and on those days, Nick somehow still managed to stay in the fresh air. Kate had seen him constructing an airplane out of pure wood one day when they were little, and another contraption she couldn’t recognize as she passed.

  “Nick?”

  Nick, his eyes illuminated against his rosy skin, looked back at her. “Yeah?”

  “You create things, don’t you?”

  Nick was taken aback by this question. The youngster remembered Mr. Leiden asking that very same question. “Mr. Loring, it has come to my attention that you like to build things, correct?”

  “Well, yes, I do,” he finally announced, his lips dry from the icy temperature. He nervously thrust his hands in his pockets.

  Kate nodded curtly before waving goodbye to her fellow companions. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Leiden, Nick.”

  “Are you sure you can walk the distance to your home with no trouble, Katherine?” asked Mr. Leiden as he turned his own path eastward to his small apartment. “I will come with you if you need me.”

  Nick watched as Mr. Leiden humbly offered himself to help others, and headed his own way home. Nick couldn’t bear the fact that Mr. Leiden had tried to come back for them, and he didn’t know why a middle-aged teacher like would care so much for a teenage punk like him. Nick didn’t think of himself as a rebel, because he followed the rules. But somehow, he sensed Mr. Leiden was trying to improve Nick’s life, and he didn’t want or need that.

  Nick grumpily stalked off, the lampposts flickering all at once now. It would have freaked him out if he had been paying attention, but he dug his hands deeper into his pockets. Mr. Leiden was a lunatic, he decided. But oh how he was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IZZIE SLUMPED DEEPER into the cozy, plush loveseat that had remained her constant companion during her trials as the Wistilla, Maine, librarian. She was the qualified booklover in the town, and she was the only librarian in the county. This remote county, on the northern tip of Maine, was situated between Moose Cove and the scarcely populated Sandy Cove, both of which were full of giant trees, wildlife galore, and beautiful, rainy landscapes.

  It was the perfect place for a broody librarian, with its constant rain showers and small-town living. It was the perfect place to raise a family, and she had counted back the generations of her family that lived there. The Compton family, of which Izzie belonged, was the founding threshold of Wistilla, and had continued to reside there until its last descendant, Izzie herself. All her remaining family members were dead, and she was alone. Now, she was connected to the only library in the county, one of which Wistilla was duly proud of.

  Izzie was a good librarian and a good person, a combination any library would want. It helped that she knew of practically every book in the universe, and was a descendant of the Compton brood. She was a pretty woman, though simple, too, and while other gals preferred dresses to impress each other, Izzie wore sweatshirts and jeans year-round. She liked cuddling up with her pet cat, Tolstoy, while reading a good book at home, waiting all night for her husband to show up.

  While the thought crossed her mind occasionally, Izzie suspected his infidelities. For some peculiar reason – a reason no wife should want – Isobel Hampton did not care. She had cared at first, but with the flutter of her heart from meeting that stranger on the corner of Maple and Juniper, she forgot all about her husband. It sounded harsh, but Izzie was used to fantastical, whimsical stories, and her husband wasn’t Rhett Butler.

  She was intrigued by this man, though. He seemed different, not only because of his non-American distinctions, but because he was reserved, yet handsome and thoughtful. Izzie had overheard bits and pieces about him from lovesick youngsters who had entered the impressive, two-story library in need of school-related books. She knew his name was Christoph Leiden, but that name didn’t seem to fit a man like him.

  He was tall, above six-feet. He had a pair of gorgeous, unique blue eyes which were more pronounced in the dark fortresses of Wistilla, Maine. He was lean, skinny almost, with long legs and arms. He had longish dark-golden hair and a beautifully chiseled jaw, a tiny splash of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and golden stubble on his chin. Christoph Leiden, or as Izzie called him, The German, was a handsome specimen of a man, not because of his attractive looks, but because of what she had witnessed of him nearly three years ago.

  It had been a dark day, much like this one, and Izzie was late to the library. She had burned her toast and spilled a mug of coffee onto Paul’s new, pristine suit. She endured an evil slur of harsh words from him because of the mug, and left the small apartment with tears stinging her navy eyes.

  The bitter wind, possibly a zephyr, had chapped her pink lips, and undone her hair from its usual ponytail. So, as she fought this harsh gale and her own unruly locks, she almost managed to fall over onto her face in the middle of Juniper Street just as a car hurtled past, honking at this awkwardly clumsy lady teetering over! In reality, Izzie did look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but just as she was about to trip…

  Strong arms gripped around her waist and pulled her to safety on the farthest side of the cobblestone path. Izzie had been confused at first
, her new cup of coffee completely spilled again, but as she tried to manage a quick apology and thank-you, the arms lingered for a few seconds before breaking away.

  Izzie looked up, trying to guess her rescuer’s face, to see the man she had dubbed The German. He scurried down Maple, heading to Cherry for his English class. That was the first time Izzie had seen that man, a man who had saved her from a tormented embarrassment, and the man she actually had feelings for. And at that moment, Izzie bit her tongue in frustration.

  HOWEVER, TODAY, WHILE she pictured the beautiful, tainted love affair between Heathcliff and Catherine in Wuthering Heights, one of her favorite classics, she was unaware of a new customer who had opened the door to her domain. Izzie slurped on coffee as her eyes widened with the book’s dramatic climax, and when she was about to curse the whole storyline (one she had known since childhood), someone tapped a long finger on her shoulder.

  Izzie, like we know her now to be, jumped up and dropped her coffee mug all down the front of her sweatshirt. She yelped once, the hot liquid which was refreshing against her throat seconds ago, burned her skin. She tugged on her sweatshirt, thinking about tearing it off of her skinny body; however, she didn’t.

  A woman’s voice chirped, “Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry!” in a Southern accent.

  Izzie wanted to hide in a bat’s cave. “I’m so sorry,” Izzie crooned while she bit her lip, trying to think of anything to say. “I’m just so klutzy sometimes. I’m so sorry to frighten you.”

  “Oh, heavens no,” the woman replied, pushing on rectangular glasses. She could be a pretty woman, Izzie decided, if she would get rid of the matted, fried red-brown hair and baggy clothing that made her look three sizes too heavy. The cheap, red lipstick didn’t help her plight either, but Izzie reminded herself that she wasn’t the leader of the fashion department at Vogue, either.

  “Can I help you?” Izzie squealed, still fanning her burning stomach as she reached to clean her coffee-stained loveseat. The old thing had many stains on it, but this one looked to be the worst. She sighed, but turned back to the woman.

  “Well, hi. I’m new in town, and I wanted to meet the renowned librarian Izzie Hampton!” The woman purred, flashing an overly-white smile. She stood on her tiptoes as she clapped. “I love to read, and back where I’m from, it’s all about cowboy romances, and I’m just so sick of it! I want to read about the Witch Trials, or whatever happened in Maine!”

  Izzie’s shoulders slumped. She appreciated the woman’s bubbliness, but she wasn’t in the mood at the moment. She wanted to go back to the romance between Heath and Catherine, and then she remembered her job title and routinely smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you. But you do realize that the Salem witch trials happened in Massachusetts, right? However, I could still find you a book on that subject…”

  The woman’s mouth sagged and she croaked, “Oh, how stupid of me! I move to Maine, and can’t keep it straight from Massachusetts.” She laughed once, before turning back to Izzie. “My name is Olivia Moore. I’m so ready for a change of pace. I live a block away, and my landlord recommended meeting you. Said you’re the smartest woman in the vicinity.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Izzie said, trying to enact Olivia’s bright personality. If she had to give Olivia an award for anything, it would be that shiny happiness. “Well, I hope you like Wistilla.”

  “Oh, something tells me I will,” Olivia winked.

  “Are you here permanently?”

  Olivia’s eyes glistened. “I’m not sure, honestly. I’m here for a certain project. And I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  “Wistilla’s the perfect place to stay. If you need anything, just stop by.”

  “Thanks,” Olivia mouthed, blowing a kiss as she hefted her purse on her shoulder. “I have to go now, but I’ll see you later, Izzie. Bye now!”

  Izzie happily whistled after Olivia left the library and skipped out into the typical, gray Maine afternoon. The librarian quickly took off her sweatshirt now that no one was around, and examined her torso, which was still faintly scolding. She winced as she touched the irritated skin, and with her back to the door of the library, she angrily cursed her ill-fated luck. With dramatic flair, she stomped her foot and cursed the stars in beautifully practiced French.

  Meanwhile, as she clucked around like a well-fed seal, the door to the library opened and a breath of fresh wind hit her bare skin.

  Needless to say, our heroine squealed. She covered her chest awkwardly with a pillow and looked back, her face covered in pure embarrassment. Please be Paul, she thought.

  Before her, of course, was The German, his eyes focused into hers. Izzie wanted to faint, or possibly die, but she managed to say, “Hi. Let me…uh…”

  The German’s lips curved into a coy grin. He was amused by this woman fumbling for her sweatshirt, but he noticed her pained expression and hurried to her assistance. “Are you all right?” he demurely whispered, his voice tingling against Izzie’s skin.

  “Um,” Izzie croaked, feeling utterly exposed. She pulled the sweatshirt over her chest quickly, but The German caught a glimpse of her red skin.

  He expressed with clear concern, “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing,” she mumbled.

  “It’s not nothing,” he argued. “Here, let me see it.”

  “Why would I let you…”

  “Listen to me,” he whispered, close enough so she could feel his warm breath against her skin. She almost fainted with those blue eyes locked with hers, and she could count each individual golden freckle on his nose. “Let me help you,” he gently added.

  How could she not allow him to help her? She nodded. “Okay.” She tried to nod confidently, but with him so close to her, it was hard to focus.

  “Do you have a kitchenette in this place?”

  “Yeah, follow me.”

  He drifted behind her, past the hundreds of shelves of unread books. His mind wandered and he salivated, partially because of his love for reading, but also because he had finally taken a leap of faith. He had gone into the bookshop, and he had decided to talk to Isobel Hampton. As he watched her sway beyond the various shelves of the place, he could feel the historic touch of its accounts. This place itself was like a story. It continued and continued, through novels and novellas, and he almost lost himself in the books marked “J.”

  He returned his attention to Izzie’s health, and regained his lead, watching her enter a tiny kitchen space. It was outdated, but a few candles gleamed on the countertop. He looked at her through the haze of the reddish light, and her shyness was evident as she pushed a spare lock of blonde hair into her ponytail. “Let me see,” he whispered.

  Izzie raised her shirt again, and he inspected the splotch of red, inflamed skin. “Ouch. What did you do?” He asked, looking up at her.

  She gulped, almost forgetting he was talking to her. “I spilled coffee on me. How petty, right?” What am I doing?

  “Not at all,” he responded with a casual wink, before turning to the cabinets. He located a washrag, and turned on the water spigot. After feeling the cold liquid liven his hands, he turned back to her and dabbed her stomach.

  She sat on the countertop, wincing in pain, but she ignored it. Instead, she was nervous because of his presence. She stared at him as he repeatedly concentrated on healing her burns. Finally, he asked the question she dreaded. “What is this scar?”

  He didn’t touch it, and didn’t step back out of disgust or fear. He looked up at her again with compassion.

  Izzie’s gaze quickly fell to her feet. She finally decided to answer him truthfully. “It’s an appendix scar. I had my appendix removed when I was nineteen. It left this nasty scar…” And…she almost mentioned her husband’s disgust whenever he saw it. When Paul had first seen the scar, he had used it as a hurtful joke, about her being “blemished.”

  Seeing the sadness fill her navy eyes, The German stood to his full height, six inches taller than her, and angrily commanded, “There is n
othing to be ashamed of that scar, Isobel. It makes you you, and you should embrace yourself because of it. That scar saved your life. Whoever tells you it is filthy and wrong should be punched in the head. I’d give him a scar, that’s for sure…”

  Izzie touched his arm, forgetting their physical contact. It was natural between them. Her eyes radiated a motherly glow, and she gently whispered, “What if I am the person who hates it?” Normally, she was a terrible liar, but she actually sounded convincing today. And her heart warmed at the thought that The German knew her name. And the way he said it, too, sounded strangely familiar. A memory was beginning to form in her head, but quickly replaced with The German’s melodic, yet husky voice.

  He stepped a foot away from her and scratched his forehead. He closed his eyes quickly and decided to give up this fight. However, he knew the scar wasn’t an appendix removal scar. In fact, he could deduce what it really was, though the woman was convinced it was something else. “Isobel, there is no reason to hate it.”

  Izzie’s eyes darted to the ring on his right finger. It was a rich gold color, though the jewelry itself looked cheap and worthless, and maybe even…impersonal?

  “I feel better,” she said, changing the subject. He needed to leave fast. She was married, and so was he. Paul would blow a gasket if he knew this is how his wife spent her work day.

  The German scowled, but he nodded. He understood what Izzie had been looking at, and he neatly placed the wet rag on the sink. “I came to find a book, one I have lost, and one I miss dearly.”

  “As you can tell,” she tried to tease, “We have about every book you could imagine.” She glanced around the cramped library with appreciation and admiration. She stood up, pulling her sweatshirt over her stomach, and began walking toward the aisles and aisles of books that stood against the tall walls, under the staircase, and on the second floor, which was used as more of a balcony than a second level.