Page 20 of The Forbidden Summer
“Look at this.” My voice is quiet, almost reverent. I step forward, brushing my fingers along one of the rocks. They’re cool and smooth, their surfaces etched with time, shaped and smoothed by the lake water, each stone telling a story I can’t quite read.
Père comes to my side, his gaze falling on the pile of rocks. He crouches down, taking a closer look. “This wasn’t here before, was it?”
I shake my head, trying to remember. “I don’t think we’ve ever taken this path before.” The rocks seem deliberate, like they’ve been placed with intention, each one chosen carefully, weathered by years of wind and rain. “It’s like a marker,” I murmur, more to myself than to Père. “But a marker for what?”
He reaches out, running his hand over one of the stones, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes—recognition, maybe? Or just the kind of thoughtful curiosity that’s always been part of him.
“Maybe it’s an old monument,” he says slowly, his voice soft with wonder. “Something the early settlers left behind. Or maybe it’s a place of significance, for someone long before us.” He straightens, dropping his hand on my shoulder. “Have I ever told you about the legend of Pathfinder’s Lake?” Père asks, his voice taking on a mysterious tone, as though he’s about to weave a tale from another time.
“You’ve told me about the monster hiding in the woods that steals children who don’t listen to their grandfathers,” I remind him with a smirk.
He scoffs, giving me an exaggerated eye roll. “That’s a classic, and it’sstilltrue. But this is different. A real legend. A bit more... tragic, I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
I cross my arms, intrigued despite myself. “Tragic, huh? Okay, I’m listening.”
“According to legend, a Cheyenne Pathfinder fell in love with a preacher’s daughter. She was collecting water for her pioneering missionary group, and he was on a scouting mission. They crossed paths at the lake and fell in love at first sight.”
Père pauses, brushing leaves from the base of the monument, a small gesture that somehow makes the legend feel even more real.
“Anyway, they... you know,” he blushes, his cheeks turning a soft pink. “Right there by the water’s edge, they swam together and baptized their love in the lake. But they were soon discovered by both their people. Her party and his tribe. They were so enraged that they chased the lovers, trying to divide them. The couple decided they'd rather be together forever in the lake’s depths than be separated, so they gathered as many rocks as they could carry and, with one last kiss, drifted beneath the surface.”
It isn’t until he finishes that I realize I’ve been holding my breath the entire time. The air feels thick, full of history and aching nostalgia.
“Do you think it’s true?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Père shrugs. “Could be. Who knows? What matters is that you believe.”
My heart aches for those young lovers, real or not. There’s something about their story, something haunting in their sacrifice, that sticks with me. “Believe what?”
Père moves closer, his movements slow and deliberate. It’s a subtle change, but it feels so much more significant than just physical proximity.
“In the power of love,” he says, voice soft but firm. “That’s what matters. It’s what’s inside a person’s heart that counts, not the color of their skin.” He stands a little closer now, and I can feel his energy. “Or the age of their body.”
He’s talking about us. About the difference in our ages. It’s more than just a physical gap between us. It feels like something forbidden, a love that shouldn’t exist, like we’re swimming against a current that wants to pull us under.
“I wonder if these stones are a tribute to the lovers,” I murmur, looking at the pile again.
Père nods, his gaze tracing the rocks with an intensity that matches my own thoughts. “Perhaps. Maybe they were placed here by others who resonated with their love... or their loss.”
“Forbidden lovers?” I count the stones in my head, trying and failing to keep track. There are too many. “You think so many people have visited this spot?”
Père gazes at the monument, the wind tugging at his hair. “The concept of forbidden love isn’t as strange as you might think. You can’t help who you fall in love with. The object of your heart’s desire is a curious thing. All you can do is choose to heed the call or let go of it.”
I watch with a heavy heart as he disappears to the water’s edge. Père crouches down and carefully chooses a worn rock from the shallow water. It’s marbled in shades of gray and shaped like an egg. He returns to me, not making eye contact ashe approaches, and squats to place the stone at the base of the monument.
Is that it? Is he placing the rock as a token of what could be between us? Is Père letting me go?
“And if you choose to let go?” I ask, my voice thick with something that’s not quite bitterness but feels close enough. “What then? Do we all jump in the lake and drown ourselves because the misery is too much to cope with?”
Père’s face falls. He takes a long breath, holding it in his chest for a moment before letting it out slowly.
“Only you can answer that, Van.” His voice is quiet, a little sad. “Some people would rather not live at all than live without love. Others...”
He trails off, letting the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. The wind picks up again, carrying his words away. “Come on,” he says, his tone shifting. “Let’s head back. I’m ready for lunch.”
As we make our way back toward the cabin, skirting the edge of the lake, I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About what he didn’t say.
Am I one of those people who would rather live without love than face the consequences of loving someone I’m not supposed to? Can I even picture myself telling my parents the truth? That I’m in love with my grandfather? Can I hold his hand in public without the weight of shame?
