Page 21 of The Forbidden Summer
We approach the clearing where the lake gleams in the midday sun, its surface smooth as glass. The knot in my stomach, the one that had dragged me down last night, feels heavier than ever now. But it’s not a misery I think I can live with, not anymore. Not if it means I have to deny what’s inside my heart.
Van
The morning after the hike, I find myself standing in the small shed behind the cabin. The smell of must and old wood fills the air, and the place is dim, the light barely breaking through the grime-covered windows. I’m on a mission for one thing—my whetstone. Père said he’d show me how to properly sharpen my axe.
But of course, there's a catch.
Spiders. They're everywhere in here. And not the tiny little guys either. No, the shed's inhabitants are the kind that could have their own zip code. My fingers itch with theimpulse to just turn around and go back inside. It’s not like I need the damn sharpening stonethatbadly.
I feel like a fool, wishing my big strong grandpère was here to protect me, seeing as I’m twenty-two and should be braver, but come on! They’re so nasty.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. As I step inside, I knock over an old toolbox with a loud crash, the clattering of metal echoing off the walls. I flinch, eyes immediately darting to the corners, half-expecting a dozen angry arachnids to come pouring down at me.
Thankfully, there’s nothing but a billow of dust motes.
For a second, maybe two, I debate leaving the mess and running for my life, but against my better judgment, I crouch down to clean up. Instead of a rush of venomous spiders, something else catches my eye. Beneath the mess of fallen tools and broken bits of wood, something shines faintly. Brushing aside the debris, I pick it up and hold it up the the faint stream of light cutting through the darkness. It’s an old key, worn and heavy, the metal tarnished with age.
It’s one of those skeleton keys you see in old movies. I shove it in my pocket and finish putting the tools back inside the rusty toolbox. I grab the whetstone from the workbench and when I turn to flee, I spot that old dusty trunk. The one that’s tugged at my curiosity for days. The weathered brass lock gleams in the faint light, and it hits me suddenly.
The keyhole… it’s skeleton-shaped. Does this key fit it?
With my heart pounding a little faster, I climb over the paint cans and buckets and crouch down in front of the trunk. Pulling the key from my pocket, I stick it in the lock.
It fits like it was made for it.
With a twist and a click, the lock gives way, and I lift the lid.The hinges creak as the lid rises, revealing stacks of bundled letters, some yellowing with age, tied with old twine. I can see fragments of newspaper clippings, faded photos, and odd mementos—pieces of a life long past.
Père comes up behind me, his dark shadow falling over the trunk’s contents. “What’ve you got there, son?”
“Who were Harold and Elliot?” I ask, staring at the faded names written in elegant script on the top envelope.
“I have no idea. Why don’t you grab those and bring them inside so we can have a proper look.”
I retrieve the bundled letters and a few loose photos and close the lid, slipping the key back in my pocket.
Père follows me into the kitchen, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor as I lay the letters and photos out on the table. He stands over my shoulder, watching quietly as I pick through the fragile papers. The envelopes are tarnished and dusty, but no addresses, just names, like they were exchanged in person.
“Who were Harold and Elliot?” I ask again. I can sense Père’s hesitation. He’s always been careful with what he chooses to reveal about the past. There’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s not sure if he should tell me—or maybe if I’m ready to know.
Père sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he shuffles his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure,” he says slowly. “I never knew them personally. But they were... well, people in the family used to whisper about them.”
This cabin has been passed down from generation to generation in Père’s family, but I’ve never met most of them, let alone heard their histories. I lift one of the letters, carefully untying thetwine that binds it together. The paper inside feels fragile, like it could crumble to dust with the wrong touch.
“Whisper about them?” I repeat, looking up at him now, my curiosity piqued.
“Yeah,” Père says with a small, half-smile. “You know how it is with small towns. People talk. Harold and Elliot were... a couple of men. Back then, that didn’t exactly go over well.”
I look at the letter in my hand, the ink faint but still legible. The words on the page seem to leap out at me, written in the same graceful, flowing script as the names on the envelope.
My dearest Elliot,
I have never loved anyone the way I love you. Our souls are bound, and if the world cannot accept us, then we will create our own.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening as I read the words. There’s so much history here, hidden between the lines, a love that has survived time and secrecy.
Père’s voice softens as he speaks, but there’s a faraway quality to it, as if he’s remembering something long buried. “It wasn’t just love, Van. It was something more. Something forbidden.” He pauses. “Back then, people had a hard time accepting things like that. But... they loved each other anyway. They were cousins,” he admits, shocking the shit out of me.
“For real? Like, by blood or by marriage?”
