Page 1 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

Damn, that’s some hard wood. No matter how many times I whack it, I can’t seem to finish it off.

Raising the axe over my shoulder, I take another swing at the log, finally making the smallest fissure. My next swing chips away at it, widening the crack, and the following blow splits it in half.

“Fucking finally,” I huff, wiping sweat from my brow.

Why am I even bothering? Wood this dense isn’t going to carve well.

Last summer at the county fair, I watched a guy carve stumps into intricate art with nothing but a chainsaw and chisel.

I must’ve stood there for hours, watching him shape something from nothing, guessing what the final piece would turn into.

When I left that night, I was sure I wanted to try it for myself.

And here I am, still trying. And not half-bad, either.

The pieces I’ve sold have kept me afloat, enough so that I haven’t had to work while attending community college. It also means I’ve had to show up at every craft fair and festival within three counties, instead of taking holidays or long weekends off from school.

But this summer is different. Summers are sacred. It’s my time with Père—a chance to get away and leave everything behind. To catch up on all the little things we miss out on during the year.

A pang of nostalgia hits me hard. There was a time when we shared everything—every Sunday dinner, every school project, every soccer game, every good and bad day. Père practically raised me. But when my mom remarried and we moved away, things changed.

Now, it’s different. The distance between us isn’t just miles—it’s a gap that started when I was forced to grow up too fast. The visits have become fewer, the conversations less frequent. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss those days when it was just him and me.

I can hear Père’s voice from the porch, calling my name in that deep, gravelly way that’s graced my dreams since puberty. I pause for a moment, letting the axe fall to the ground beside me.

“Coming,” I shout back, wiping the sweat from my forehead once more.

I stretch my shoulders, feeling the tight muscles protest after hours of work. When I make my way to the porch, I find him leaning back in his chair, a cold beer in hand, the sun beginning to dip low in the sky.

“Look at you,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Making a dent in that old oak. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I nod, sitting next to him. “Yeah, it does. You finished unpacking the supplies?”

He shrugs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Plenty of time for work later. The whole point of the cabin is not to rush anything. How’s the carving going? Still making that art?”

I chuckle, rubbing my hands together. “Trying. It’s a work in progress.”

Père’s dark eyes twinkle, a silent approval hidden behind his tough exterior. “You know, when I was your age, I thought I had it all figured out, too. But it’s not the carving, or the wood, or the hustle—it’s what you build with your own hands that matters.”

Like that rocking chair he’s sitting in, and the new deck that wraps around two sides of the cabin we built three years ago.

I feel a flicker of something deep inside me—both warmth and a knot of uncertainty. He’s always had this way of speaking, like the answer is simple, even if it’s not. “I’m still figuring that part out, Père.”

He nods knowingly, his expression softening for a moment. “Just keep carving, son. In the end, you’ll find your shape.”

My shape? It probably looks a lot like him. Père raised me, but he didn’t try to mold me into his image. He encouraged me to dig deep, to find that spark inside that would push me to do great things. He never expected me to follow in his footsteps, just to forge my own path.

But, in the end, I’m so much like him it’s almost ironic, considering we’re not biologically related.

I have his hands, worn and calloused from years of hard work.

His eyes, a bit too serious when I’m lost in thought.

His quiet strength, the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

And his stubbornness—the way he doesn’t quit, even when it’s easier to walk away.

It’s funny how nature doesn’t always have to play a part in the people who raise you.

I could’ve easily turned out to be someone else, someone completely different from him.

Someone like my mother or her husband. But I never did.

Somewhere along the way, I became his grandson in every way that mattered.

I glance at him, catching the hint of pride in his eyes, and I realize that whatever shape I’m carving into this world, it’s a bit of both of us.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta. Go wash up.”

I nod and make my way to the small bathroom off the kitchen, scrubbing my hands and face. The scent of garlic and tomatoes drifts in from the other room, reminding me of all the times we sat down together for meals like this. Simple, comforting, and filled with memories.

When I return to the kitchen, Père’s already got the table set. I pull out a chair and sit down, and the sound of the legs scraping against the floor breaks the silence. “Smells good,” I praise, leaning in to take in the steam rising from the pasta.

“Always does,” Père replies with a small smile, but his eyes don’t leave the stove. There’s something about him that always seems grounded—like he knows exactly where he’s meant to be, even if the world keeps changing around us.

When I was little, he was the center of my world.

My rock. Père chartered boats on the Minnesota lakes, catering to tourists and fishermen.

I’d watch him standing on the bow, or behind the wheel, and think he was a god.

Like Poseidon, ruling over the water and all its creatures, like loyal subjects. I believed him to be all-powerful.

But he couldn’t save me from being shipped off with my mom and her husband, and realizing he was only human, a mere mortal like the rest of us, was a crushing blow to my ten-year-old heart.

It shattered the image I’d built of him—the untouchable, invincible figure who seemed like he could do anything.

When I left, I tried to hold on to that memory, tried to keep him in my thoughts as the steadfast protector, the one who would always be there, no matter what.

But the distance grew, the visits became fewer, and with each passing year, I learned that no one, not even Père, could shield me from the things I couldn’t control.

I glance out the window, the fading light outside casting long shadows across the yard. “You ever wish things were like they used to be?”

Père pauses, the spoon in his hand hovering over the pot. “Can’t go back, son. But I wouldn’t trade the days we’ve had for anything.”

Son. He’s always called me that. Always treated me as if I belonged to him, even though I wasn’t really his. It’s a word that’s always carried weight, like a promise he made without saying it aloud.

I’ve always either called him Père, short for Grandpère, for his French-Canadian heritage, or Captain. I don’t think I’ve ever addressed him as Waylon . To me, he was never just a name. He was more than that—a title earned through years of loyalty, sacrifice, and love.

Père carries the steaming bowls to the table and takes a seat next to me. He eyes my bare chest, a dark brow lifting questioningly. “What happened to your shirt?”

“It’s damp and sweaty. I’ll shower after dinner.”

He grunts, clearly not satisfied with the answer but not pressing the issue. He sets his beer down beside his plate and picks up his fork, digging in without another word.

As we eat in comfortable silence, I can tell Père’s watching me, probably waiting for me to open up. But I’m not ready. Not yet. After being separated for so many months, it always takes me a few days to settle in and slip back into our familiar routine.

Finally, he puts down his fork, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, how’s the carving coming along?” His voice is casual, but I can hear the underlying curiosity. He always wants to know how I’m doing—what I’m really doing, not just the surface-level answers I like to give.

“Good.” I take a slow bite of pasta. “Still figuring things out, though. It’s not something I’ll likely make a career out of, but I enjoy it.”

“What about the computer programming?”

I pause, the fork halfway to my mouth. My stomach twists a little, not from hunger, but from the question. I’m two semesters away from earning my bachelor’s, but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t see myself dressing up in a suit and tie every day, face glued to a computer screen for hours on end.

I set the fork down and lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not for me, Père. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not cut out for that office life. It feels like I’m just going through the motions.”

Père studies me quietly. “You gotta do what makes you feel alive, son. You’ve always been the kind of person who needs to move, to be out there, in the world. That computer stuff? That’s not you.”

I let out a breath, relieved by his understanding. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the opportunities or the way the degree would open doors, but I know deep down I’m not made for that kind of work. Not when I could be outside, feeling the wind and sun against my skin, working with my hands.

“I can’t breathe in an office, Père. I’m not myself if I’m not outside, sweating and breathing in fresh air. It’s the only place I really come alive.”

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know exactly what you mean. Just don’t forget that. Don’t let anyone tell you what you’re supposed to be. Find your own path.”

I study him, his rugged face a mix of wisdom and experience. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’d been through struggles of his own. He understands the need for freedom, the desire to carve out your own life. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like maybe I can.

Despite being twenty-two and no longer a little boy, I feel the overwhelming urge to crawl into his lap and hug him.

There’s something about the way he sits there, steady and unshakable, that makes me want to be that small child again, seeking refuge in his arms. He always smells like fresh, clean man—a scent I associate with safety and comfort, one I’ve carried with me for years because of him.

I resist the impulse, but the warmth in my chest only grows stronger.

Père’s my rock, the one person who’s never wavered, even when everything else in my life has changed.

I feel the pull to him, the need to be close, to lean on him for a bit of that old strength I’ve been missing.

The kind of strength that makes everything else seem a little easier to handle.

Instead, I sit quietly, watching him as he takes another sip of his beer, his weathered hands still steady, his gaze calm.

I realize that no matter where life takes me, no matter how far apart we are or how much time passes, he’ll always be that pillar in my life.

And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel so lost.