Marissa #4
Working with Pooja has been my dream since our days on Little LLC.
Looking back on it, it was always clear that she had creative vision and a talent for making a project the best it could be.
She had plenty of notes for production on how we could boost ratings.
Sadly, none were heeded, so she shared them with me instead during downtime on set.
Pooja always had the best ideas about how to turn our favorite books into TV shows (a Nancy Drew adaptation would be so much better, she used to say, if they would just lean into the campiness of it all).
Our biggest dream of all was to make movies together.
She would produce and I would star, and we would never cast Jonathan Tyler Green, who thought he was the next Timberlake but was, in fact, a talentless knob.
We never did make a movie together, though. She’s tried to get me to sign on to a few projects that she produced, but the timing has never been right. Making this movie would be the first time we’ve worked together since we were kids. I need to make this happen. For the sake of our younger selves.
After hanging up with Pooja, I take a quick shower and change into pajamas.
Sliding between the bedsheets, I glance around the room.
Shelby did an amazing job updating the space while preserving its charm.
A vintage chandelier has been mounted above the bed, and she replaced the linens with neutral but airy bedding.
And although she’s sanded and repainted each piece with eggshell-hued paint, she’s left all the original furniture in place.
Rolling onto my side, I stare at the framed photo on the bedside.
It’s of me and my grandmother sitting on the lake dock one summer when I was in elementary school.
The setting sun is a cotton-candy swirl of blues, casting our figures into dim silhouettes.
Vaguely, I can make out the shape of our neighbors’ houses through the surrounding trees.
I can’t quite tell which one is Jesse’s childhood home.
What a strange idea to live a life parallel to someone else’s.
To spend years existing alongside someone who is a relative stranger until one day they are anything but.
My gaze drops to the vintage brass drawer pull on the night table. Even though this room belongs to me now, this table is still my grandmother’s and opening it feels like an intrusion. But ultimately, curiosity gets the best of me.
I’m immediately hit with the scent of mothballs.
The contents of the drawer are largely predictable: tissues, a bottle of Advil, a satin eye mask, a dusty remote control to a TV that’s long been replaced.
I spot the program to my brother’s bar mitzvah and an old TV Guide that I’m betting contains a highlighted rectangle indicating Little LLC’s 5 PM time slot.
Warmth spreads through me as I imagine this, and I’m just about to close the drawer when my gaze snags on a cream envelope at the back of it.
My name is scrawled on the top in loopy cursive.
Based on its location, it must have slipped to the back when Shelby painted it.
Reaching inside, I pull out the envelope and lay it on top of the comforter.
Unlike the other items in the drawer, there’s very little dust on top, and I wonder if it’s a relatively new addition.
I stare at it for a moment, studying my grandmother’s handwriting.
Even though it’s addressed to me, taking it out of her drawer and opening it feels like a violation of her privacy.
But curiosity gets the best of me again, and I slip a finger through the seal and pull out the flowery notecard inside.
My dear Marissa,
If you’re reading this, I am gone, and the lake house is yours now.
You might be wondering why I chose you, but I suspect deep down, you already know.
I treasured our summers together and I want this place to always be a safe haven, a place to go whenever you need an escape.
The world has always been your oyster, and I know your talent will take you anywhere you want to go.
Just know that here, you will always be home.
Love always,
Grandma
I read the note again and again, until my eyes blur with tears and I can no longer make out the letters.
My grandma was right; my summers here were more than just a little slice of heaven.
They were always the perfect escape. Even now, it feels like she’s watching over me.
My own personal guardian angel. And she was right: This house was a refuge for me this summer, at a time when I needed it most. The past few months have healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken.
I wish she were here so I could tell her about Jesse. I wonder, if she remembered the little boy from across the lake, what she would have made of us finding our way back to each other. It occurs to me that maybe she already knows. That maybe this lake house was a gift to me in more ways than one.
My grandmother wanted the lake house to serve as a place of healing, so I could recharge before stepping into my own power. And just like that, I know what to do.