My Projects

A small white house at the edge of a desert town. Sprinklers tick across a yellowing lawn.

In the driveway sits THE BELLE: a cherry-red 1968 convertible, chrome polished to a mirror. Every inch of her has been loved.

FRANKIE HARPER (36), sundress, denim jacket, a dozen silver bracelets, buffs the hood with a rag.

On the porch step, HANK, an old basset hound with a grey muzzle, watches her work like a foreman.

A rideshare pulls up. JUNE HARPER (44) steps out: charcoal blazer, low heels, a rolling suitcase that has seen a lot of airports. She looks at the house as if it might bite.

June lets that land. Hank waddles down the steps and presses his head against her shin. Her face softens, just for a second.

Frankie pulls a folded note from the steering wheel, where it has been taped, and holds it out.

INSERT — THE NOTE

Dad's handwriting, blue ink, a little shaky:

"Lake Ada. Both of you. Take the Belle. Hank rides shotgun."

BACK TO SCENE

June reads it twice. Folds it. Pockets it.

June drives, both hands on the wheel. Frankie has her bare feet on the dash. Between them, Hank sits upright on the bench seat, ears flying in the wind.

A shoebox of cassettes sits at Frankie's feet. She pulls one out: a tape labelled in marker, "LAKE ADA — SIDE A".

Frankie reaches for the tape deck. June catches her wrist.

Frankie holds her sister's eye, then drops the tape back in the box.

SERIES OF SHOTS:

— The Belle, a red dot on an endless grey road through the desert.

— Frankie's hair whipping in the wind. She laughs at nothing. June almost smiles.

— Hank asleep, jowls pooled on Frankie's knee.

— June's phone buzzes in the cup holder.

INSERT — JUNE'S PHONE

A message from OFFICE: "Board call moved to 3pm. You're joining, right?"

BACK TO SCENE

— June thumbs the phone off. She pops the glovebox to throw it in. The glovebox is stuck. She shoves the phone under her seat instead.

A chrome-and-vinyl diner in the middle of nowhere. A ceiling fan turns slowly. The sisters share a booth by the window; the Belle gleams outside.

Hank lies under the table, hopeful.

Frankie steals fries from June's plate. June lets her.

June stares out at the car.

Frankie drops a fry to Hank, slides out of the booth and leaves. The bell over the door rattles behind her.

Frankie sits in the passenger seat of the Belle, Hank's head in her lap.

June comes out holding a white paper box. She sets it on the dash. A slice of cherry pie.

June holds out the keys: a fishing-lure keychain with a tiny brass bell. Frankie looks at them, then at her sister.

The sky has turned the colour of a bruise. Wind bends the sagebrush flat.

The Belle skids onto the shoulder as the first heavy drops smack the windshield. Then the rain comes all at once.

Frankie and June haul at the canvas roof. It jams halfway.

Hank barks at the sky. The roof groans, sticks, and then snaps shut, trapping a corner of June's blazer.

They are soaked to the skin. They look at each other and burst out laughing.

Rain drums on the roof. The windows are fogged. Water drips from their hair.

June bangs her fist on the stuck glovebox. It drops open.

A road map falls out, the route to Lake Ada circled in red. Under it lies a white envelope, soft with age.

"JUNE", in Dad's handwriting. A stamp in the corner. An address she stopped living at years ago. Never mailed.

June turns it over in her hands. She can't open it.

June nods, and tucks the envelope inside her blazer.

The storm has moved on. The wet road shines gold. Steam rises from the asphalt.

At the open trunk, the sisters dig through Dad's old canvas duffel, still packed for a fishing trip that never happened.

They change behind the trunk lid: faded flannel shirts, rolled-up work pants, thick wool socks. Frankie jams Dad's fishing hat on June's head. It is too big. June leaves it on.

Hank sniffs the flannel and wags his whole back half.

Headlights on. The last light fading purple over the hills. Frankie drives now; June has her feet on the dash.

June takes the "LAKE ADA" tape from the box and slides it into the deck. A hiss. A click.

An old slow country song begins. Frankie hums along. June doesn't, and then she does.

Hank lifts his head and howls with the chorus.

A still mountain lake, silver under the first stars. A wooden dock runs out over the water.

The sisters sit at the end of it, jeans rolled, feet in the lake. Hank lies between them.

June takes out the envelope. Opens it. Unfolds one page.

June lowers the letter. Frankie takes her hand. They sit in silence, the water lapping at the dock.

The Belle waits at the shore, her chrome catching the last of the light. Hank sighs and closes his eyes.

FADE OUT.