“Dear Ms. Haven Levins,
I am writing to you with a heavy heart to inform you of the passing of Ricky Watkins. The last will and testament will be read at his funeral proceedings on June 2nd 2025 at noon at Harvest Christian Church. I trust you are aware of the location.
You are named in the will and therefore are invited to attend the memorial. Failure to attend will not legally stop your inheritance but will deter the process. Please do attend.
In Bereavement,
Arthur Nakamura”
Haven wringed the letter in her hands for the thousandth time before shoving the wrinkled typed paper in her dress pocket. She kept reading it over and over, as if the message would change or a hidden meaning would show itself. Even on the 12 hour drive from Illinois to Georgia she didn’t stop reading it and muttering to herself at every pit stop and red light.
Because baseline, it made no sense. Unless her grandfather left her a cat food dish as a final backstab to prove he still thought of her in hatred, there should be nothing for her in that will. She was written out three years ago.
But here she was, walking into Manorfield Funeral Home in a knee-length black dress with puff sleeves. The fabric swished around her legs as the Summer heat followed her inside the building. There used to be air conditioning that broke the last time she was here. It was still broken judging from the beads of sweat already collecting behind her ears and white bangs.
The funeral home was a U-shaped corridor with rooms branching off, two of them in the bowl of the letter. Accordion partitions that normally divided the two were folded back to open them into one huge room. With an open casket and plenty of people crying and being sad over a dead man who worked his whole life and never went farther than Tennessee.
Walking in felt as earth shattering as walking into no man’s land. A box TV in the corner played a slideshow she pointedly ignored with piano music she blocked out. People weren’t milling about but there was room to walk around everyone standing around. Haven didn't recognize most of them but a few stood out: her great aunt Madgie who lived down the road from her grandfather sitting at a chair against the wall dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, Nancy and her family walking around and handing out mini water bottles and crackers, the Waters’ twins tottering around smiling and laughing right past the dead guy and-
And the grieving family.
Damnit. This is why she came close to the service time. She didn’t want to be around for the visitation. A signature book was on a bench next to the door and she picked a pen, signed her name with a weight in her wrist and chest, and walked towards the chapel.
It was small, connected to the funeral home, and not yet filled with people but they were filing in. Mostly older people and the elderly. A woman dressed in three layers of thick black, despite the 70 degree weather, brushed past her and a shiver shot down Haven’s spine. Her eyes scanned the pews and trained on a mostly empty row in the back right.
She slid in as far away from the others as she could. The pew was occupied by two kids that stared and their parents purposefully not looking her way. Haven didn’t recognize them and wondered how they knew her grandfather. Did they attend the church at some point? Maybe after she left? Or maybe he did a job for them and became friends like so many of her grandfather’s ‘clients’ did.
A blanket of weight draped over her neck. Eyes on her. Whispers in every pew. Questioning if she’s really who they think she is and if so, why was she sitting where she was? So no one knew, she realized. Her family members hadn’t given the real reason she disappeared.
Haven couldn’t tell if she was relieved or pissed.
The pianist from her family’s church sat at the organ and a hush fell over the chapel. Gaze fixed on the polished wood in front of her, Haven didn’t watch her family file in but the blurry movements at the corner of her eye knocked on the already splintering flood walls.
She dared a peek.
First her parents. Christopher and Kerry Watkins sat in the front row, her mother guiding her husband by the elbow. Aunt Sandra, Christopher’s sister and daughter of the deceased, sat on his other side with red eyes and a pale face.
Haven’s siblings followed right behind. Marty had gotten taller somehow or maybe it had just been so long since she’d seen him. He must’ve been 30 now and had to lean down to speak to their mother. Brooke’s dress was too similar to Haven’s and she wanted to puke; her puffy skirt flouncing around her knees as she sat down. Her legs were hidden by striped white and navy blue leggings.
Their grandfather’s favorite color.
Her older siblings hadn’t even noticed the baby of the family lagging ten paces behind the mourners line. Mason dragged his leather shoes down the aisle, tugging at his buttoned up collar. Haven didn’t even know they made three piece suits for preteens, but there was her 12 year old brother dressed to the nines for their grandfather’s funeral.
If only there were barf bags next to the hymnals.
Finally, the music drifted off on a high pink and the funeral director took his stance behind the pulpit. An elder man in his sixties, as bald on his head as the rest of his face, his smile was grim but present and he looked professional in his dark blue suit and tie. He made a motion with his hand and his son, an exact replica of him but maybe forty years his junior, perked up and opened the side door.
And in rolled grandpa.
Or his casket at least. Haven hadn’t even caught a glimpse of it in the viewing room, but it was…just a casket. A box of shiny wood that was indistinguishable from every other one the home sold to grieving families. Maybe it was a cherry wood color versus an oak. Maybe it had a thin copper edge to the lid instead of silver. Maybe the lining on the inside was satin in place of cheap wool to keep the corpse comfy until it decayed to skeleton remains.
Ricky Watkins was inside. Closed lid now. Probably was open for the viewing and the last time his family saw him: as a dead body with the soul long gone. But you can’t cry and pray over nothing so something had to go into the pretty box.
Haven had no desire to see inside anyway. She wanted to keep the last image of her grandfather as the very last until the end. As fake as it may have been, at least it was loving.
They left him dead center and the funeral director- Manny might’ve been his name -shuffled into the mic. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to not mourn, but to celebrate the life of Richard Ellsworth Watkins. A devoted member of the community and loving brother, father, and grandfather. Ricky, as most knew him by, was born and raised right here in Lula by his parents Ma Meredith and Pa Stanley.”
Neither of whom were present. Haven only had one great grandparent still alive, on her mother’s side. She had a vivid memory of walking through the family graves and her parents pointing out all their grandparents laid to rest side by side by side. Where they’d lay one day. Where she was supposed to be laid.
“Ricky does not leave behind an empty house. He is survived by his children, Christopher and Sandra, and seven grandchildren.”
No. No. Surely she heard wrong. Because unless someone else died and she wasn’t informed, then they didn’t even count her in his grandchildren. Did Manny forget about her or could he not count in his old age? Or did whoever wrote his little speech about her grandfather’s life conveniently leave her out?
Her fingernails curled into the pew and she hoped she was leaving scratches. Sandra stood up to give her eulogy but it was all white noise. Knees bounced and the toes of her short heels pointed towards the end of the aisle. Her mind wanted to leave and her body was getting ready to make a break for it.
But even standing up would bring the attention of every mourner in the room. Seventy pairs of eyes staring right at her with judgemental questions poised at her disrespect.
Sandra took her seat and Christopher started to stand up. He made it to the short steps but stopped short. Murmurs crawled around Haven but she stared as her father covered his face with a handkerchief and frantically shook his head. Brooke was quickly at his side and guided him back to the pew where he buried his head between his knees.
Kerry rubbed his back for a moment before stepping up to the plate, or podium. “I’m sure y’all understand why my husband won’t be speaking. This has been…a hard week to say the least. My father in law was so involved in our family and our church, that going forward, we will absolutely feel his absence. Ricky made me feel like part of the family the first day I met him and he was our biggest supporter since day one.”
Haven snorted and kicked her own shin. One of the kids in her aisle snickered and several adults around her looked horrified but her eyes trained on Kerry. Her mother had paused in her perfect, definitely improvised and not planned for, speech and noticed her for the first time.
Kerry’s eyes widened and her back somehow straightened up even more. She was almost bending backwards like she was possessed by her true form: a woman who had her appearance and demeanor planned for the entire event and had not accounted for her estranged daughter showing up and laughing during the eulogy.
The demon was pissed and gripping the pulpit a bit too hard.
But Kerry hadn’t changed; she collected herself and continued on as if nothing had broken her well-timed tears. “And I know our family won’t be the only ones to feel that sorrow. Our home will always be open to anyone that needs that shoulder.”
Of course. Open your house unconditionally while going through horrible grief. How dutiful.
The service proceeded with the funeral director returning to the stand to recite the rest of the standard speech and Haven almost collapsed back into the pew when she finally leapt to her feet.
She’d get out to her car, find the cheapest motel she could find, go through the Zaxby’s drive thru for dinner, and cry in the safety of her rented room until she passed out from the drive. People were congregating around her, no one moving in a specific direction, and at least three people’s arms touched hers and she wanted to scream.
“Haven?”
Fuck.
A hand held hers and ants might as well have been swarming her intestines. She jerked it out and spun on her heel only to freeze. Mason stared up at her with his baby brown eyes and black suit like he barely recognized her. “You’re here!”
God why can’t she remember how to act like a normal human? “Mason! You’re here!” was all she could think to say.
“Of course I am. Papa’s dead.” There were no tears in his eyes when he said it and the worries that had been billing up in her head since she got the letter started flooding out. Had Mason cried when he was told? Has he been crying nonstop or has it not registered yet? Did he see the body? Does he know how grandpa died?
Does he still blame Haven for leaving?
“Are you sad?” he blurted out.
Haven blinked. “I-I think so. I’m not sure yet.”
Mason nodded seriously then held out his arms. She hesitated but he waited until she stepped in and wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. He came up to her chest- when did he get so tall? -and burning pricked at her eyes so she pressed them into his barely tamed hair to soothe them but somehow that made it worse. His hair still smelled like strawberries.
Heels clicked behind Mason. “Well, surprised to see you here.” Brooke folded her arms and looked her up and down. “Nice dress.”
“Same,” she managed to say and was pleased at how monotone it came out. As far as Haven was concerned, she was on the defense as soon as she crossed the state line. “Nice hair.”
“Thanks.” Brooke shook out her hair, long curls brushing over her spaghetti straps. Hot curled for sure. Haven knew Brooke was forever mad she didn’t inherit their father’s curly hair. Haven spent 30 minutes every other morning straightening hers to mimic a wood plank.
Her sister reached out to brush imaginary crumbs off Mason’s shoulder. “So who told you? One of Sandra’s kids?”
“So none of you planned on letting me know my grandfather had died?”
“We weren’t sure you would even care.”
“Of course you would assume that as one of his seven grandchildren.”
Brooke paused. “I didn’t write that. I don’t know who did.”
“I didn’t ask.” Haven saw Mason’s eye twitch between them and tried to reel it in. “Mr. Nakamura sent a letter summoning me.”
Brooke huffed out a laugh. “‘Summoning’. Sounds so fancy. Remember when we’d read Papa’s emails and make fun of how formal they’d sound? I swear he asked Austin to write them all.”
Despite herself, Haven couldn’t help laughing along with. “No way he knew what ‘deflection angles’ actually meant.”
“Right? He called property line disputes ‘custody battles’.”
They both were doubled over giggling and even Mason was grinning and Haven briefly wondered if she really needed to be in such a hurry to head back to Illinois. She could afford to stick around a few days or a week, catch up with her siblings. She had brought some clothes with her and hoped to get into the family’s storage unit for more. Maybe she and Brooke could go through it together and exchange like they used to.
“If you two are quite done making an embarrassing spectacle of yourselves at your grandfather’s funeral, we have business to attend to.”
Brooke sucked in her laugh and coughed into her elbow. Face bright red, she could only nod at their mother’s furrowed face. “Sorry Mama.”
Kerry, having appeared from nowhere like a she-devil, peered down at Haven and she stared back. “We were talking about Papa. You know, at his own funeral.”
“You’re making a mockery is what you’re doing. At least pretend to be sad he’s gone.”
Haven was sad damnit but like hell was she going to start making a scene now. She could wait for that when she was back in her Jeep and out of sight of anyone who could form coherent thoughts.
Kerry grabbed Mason’s shoulder and pulled him away from Haven, tucking him under her arm. “Be careful, you don’t want to wrinkle your new suit. Did you thank Connie for it?”
“Yes Mama.”
“Well thank her again at the gravesite. She didn’t have to buy it but she did. You need to make sure you’re grateful.”
Mason pressed his lips together until they were a thin wrinkled line and Haven felt a string somewhere in her snap. “What business?”
“What?” Kerry blinked as if she forgot she was even there. As if.
“‘Business to attend to’ you said.”
“Ah yes. Arthur is here waiting for us so follow me.” She turned and walked away, taking Mason with her. Brooke didn’t even glance at her before following with a flounce. Haven considered turning heel and leaving anyway, driving away and thinking through so many imaginary scenarios where her mother lost her mind once she realized she didn’t obey, but Arthur had wanted her here for a reason. If she didn’t hear him out, then she came for nothing except pain and depressing nostalgia.
Christopher was at the back of the chapel, eyes stricken red, huddled with Sandra. Sandra’s hair was as curly as her brother’s, but where he kept it shaven to the head, she kept it pulled back into a bun so tight you could barely tell she had hair. Past that, they looked strikingly different. Christopher took more after their mom with light brown hair and green eyes and Sandra was the spitting image of the man now rotting in the box ten feet from them with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes set into a narrow face.
Christopher’s round face swiveled away as soon as they approached. Wouldn’t look at Haven no matter how much she internally begged him to. At least avoidance was a form of acknowledgement.
The door behind them opened and a Japanese man offered a hand out to her. “You must be Ms. Levins. I’m Arthur Nakamura, your grandfather’s lawyer.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He smiled and she wondered how surprised he was. How much was his perception of her so far based on her family’s claims that she was a demon child with no manners nor consideration of others? Others meaning their own reputation?
Marty strolled up fixing his cufflink like the pretentious bastard-in-training he was. He barely spared her a glance before taking up his place between her and Kerry. “Hello Haven,” he spoke, still not looking at her. His eyes stayed trained on the back wall above her head like he couldn’t even bring himself to look below his eyeline.
She twisted her head around. “So where are the other of the seven grandchildren for this little meeting?”
Brooke tightened her smile and gave her a pleading look but like hell was she letting this go. Even if they thought she wasn’t going to show up, they never officially disowned her. Did they really hate her that much to try and write her out of her grandfather’s life?
Kerry sighed and rubbed her temples. Marty silently picked up a small bottle of water from a basket nearby and held it out to her but she shook her head. “Not now, Haven” she said. “Mr. Nakamura is a very busy man and he graciously is taking the time to read Ricky’s last will and testament.”
Arthur adjusted his bowtie. “No worries, Mrs. Watkins. It’s my job and my pleasure to ensure Ricky’s last wishes are honored.”
A heavy force shoved itself to the front of Haven’s head. What the hell? Her dead grandfather was less than 20 feet away and they wanted to talk about his house, his money, everything he had now?
“I thought we were gonna do this at the church. Shouldn’t we bury him first before dividing his crap?” she bit out.
Her father flinched but her mother’s face darkened. “We know that’s all you’re here for. So we’re getting it over with so you don’t have to set foot at Harvest.” She shuffled her purse under her arms. “The guests are having refreshments in the other room to give us privacy.”
“Ever the hostess.” Haven hoped her words were hurting as much as she wanted them to. And judging by how much Kerry looked like she wanted to slap her, they were.
They were all ushered into one of the back rooms, thankfully not one where they did the embalming. It was about the size of one of the smaller viewing rooms; a folding chair sat by the door and a coffee table separated it from a collection of four more chairs and a short pew. The walls had beige vertical stripe wallpaper picked out in the seventies and freshly vacuumed cream carpet. One wide window behind the pew revealed the afternoon sun shining directly into the room.
Haven grabbed the back of one of the folding chairs and dragged it away from the rest. Sitting her happy ass down, folding her arms, and keeping quiet. Good daughter. Obedient daughter.
Arthur sat in the folding chair, a brown trunk next to it and a manilla folder on top. He gingerly picked up the folder and waited until everyone was seated. Haven’s parents and Marty on the pew, Mason, Sandra, and Brooke taking up the remaining chairs.
“Are-” Brooke coughed into her elbow. “Are Great Uncle Heath and the cousins not joining us? What about Aunt Reen?”
“They don’t need to be here,” Kerry insisted. “Right Arthur? They can deal with what they were left later.”
Haven leaned around Mason. “But I don’t think I saw them during the service. Did they leave the visitation early?”
Brooke furrowed her eyebrows. “Mama, I don’t think I saw-”
Christopher banged his fist against the pew’s arm rest. “Enough! I want to get this done and over with.” For the first time all day, he sternly watched Haven bolted herself to the back of her chair. Brooke hung her head and crossed her ankles, tugging her dress down over her knees.
“Of course, Daddy. Sorry.”
Kerry hummed. “Arthur?”
Haven wanted to scream and pound her fists on the floor until she got an answer. Demand a full explanation, the whole story, but 21 years of experience told her that wasn’t going to happen. So she stayed sat back and waited.
“The last will and testament of Richard Ellsworth Watkins. I, of Posey County, am of sound and disposing mind and memory. I revoke all previous wills and it is my intent to dispose of my estate.
“To my grandson, Austin Cole, I leave fifty percent of the legal responsibility and monetary revenue from my business, Watkins Surveying. To his sister, my granddaughter Lilly Cole, I leave the remaining fifty percent of the legal responsibility and monetary revenue from my business. The tangible property pertaining to said business will be divided at their discretion.”
And they deserved it, Haven thought. But where were they? None of Sandra’s four children had shown up, neither had her husband. Her cousins were absent and Haven was craving their presence to take at least some of this awkwardness away.
She peaked at Christopher out of the corner of her eye and waited. Waited to see if he tried to contest anything. Him or Sandra, but neither of them seemed to care about the business which surprised her. They pushed this will reading for a reason and Haven had assumed it was because of that. So if they didn’t care who got it, then what did they care about here?
“To my living siblings, Heath and Maureen Watkins, I leave our parents belongings as marked appropriately. Additionally, my remaining inheritance is to be divided between Heath and Maureen.
“To my daughter, Sandra Watkins Cole, I leave my house and the land it is built on. To my son, Christopher Watkins, I leave 55% of my monetary estate.”
Someone sucked in their breath and Haven wasn’t sure who.
“To my daughter in law, marriage to my son Christopher dependent, Kerry Watkins, I leave the handmade quilt sewed by my mother.” Arthur paused in his reading to reach into the trunk, the big brass buckle clanging loudly as he flipped it open. “I’m fairly confident in the legality of handing this to you now, but we will need to verify the marriage at a later date.”
He took out a quilt with both hands. Red and black squares patched together with brown thread. The squares were different patterns: zigzag, polkadot, stripes going in every direction. The quilt was bordered in a crimson red fabric that folded into the back. He handed it out to Kerry’s waiting hands.
Kerry settled back into the pew where Sandra seemed to be coming back to life unlike her dad. Her eyes darted back and forth between the quilt and Kerry’s red face. Something was brewing beneath the surface and Haven wasn’t sure if she wanted to be present when the Keurig erupted.
“The remaining 45% of my monetary estate along with the contents of my home are to be divided between my grandchildren, Marty Watkins, Brooke Watkins, and Mason Watkins.”
Of course. Of freaking course. This whole thing was just to waste her time and humiliate her in front of a family that doesn’t even care what she does unless it involved her looking bad in front of the damn congregation. Her nails dug into her palm and she hoped, she prayed, the blood stained the stupid cream carpet
Marty scooted forward until he was on the edge of his seat, gripping the edge of the pew. “Between the three of us? That’s 15% each.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Congrats, you can still do mental math that isn’t a tip calculation.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Children!” Christopher wasn’t glaring, he’d never glare at his kids, but he didn’t look happy. “You can argue about my deceased father’s money later. Stop embarrassing me.”
Marty snapped back in his seat, arm around Kerry in a stiff comforting position. Haven watched Brooke, hoping she’d fight back. She didn’t even do anything and she got scolded! But she folded her hands and kept quiet.
Just like that night.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Rest assured, we are nearing the end.“ He consulted the paper once again and his face stormed over. “And to my granddaughter, Haven Watkins Levins-”
A stone the size of Blue Ridge dropped in her stomach.
“-I leave my family’s property of Harvest Christian Church and all of its contents excluding items of the graveyard belonging to those of the deceased buried.”
“What?!”
Haven wasn’t sure who yelled but she would bet on everyone except the lawyer. Her mind was definitely screaming and nothing coherent was finding its way through. A mistake. That’s what this had to be. She was written out of the will, she knows she was. Her name shouldn’t even be in there, much less to be given the-
The family church.
Her head was spinning and she wasn’t sure she could stand up if she tried. In the fuzzy haze that was her vision, she searched the room. Nothing was right anymore. Marty was arguing with someone, not a single drip of levelheadedness on his face. Brooke was shrinking back in on herself, not in anyone’s face with her own opinion. Mason was sullen and staring at the weird carpet, not wide-eyed and full of questions.
Three years and everyone changed. This was worse than Bethany.
She should’ve stayed away.
“Well this doesn’t matter,” her mother huffed, holding the quilt flush against her stomach. “Haven isn’t taking it anyway.”
She blinked. What? “What?”
“You don’t even want it. You wouldn’t have come if Arthur hadn’t told you to.”
“Can I not process this first before you start making decisions for me?”
Marty snorted. “You gonna take 18 years to process this too?”
Okay that was it. Haven stood up and faced Arthur. “Where are the keys?”
Without another word, he started digging around in his bag while gasps rippled through the room behind her. She refused to look back, tears already pricking at her eyes and she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.
A ring of keys was dropped into the palm of her hand while Brooke squawked her protests. Her fingers closed over the cold metal the same time Sandra threatened to sue the lawyer. The metal lining of her boots clinked against the wood floor to drown out Marty and Kerry calling out her name.
Haven walked right through Manorfield with her head held down. Just skirting banging her hip into a table corner but didn’t miss knocking her knee as she shoved open the front door. Pain reverberated up her leg but she bit down on her lip to keep moving forward. If any of her family members were following her, she wouldn’t let them see her be weak even over a simple bruise.
Her Jeep was where she left it parked at an angle at the farthest end of the small lot. Perk of arriving last and trying to avoid being noticed. The rubber ducks on the dash shook from the door slam. She sat breathing heavily, hands on the wheel.
She would not break. Not now. Not until she was out of sight and out of hearing distance. She would go see the church and figure out her next move. But right now her heart was beating too fast to see and she needed to calm down.
The side door of Manorfield opened and the mourners began pouring out to proceed to the gravesite. Mason walked out, calmly in a tornado of activity. His eyes found her car and watched as she cranked it on, threw the gear into reverse, and drove away.