The buzz around Tasheena Armstrong’s return to Newberry hadn’t died down. Her monthly event, Coloring Outside the Lines, was now hosted at the old Mayfield schoolhouse, newly leased by her nonprofit. But beneath the bright murals and community smiles, shadows stirred.
One week after filing her nonprofit papers, Tasheena received an envelope with no return address. Inside: a faded photo of Miss Mayfield, Tasheena’s father Douglas, and an unfamiliar man standing in front of the schoolhouse—along with a note scrawled in sharp ink: “Some legacies should stay buried.”
_
Tasheena sat at the kitchen table, the note in one hand and the photo in the other.
“Daddy,” she said when Douglas walked in from the garage, “who is this?”
Douglas took one glance and went still. He reached for his glasses and sighed.
“That’s Leon Shepard. He was Mayfield’s cousin—and a piece of work. Thought he had claim to that building after she died, but the town denied him. Rumor is, he’s still bitter.”
Tasheena set the photo down. “I think he sent this.”
Douglas looked uneasy. “Stay alert, baby. Some folk don’t like to see a Black woman making real moves.”
_
At a town business mixer later that week, Tasheena mingled with local entrepreneurs. That’s when she met Malcolm Price.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that could melt ice, Malcolm owned a tech consulting firm just outside Greenville. He spoke at the event about the importance of digital inclusion in small towns.
Afterward, he found her by the lemonade table.
“Tasheena Armstrong,” he said. “Saw your segment on Channel 12. Your work’s impressive.”
She smiled, surprised. “You watch local news in Newberry?”
“Not until recently.”
They talked for an hour—about her nonprofit, his company, their mutual love of classic jazz.
“Would you like to have dinner sometime?” he asked.
Tasheena hesitated. Brooklyn had hardened her heart. But something in his calmness felt like a balm.
“Dinner sounds good,” she said.
_
Desmond wasn’t thrilled.
“You dating now?” he said after catching her and Malcolm walking through the town square.
“You been spying on me?”
“Just looking out. People like him don’t settle here. And you deserve steady.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said dryly.
Desmond rubbed his temples. “Look. I just don’t want you getting distracted. You got momentum. Don’t let smooth talk derail it.”
Tasheena took a breath. “This isn’t about Malcolm. This is about you still seeing me as the girl who left.”
Desmond didn’t deny it.
_
Two days later, Tasheena arrived at the schoolhouse to find graffiti sprayed across the front wall.
“SHUT IT DOWN.”
Keon came to help scrub it off.
“You think it was that Shepard guy?” he asked.
“Maybe. But I’m not backing down,” Tasheena said.
That night, she filed a police report. The officer was polite but dismissive.
“Could be teenagers,” he said. “No proof it’s targeted.”
Tasheena left the station furious.
Malcolm met her afterward at the riverwalk.
“Let me help. I know people in security tech. We can get cameras up fast.”
Tasheena touched his hand. “Thank you. For believing in this.”
He smiled. “I believe in you.”
_
That Friday night, they met for dinner at a quiet bistro in Columbia. Wine flowed, laughter lingered. After dessert, Malcolm took her hand.
“I wasn’t looking for this when I met you,” he said.
“Me either,” she admitted.
They leaned in at the same time, lips brushing in a kiss that was warm, exploratory, and full of promise.
Afterward, on the drive back, Tasheena whispered, “I feel like I’m finally breathing again.”
He took her hand. “That’s all I want. For you to breathe.”
_
At home the next morning, Tasheena opened the ledger Desmond had given her again. A page had come loose.
On it, in Miss Mayfield’s shaky script:
“In the cellar, behind the stones, the truth rests. If you find this, let it set you free.”
Tasheena called Desmond and Keon. The three siblings met at the schoolhouse and searched the cellar.
Behind a false wall of loose stones, they found a rusted box.
Inside: a second will.
Miss Mayfield had left the schoolhouse to a child she once mentored—Douglas Armstrong.
Their father.
_
Douglas sat in silence as Tasheena, Desmond, and Keon showed him the will.
“She gave it to me. But I never filed it,” he said.
“Why not?” Tasheena asked.
“Because I knew folks like Shepard would come for me. And I didn’t want my kids growing up scared of their own town.”
Desmond leaned forward. “We’re not scared. We’re ready.”
Douglas’ eyes welled. “I see that now.”
_
With the will submitted and the deed officially transferred, Tasheena applied for funding from the state. Malcolm helped her build a digital platform for her nonprofit.
The center opened its first therapy room within two months.
Families from across the county enrolled. A feature story aired on the local news. Tasheena stood at the podium, Malcolm at her side, Desmond and Keon behind her.
“This is for every child who felt unheard,” she said, “and every family who felt alone.”
_
At a town celebration that summer, Tasheena and Malcolm slow-danced under fairy lights strung across the square.
Lesa teased, “So when’s the wedding?”
Tasheena laughed. “Let’s get through the ribbon-cutting first.”
Asia danced barefoot nearby, her headphones glowing.
Desmond clinked a glass and raised a toast. “To my sister. You didn’t just come home—you brought light with you.”
_
As the music played and stars blinked above, Tasheena knew this was exactly where she belonged. Home wasn’t just a place. It was purpose, love, and legacy.
And this was just the beginning.
To be continued…
Thee Juju Aura 