Spotlight: The Fallen Fruit by Shawntelle Madison
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On a rainy day in May 1964, history professor Cecily Bridge-Davis begins to search for the sixty-five acres of land she inherited from her father’s family. The quest leads her to uncover a dark secret: In every generation, one offspring from each Bridge family unit vanishes—and is mysteriously whisked back in time. Rules have been established that must be followed to prevent dire consequences:
Never interfere with past events.
Always carry your free Negro papers.
Search for the survival family packs in the orchard and surrounding forest. The ribbon on the pack designates the decade the pack was made to orient you in time.
Do not speak to strangers unless absolutely necessary.
With only a family Bible and a map marked with the locations of mysterious containers to aid her, Cecily heads to the library, hoping to discover the truth of how this curse began, and how it might be ended. As she moves through time, she encounters a circle of ancestors, including Sabrina Humbles, a free Black woman who must find the courage to seize an opportunity—or lose her heart; Luke Bridge, who traverses battlefields, slavery, and time itself to reunite with his family; Rebecca Bridge, a mother tested by an ominous threat; and Amelia Bridge, a young woman burdened with survivor's guilt who will face the challenge of a lifetime—and change Cecily's life forever. It is a race through time and against the clock to find the answers that will free her family forever.
Excerpt
Cecily Bridge-Davis
May 1964
My family tree has poisoned roots. Secrets from generations ago sank far into the earth where truth and lies tangled in a polluted snarl. Over time, those deep roots— the ones that couldn’t stay buried forever—writhed to the surface like new saplings and contaminated the earth around them.
I discovered one of those saplings when my aunt Hilda—who’d raised me like a daughter right outside Charlottesville—died. Her will stated I had an inheritance: sixty-five acres of Bridge family land. Since I hadn’t heard a word from my father or his kin, I didn’t know what I’d find. With my luck, the apple trees would be termite infested and any haphazard shacks would be unfit for human occupancy.
I should’ve sold the place, sight unseen, but the hunger to learn more about my father’s side of the family propelled me from the home I’d made for myself in Nashville to return to the Virginia woods. Five miles north of downtown Charlottesville, a heavy downpour left me lost in the countryside. I had no choice but to stop my car on a rutted dirt road and approach an old bungalow where an elderly Black woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch. The moment I showed up, her middle-aged son emerged with a stiff nod.
“Stay away from that godforsaken place,” the woman said, waving away a mosquito from her cloud of white hair. “You’ll find nothing but trouble. A long time ago, one of them Bridges killed a bunch of people before he kidnapped an innocent child.”
“Are they still around there?” I asked.
“Who knows,” the woman replied. “They come and go.”
“Those Bridges kept to themselves,” the man said. “Sell that land and wash your hands of it. That’s what I’d do.”
My granddaddy told me I never knew when to back down from a challenge.
“I still need to see it,” I said. “Please tell me the way.”
Reluctantly, they gave me directions. From years of teaching history to college students, I knew too well how folks always wanted to share these sorts of tall tales. Vendettas among the countryfolk passed from one generation to another, sowing animosity over amity between neighbors. But all stories and legends had their roots in the truth.
After leaving the bungalow and taking two wrong turns, I finally came upon a hidden opening to my right. Back when I was small, my grandfather sometimes stopped here on our way to church. I would sit in the idling car, playing with the hem of my Sunday dress, until he came back. Grandpa never went farther than the entrance itself. Neither did I, until the day I steered my car down the winding path, which ended at a house next to overgrown apple trees. Wildflowers and tall grass filled the pasture while a stubborn oak stump jutted out in the middle. Rotted fence posts leaned away from the single-story house, perhaps to escape from the clinging neglect. Decades ago, this long-forgotten place had been someone’s home, their sanctuary from summer’s heat and winter’s bitter chill. Now only daddy longlegs, mice, and cobwebs lived here.
After shutting off the car, I hurried through the rain and sidestepped the missing floorboards on the porch. I pushed open the door with ease, at once slipping into the past. I pulled the collar of my blouse over my nose to dampen the odors of mildew and musk of wild animals and left the door open to bring in some fresh air. It was a damn shame no one had thought to take care of this place.
Carefully, I walked through the empty living room with only the storm’s pitter-patter and my breath to keep my company. From the living room, I made my way to the summer kitchen, then the two bedrooms off a narrow hallway. Broken-down and dusty furniture filled both rooms. I sighed, imagining the scrubbing and hauling someone would have to do. I was better off tearing down the whole house. There was nothing for me here. Anything that might’ve been interesting or useful had long rotted away, and I resigned myself to return to my car when a glint from something on a shelf across the living room drew my eye.
I had to at least take a peek. Tucked away on the ledge, I discovered a cerulean tin box. With trembling hands and a hope that this would be my reward for coming all this way, I picked up the tin and wiped away the dirt and grease on the lid to reveal the bouquet hidden beneath. My pulse thrummed as I unhooked the rusty latch, loosening the lid’s stiff hinge to lift the top, and revealed a spool crafted from maple and a Bible carefully protected by the lambskin wrapped around it. Turning the spool between my fingers, I could tell it was old—very old. I exchanged it for the Bible. The pages were yellowed and nearly transparent in their thinness, but the tin had preserved the Bible from worse decay. The flyleaf held a wealth of information— someone had consigned the names and birth dates of every Bridge born on his farm, beginning in the late 1760s and ending in the 1920s.
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About the Author
Shawntelle Madison is the bestselling author of over a dozen paranormal romance, contemporary romance, and fantasy titles. She lives in Missouri.
