BooksChatter: ☀ Sing Sweet Sparrow

Thank you for joining us on the Virtual Book Tour for Sing Sweet Sparrow, a Young Adult Historical Romance by Angela J. Townsend (12 January 2016, Spinning Broom Books Publishing, LLC, 217 pages).

PREVIEW: Check out the book's synopsis and excerpt below. Read the first three chapters with Amazon Look Inside.

Author Angela J. Townsend will be awarding a print copy of Sing Sweet Sparrow + a Lavender Spa Bath Gift Set to a randomly drawn US/CAN winner via Rafflecopter during the tour.

Synopsis | Teaser | About the Author | Giveaway

Synopsis

With the odd disappearance of her parents, Gussie Gibson has lived her entire life with her granny on a peaceful pecan orchard, owned by the meanest man in all of Georgia—Mr. J.P. Combs. Granny teaches Gussie many valuable life lessons as a black woman growing up in the still-segregated south. Mr. Combs is an evil underhanded banker who takes liberties beyond his privilege. When Granny dies, Combs informs Gussie she owes him back rent—but he wants much more than money for payment—and more than Gussie can live with.

After defending herself against his sexual advances, Gussie flees to escape certain vigilante justice when she meets a charming, handsome stranger, Sam Johnson, who is just returning from World War II.

Gussie and Sam’s friendship is short-lived when Mr. Combs hunts her down and drags her back to Green Ridge, driven by his craving for revenge and a grudge too deep to comprehend. Gussie fights to return to Sam and his love, but it seems, no matter where she runs, danger follows close on her heels, in the troubled South where cruelty disfigures the human spirit and love is a dim beacon of hope.

Teaser: Excerpt

Chapter Two

     Mister always leaves for work at eight a.m. with a belly full of black coffee, grits and pork sausage. He won’t come home until six o’clock and that’s just fine by me. I have ten peaceful hours to get my chores done without having to worry about him.
     Later that evening, I glance at the calendar hanging above the icebox with President Truman smiling on the cover. He wears a fancy suit and tie like Mister. His eyes are soft and kind looking. I wonder if he would help me if he knew about Mister. Probably not, most folks don’t seem to care about what happens to the hired help. I don’t know why God allows bad things to happen on this earth. Why he don’t kill people like Mister instead of good folks.
     I see a red mark on the calendar, on today’s date, and my heart jumps. I plumb forgot about Missus and her bridge club. She plays cards on Thursday night. They used to meet in the afternoon but switched to evening on account of it being so hot. I hurry and make cheese pimento sandwiches, a macaroni salad, and a relish tray. I set the food on the sideboard for her to take.
     A stack of dirty dishes waits for me in the kitchen and I don’t even have Mister’s supper on the table yet. I hurry to fill the sink with soapy water, then I see the time on the clock above the stove. Mister will be home soon and the trouble will start up again. I don’t know how much more I can stand. Mister coming at me all the time is a heavy cross to bear. I don’t ever get to rest. A bitterness cooks inside of me until it’s well done. This sure ain’t no way to live. No way at all. I plunge my hands into the soapy water. Hard to keep hold of Missus’ fancy cups with my insides all stirred up.
     Missus’ high-heeled shoes click across the kitchen floor. She clutches her pearled lace gloves in her right hand and a cigarette with a long silver holder in the other. “I’m off to play cards at Miss May’s,” she says. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Be sure to take care of my rosebud china, you hear?”
     I pull my hands from the wash water and dry them on my gingham apron. “Yes, Ma’am.”
     She pats me on the shoulder, and hurries out the door.
     I stick my hands back into the dishwater, and rinse the suds from each delicate cup. After I set them up in the drain board, I pull the plug, watching the bubbly water gurgle down the drain. Oh how I’d like to vanish with it—go someplace dark and safe to hide.
     The front door open and shuts hard. The floorboards creak. My chest pulls so tight I can’t breathe. I know Mister’s behind me. Ready to grab at me again. I pray to God to come down from heaven and kill him before he can. But God ain’t listening to me because it’s wrong to pray about killing someone.
     I peer over my shoulder. Mister’s eyes stick to my body like grits in a pot boiled dry.
     “How about you give me a little kiss?” he says.
     Mister’s lard-filled gut presses into my backside. I take a step sideways and the cold handle of the coal shovel brushes against my hand. If God ain’t going to kill him—then I will. I hold the shovel tight, spin round, and hit him hard. Mister groans and stumbles backward, he brings his hand up to his head. He stares at the blood on his palm. His eyes go wide in disbelief, his face turns red with rage. “You. God. Damn. Nigger!” Spit flies through his teeth. He gropes for me. I jump away, as he slips in his own greasy blood. He staggers forward and crashes on the floor.
      Mister struggles to get to his feet, but he can’t get no traction in all the blood. “I’ll beat you blind, you nigger bitch.” He grabs the hem of my dress and pulls me to the floor with him. I turn over on my belly and crawl away—but Mister reaches for my leg. He holds me tight.
     I can’t get loose. I kick him in the shoulder, jump to my feet, pick up the shovel and hit him again. He goes limp on the floor. I raise the shovel high over my head and stand like a cottonmouth, ready to strike again.
     A cool breeze skims the back of my neck. The kitchen door flaps open and shut, and there stands the Missus with her mouth gaping open. I see the sandwiches and salad I’d made earlier resting on the sideboard. She must have forgotten them. She gasps at Mister and the blood oozing out from underneath him like a can of spilled paint.

Sing Sweet Sparrow
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About the Author

Angela Townsend is a multi-published, award-winning author of young adult and middle grade books. She has a motion picture based on her award-winning novel, The Forlorned, coming out soon, and a second motion picture project in production for River of Bones.

Angela was born in the beautiful Rocky Mountains of Missoula, Montana. As a child, Angela grew up listening to stories told by her grandparents, ancient tales and legends of faraway places.

Influenced by her Irish and Scottish heritage, Angela became an avid research historian, specializing in Celtic mythology. Her gift for storytelling finally led her to a full time career in historical research and writing.

A writer in local community circulations, Angela is also a published genealogical and historical resource writer who has taught numerous research seminars.

Currently, Angela divides her time between writing, playing Celtic music on her fiddle, and Irish dancing.

She resides on a ranch, in rural Northwestern Montana, with her two children Levi and Grant.

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