Molly Allen is a poor, little rich girl under her father’s
thumb, her destiny as heiress to her father’s west coast corporation already
determined. Delighted that her
pater loosened the reigns a bit to indulge her desire to attend college in
Tennessee, Molly wistfully finds herself in love with the handsome, talented
Ryan Kelly, a middle class boy from Georgia.
Molly and Ryan often find themselves in The Bridge, a quaint,
privately owned bookstore, looking into each other’s eyes - breathlessly
quoting Jane Eyre as they encourage each other’s dreams.
Charlie and Donna Barton, the middle-aged owners of The
Bridge, smile approvingly at the young couple, knowing romance in bloom when
then see it.
But alas, the love of Molly and Ryan is not meant to
be. A paternally-induced
misunderstanding separates our tragic pair for five years – each thinking the
other is married to someone else.
The story of these star-crossed lovers is not the only
catastrophe in this novel. The
Bridge, a Franklin Tennessee institution for over 30 years, is closing after a
devastating flood. Charlie and
Donna’s insurance won’t cover the cost of reopening. Depressed and hopeless, Charlie ends up in an accident,
which leaves him on life support, just weeks before Christmas, his devoted wife
anxiously wondering if he will ever wake up again.
Yep, Karen Kingbury’s latest, The Bridge, has all the
elements of a Victorian tragedy.
Set right before Christmas, Molly and Ryan find themselves together
again in an attempt to save The Bridge and the Bartons.
Truth is, I really wanted to like The Bridge. The
Kingsbury books I have read I have liked, even her last book, Coming Home, which her even her most
devoted fans angrily denounced, vowing never to read another of her novels.
Say what you will, Kingsbury has been an institution in
Christian fiction, and although her past two books were panned, she has penned
some incredibly moving faith fiction.
It is because of her track record that I wanted to like this latest
book, hoping that it would pull her out of her recent literary tailspin.
So at the risk of sounding like a Scrooge, this
Christmas-time novella is, at its best, bah-humdrum, at it’s worst, trite and
embarrassingly predicable.
The plot was as stale as last year’s fruitcake, and the
characters were like something from an 8th grade girl’s creative
writing assignment.
And the climactic Christmas eve ending? It was so cheesy I had an undeniable
craving for a big bowl of tortilla chips.
It pains me, it truly does. Kingsbury can write better than this. Unfortunately, The Bridge seemed
nothing more than a hastily written novel timed to cash in on Christmas and the
Kingsbury name.
Sadly, I must confess, this book is one bridge you will not
want to cross.
Courtesy copy of The Bridge obtained from Howard Books in
exchange for an honest review.