Indie Book Promo is happy to welcome Deborah Epperson to the blog! She’s here to share about her book, Breaking TWIG. If this book sounds like something you would be interested in reading, please find some buy links below and pick up a copy or two!
Breaking TWIG, a beautifully written and thought provoking novel, is absolutely one I recommend to my book group. From the moment Becky Leigh’s beloved Southern grandpa asks her, “Did I ever tell you the story of the Pickers and the Picks?” I was hooked.
—Kathy Dunnehoff, Amazon bestselling author of The Do Over
Set in rural Georgia in the 1960s-70s, BREAKING TWIG is a coming-of-age novel about Becky (Twig) Cooper, a young woman trying to survive the physical and emotional abuse of her mother, Helen, a beautiful, calculating woman who can, with a mere look, send the meanest cur in Sugardale, Georgia running for its life. Not even Twig’s vivid imagination, keen wit, and dark sense of humor is enough to help her survive the escalating assaults of Helen and a new stepbrother, but help comes from an unexpected source–Frank, her stepfather. Sometimes, having one person who loves and believes in you is all a girl needs to keep hope alive.
Over the next eight years, Becky’s tumultuous struggle to prevail finds her bouncing back and forth between Helen’s abuse and Frank’s tenderness as she fights to win this desperate battle of souls. On Halloween night, she and Helen argue and all lies are stripped away. Now, Becky must make a fateful decision—one that can give her the freedom she craves or destroy forever the new life and love she’s found.
Often raw and irreverent and sprinkled with all the Southern flavoring found in a good bowl of chicken and dumplings, BREAKING TWIG, is about finding love where we least expect it, destroying lives with easy lies, and realizing each of us determine our own truth.
Deborah Epperson has a degree in biology and English and after working in the scientific field for twenty years, she turned her talents to writing. Deborah likes to write stories and characters steeped in the lyrical traditions and mystical surroundings of the Deep South where she grew up.
Deborah lives in beautiful Northwest Montana with her husband and children. When not working on her next novel or article, she enjoys doing pet therapy work with her golden retriever, and volunteering in animal rescue.
Deborah can be found:
Breaking TWIG can be purchased:
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It was almost dawn by the time Johnny and I got around to making love. The soothing touch of skin upon skin helped keep us calm as we made our way back to each other, stumbling at times through the debris that cluttered the past five years of our lives.
I lay on Johnny’s bed, naked except for my panties, and felt no shame. The shy, frightened sixteen-year-old who had shared his bed five years before in a flooded Tennessee fishing camp no longer existed. Gone too was the clumsy young man who’d claimed me as his common-law bride in a marriage sanctioned by no one except us and perhaps, the Lord Almighty.
Johnny slipped off his briefs and stood nude at the foot of the bed—so handsome, so erect, so ready. He bent over, pulled off my white, cotton underpants, tossed them on the pile of clothes we’d shed earlier. “You’re beautiful, Rebecca.”
I smiled at him, pleased by the way he slipped back and forth between calling me Twig and Rebecca. It made me feel like some sophisticated woman, a woman too complicated to have only one name.
He pressed his knees on the mattress. The silence of the room amplified his heavy breathing and the crackling of the rekindled fire. Dark, widening eyes inspected my body as he crawled toward me in cautious anticipation.
My chin quivered, a reflection of my body’s own eagerness. Pulling him close, I pressed him into me, urging him to deposit his pain and suffering deep inside of me.
He cried out my name twice. “Rebecca . . . Re-bec-ca.” Then all movement ceased.
The intensity of our mating surprised me. Though brief, it lasted long enough to produce the shuddered relief our bodies craved. Johnny rolled off me and onto his back.
We lay side-by-side, our fingers intertwined.
“Damn, Twig . . . damn.”
“Are you okay, Johnny?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, a touch of amusement in his voice.
I rolled toward him. “We’ve both learned a few things since that fishing camp.”
He grinned at the ceiling. “Who taught you all that . . . that stuff?”
“Do you really want to start exchanging names, Johnny?”
“Forget I asked.”
I kissed his shoulder. “We should each be allowed some secrets, shouldn’t we?”
He nodded. “I’m whipped.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Johnny kissed me goodnight, turned over and fell right to sleep.
I snuggled up close to his back, taking in its musky scent and warmth. My fingers skimmed his body—a light touch so as not to awaken him, yet firm enough that even the deepest recesses of my brain acknowledged the reality of him. This time, the dream was real. Satisfied that Johnny was not an apparition, I turned over and fitted my back to his so we could sleep cheek-to-cheek, in a manner of speaking. I thought myself content. Yet when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see Johnny’s face. I saw Frank’s.