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From a Vine
As unassuming as a sweet olive vine, twenty-year-old Joy Baxter has always
loved digging in the dirt,
hoping to find buried treasure. Her desire to discover hidden secrets led her
to one goal – become an archeologist. Not necessarily a lofty goal, but for
Joy it has its share of complications. As a community college student in the
small town of Wenton, Georgia,
she dreams of exploring the world, much to the chagrin of her family. Her
overprotective mother, apathetic older sister, and promiscuous younger sister
believe Joy should stay in Wenton and raise a family.
Before she decides what to do with her future, Joy’s life changes when
thirty-two-year-old Efram T. Corbet, a famous, wise-cracking artist from
New York, moves to Wenton.
Like a cross vine, Efram is both arrogant and cocky on the outside, but
peaceful and spiritual on the inside. Like a root slowly making its way into
the earth, Efram weaves his way into Joy’s life, moving from curiosity to
friendship to love. Having found his muse, Efram paints her portrait, but Joy
uncovers something much more valuable through him – the courage to be an
explorer, regardless of what others might think. When she is invited on an
archeological dig in
Egypt, and the chance to study at a big university, Joy is caught
between her love for Efram and her lifetime of dreams to be fulfilled.
From a Vine
is a story about passion – the kind we get from finding our
muse and following its call. Witty, inspiring, and romantic, this remarkable
work of literary fiction
takes readers on a journey as aromatic as a garden, filled with flowers and
plants that give the story an air of life and beauty. One can almost smell and
feel the earth as Joy holds a clump of dirt in her hand, knowing what she
wants from life.Read an
excerpt below
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Treasure is peculiar. Sometimes we don’t have to dig.
The fingers of the ceramic
praying hands pointed upward like a pyramid, holding prophecy like an
Egyptian temple. Lightly, she touched her fingertips to those of the small
statue before stepping out onto the porch. Sashaying and seducing her into the
yard, the trees and flowers swayed in the breeze. With so many gardens, the
yard looked like a grass mural splattered with yellows, purples, and reds.
Around the house she went, stopping to smell each bloom. The home had a
breathtaking scent to accompany the view.
Such joy here, she thought and smiled.
She retrieved her watering can and gave the plants one last sprinkle. The
water drops sat atop each blossom and bud, almost standing at attention,
giving her a salute. Loving the smell of water mixing with dirt, she took a
deep breath.
Her heart lurched.
Stumbling inside, she found her way to her room, opened a drawer beside her
bed, and removed the program from her husband’s funeral. Yellowed around the
edges, now looking almost like papyrus, the writing on the paper told only a
portion of the story. While the paper had grown old, her memory of the day was
as ripe in her mind as a seedling emerging from the dirt to glimpse sunlight
for the first time. As she turned the paper over, she couldn’t believe their
season together had been over for so long. Spring would come again, she knew
that, and warmth filled her breast. She flushed like an autumn leaf turning
from green to red. Like an orchid plucked to make vanilla, life did not end
but began anew with something just as sweet.
She put the program away and pulled out a small tattered bag. After undoing
the ribbon, even though she knew the contents very well, she took one last
look inside. From her pocket she removed two small items and dropped them into
the bag.
"True
love is easy to grow," she said quietly and glanced at her husband’s
photo still at her bedside. "But first you have to plant it."
Feeling a pain in her chest, but not being afraid, she hurried back to the
praying hands.
(Copyright © 2007 Michelle Cushing, Mulberry Bark Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the
Publisher, except where permitted by law.)