Caroline Maplethorpe’s respectable life is threatened when the man who shared her secret past as a plaything to a minor league baseball team reappears with demands she’s not sure she can satisfy.
Caroline Maplethorpe spent a summer as plaything for a minor league baseball team…and oh, how Win Winston played. Seven years later, she’s respectable, and he’s in the big leagues. Now that he’s found her again, he still wants her in a major way. But their second-chance relationship attracts too much publicity, and the third member of their long-ago fling threatens to destroy the respectable life Caroline so carefully reconstructed after that crazy summer.
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MJ Compton grew up near Cardiff, New York, a place best known for its giant, which inspired her to create her own fiction.
Although her 30-year career in local television included such highlights as being bitten by a lion, preempting a US President for a college basketball game, giving a three-time world champion boxer a few black eyes, a mention in the Drudge Report, and meeting her husband, MJ never lost her dream of writing her own stories.
MJ still lives in upstate New York with her husband. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America and Central New York Romance Writers. Music and cooking are two of her passions, and she enjoys baseball and college basketball, but she’s primarily focused on wine . . . and writing.
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STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
One of my earliest memories is of my father waking me up in the middle of night and carrying me outdoors to show me something in the sky. “It’s called Sputnik,” he told me. “What’s Sputnik?” I asked. “A satellite.” As if that meant a thing to my pre-Kindergarten self. “It’s like a big basketball launched into the sky and circling the earth.” His second explanation made so much more sense.
As I type this blog post, I’m making plans with friends to look for the International Space Station tonight. If the clouds will cooperate. In my lifetime, we’ve gone from the miracle of an unmanned chunk of metal orbiting our planet to people living up there on a spaceship. I haven’t lost my wonderment about the sky.
I’m staying with a friend who has a cottage on one of the Finger Lakes in upstate New York, where several of us gather a few times a year to write. As a teenager I attended summer camp on the same lake. Campers would sprawl on the cool grass to stare at the night sky. Without ambient light to pollute the view, getting lost in the vastness of stars and planets was easy. (And so was being inspired to write bad poetry, but that’s another blog.) That was when I first realized how tiny we are compared to the rest of the universe. Not inconsequential, not insignificant, but tiny. A minuscule part. Somehow, it feels right for me to wave at the ISS as it flies over the shore of the same lake.