S.J. Wilson lives in Massachusetts and has worked as a farmhand, pie maker, radio dispatcher, telemarketer (briefly and with apologies), receptionist, kindergarten teacher, and at long last and most sweetly, a writer. From The Soul of Fenway: On the horizon, the sun was an orange ball of hell. The heat of another summer day waited for her, ready to wrench her back through summers gone by, finally screeching to a halt in 1967. Even if she could stop dreaming about Nate, the summer would still come around to haunt her. It wasn't until after he was dead that she realized how much he looked like summer. The August sky matched the blue of his eyes and his hair was the color of native corn. She'd only known him with a tan and she remembered his skin, always golden-brown and smelling of Coppertone(r). And he lived for this season, when long hot days reached into the night, when everything was baseball and youthful optimism. He was summer. And God, she hated it.