{"product_id":"next-year-in-havana-reeses-book-club-isbn-9780399586682","title":"Next Year in Havana: Reese's Book Club","description":"\u003cb\u003eA HELLO SUNSHINE x REESE WITHERSPOON BOOK CLUB PICK\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A beautiful novel that's full of forbidden passions, family secrets and a lot of courage and sacrifice.”—Reese Witherspoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the death of her beloved grandmother, a Cuban-American woman travels to Havana, where she discovers the roots of her identity—and unearths a family secret hidden since the revolution...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHavana, 1958\u003c\/i\u003e. The daughter of a sugar baron, nineteen-year-old Elisa Perez is part of Cuba's high society, where she is largely sheltered from the country's growing political unrest—until she embarks on a clandestine affair with a passionate revolutionary...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMiami, 2017\u003c\/i\u003e. Freelance writer Marisol Ferrera grew up hearing romantic stories of Cuba from her late grandmother Elisa, who was forced to flee with her family during the revolution. Elisa's last wish was for Marisol to scatter her ashes in the country of her birth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArriving in Havana, Marisol comes face-to-face with the contrast of Cuba's tropical, timeless beauty and its perilous political climate. When more family history comes to light and Marisol finds herself attracted to a man with secrets of his own, she'll need the lessons of her grandmother's past to help her understand the true meaning of courage.A beautiful novel that's full of forbidden passions, family secrets and a lot of courage and sacrifice.\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eReese Witherspoon\u003c\/b\u003e, (Reese's Book Club x Hello Sunshine book pick) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sweeping love story and tale of courage and familial and patriotic legacy that spans generations.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This Cuban-set historical novel is just what you need to get that ~extra-summery~ feeling.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBustle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Ultimate Beach Read”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eReal Simple\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e reminds us that while love is complicated and occasionally heartbreaking, it's always worth the risk.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eNPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A flat-out stunner of a book, at once a dual-timeline mystery, a passionate romance, and paean to the tragedy and beauty of war-torn Cuba. Simply wonderful!”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eKate Quinn\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Alice Network\u003c\/i\u003e and\u003ci\u003e The Huntress\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cleeton has penned an atmospheric, politically insightful, and highly hopeful homage to a lost world. Devour \u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e and you, too, will smell the perfumed groves, taste the ropa vieja, and feel the sun on your face.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eStephanie Dray\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling coauthor of \u003ci\u003eAmerica's First Daughter\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t miss this smart, moving, and romantic story.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eHelloGiggles.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A vivid, transporting novel. \u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana \u003c\/i\u003eis about journeys—into exile, into history, and into questions of home and identity. It's an engrossing read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eDavid Ebershoff\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Danish Girl\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe 19th Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An evocative, passionate story of family loyalty and forbidden love that moves seamlessly between the past and present of Cuba’s turbulent history...\u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e kept me enthralled and savoring every word.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eShelley Noble\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWhisper Beach\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chanel Cleeton’s prose is as beautiful as Cuba itself, and the story she weaves—of exile and loss, memory and myth, forbidden love and enduring friendship—is at once sweeping and beautifully intimate.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJennifer Robson\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSomewhere in France\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A poignant tale of aristocracy, subterfuge, tyranny, conflict, corruption and courage during the Cuban Revolution…\u003ci\u003eNext Year In Havana\u003c\/i\u003e is an extraordinary journey that connects the past and present and will enthrall readers until the very end.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eRT Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An enticing and wonderful read for lovers of historical fiction and soul-searching journeys.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An undeniably personal and intimate look at Cuba then and now, wrapped around the gripping story of two women torn between love and country.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eRenée Rosen\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of\u003ci\u003e Park Avenue Summer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chanel Cleeton delivers an amazing and captivating read!”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eAlix Rickloff\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eOn the Way to London\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With graceful prose, Cleeton evokes the former grandeur of 1950s Cuba, and contrasts it with modern day Miami in this sweeping family saga of loss and love.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eHeather Webb\u003c\/b\u003e, author of\u003ci\u003e Last Christmas in Paris\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A compelling, un-put-downable page-turner told from two equally powerful female narratives...A must read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eLia Riley\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eIt Happened on Love Street\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e is a ravishing jewel of romance, hope, family, and the history in Cuba.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eWeina Dai Randel\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Moon in the Palace\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This gritty tale pulls back the curtain on revolutionary and modern Cuba, allowing us a glimpse of the courage, heartache, and sacrifices of those who left their country in exile, and also those who stayed behind.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eStephanie Marie Thornton\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003ci\u003e USA Today \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eClever Girl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e is a riveting, moving novel that explores the ever-relevant themes of love and sacrifice, family and duty, patriotism and resistance. Cleeton describes Havana so vividly that I felt I was there. I could not put this book down!”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eAlyssa Palombo\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Most Beautiful Woman in Florence\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eChanel Cleeton\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWhen We Left Cuba\u003c\/i\u003e and the Reese Witherspoon Book Club pick \u003ci\u003eNext Year in Havana\u003c\/i\u003e. Originally from Florida, she grew up on stories of her family's exodus from Cuba following the events of the Cuban Revolution. Her passion for politics and history continued during her years spent studying in England where she earned a bachelor's degree in international relations from Richmond, the American International University in London, and a master's degree in global politics from the London School of Economics and Political Science. Chanel also received her Juris Doctor from the University of South Carolina School of Law. She loves to travel and has lived in the Caribbean, Europe, and Asia.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e Elisa\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHavana, 1959\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  How long will we be gone?\" my sister Maria asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Awhile,\" I answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Two months? Six months? A year? Two?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Quiet.\" I nudge her forward, my gaze darting around the departure      area of Rancho-Boyeros Airport to see if anyone has overheard her      question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We stand in a row, the famous-or infamous, depending on who you      ask-Perez sisters. Isabel leads the way, the eldest of the group.      She doesn't speak, her gaze trained on her fiancŽ, Alberto. His      face is pale as he watches us, as we march out of the city we once      brought to its knees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beatriz is next. When she walks, the hem of her finest dress      swinging against her calves, the pale blue fabric adorned with      lace, it's as though the entire airport holds its collective      breath. She's the beauty in the family and she knows it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I trail behind her, the knees beneath my skirts quivering, each      step a weighty effort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then there's Maria, the last of the sugar queens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At thirteen, Maria's too young to understand the need to keep her      voice low, is able to disregard the soldiers standing in green      uniforms, guns slung over their shoulders and perched in their      eager hands. She knows the danger those uniforms bring, but not as      well as the rest of us do. We haven't been able to remove the      grief that has swept our family in its unrelenting curl, but we've      done our best to shield her from the barbarity we've endured. She      hasn't heard the cries of the prisoners held in cages like animals      in La Caba–a, the prison now run by that Argentine monster. She      hasn't watched Cuban blood spill on the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But our father has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He turns and silences her with a look, one he rarely employs yet      is supremely effective. For most of our lives, he's left the care      of his daughters to our mother and our nanny, Magda, too busy      running his sugar company and playing politics. But these are      extraordinary times, the stakes higher than any we've ever faced.      There is nothing Fidel would love more than to make an example of      Emilio Perez and his family-the quintessential image of everything      his revolution seeks to destroy. We're not the wealthiest family      in Cuba, or the most powerful one, but the close relationship      between my father and the former president is impossible to      ignore. Even the careless words of a thirteen-year-old girl can      prove deadly in this climate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maria falls silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our mother walks beside our father, her head held high. She      insisted we wear our finest dresses today, hats and gloves,      brushed our hair until it gleamed. It wouldn't do for her      daughters to look anything but their best, even in exile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Defiant in defeat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We might not have fought in the mountains, haven't held weapons in      our glove-covered hands, but there is a battle in all of us. One      Fidel has ignited like a flame that will never be extinguished.      And so we walk toward the gate in our favorite dresses, Cuban      pride and pragmatism on full display. It's our way of taking the      gowns with us, even if they're missing the jewels that normally      adorn them. What remains of our jewelry is buried in the backyard      of our home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For when we return.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To be Cuban is to be proud-it is both our greatest gift and our      biggest curse. We serve no kings, bow no heads, bear our troubles      on our backs as though they are nothing at all. There is an art to      this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is      effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is      that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of      it all. We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We try to preserve the fiction that this is merely a vacation, a      short trip abroad, but the gazes following us around the airport      know better-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beatriz's fingers wrap around mine for one blissful moment. Those      olive green-clad sentries watch our every move. There's something      reassuring in her fear, in that crack in the facade. I don't let      go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The world as we know it has died, and I do not recognize the one      that has taken its place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A sense of hopelessness overpowers the departure area. You see it      in the eyes of the men and women waiting to board the plane, in      the tired set of their shoulders, the shock etched across their      faces, their possessions clutched in their hands. It's present in      the somber children, their laughter extinguished by the miasma      that has overtaken all of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This used to be a happy place. We would welcome our father when he      returned from a business trip, sat in these same seats three years      earlier, full of excitement to travel to New York on vacation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We take our seats, huddling together, Beatriz on one side of me,      Maria on the other. Isabel sits apart from us, her pain a mantle      around her shoulders. There are different degrees of loss here,      the weight of what we leave behind inescapable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents sit with their fingers intertwined, one of the rare      displays of physical affection I've ever seen them partake in,      worry in their eyes, grief in their hearts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How long will we be gone? When will we return? Which version of      Cuba will greet us when we do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We've been here for hours now, the seconds creeping by with      interminable slowness. My dress itches, a thin line of sweat      running down my neck. Nausea rolls around in my stomach, an acrid      taste in my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm going to be sick,\" I murmur to Beatriz.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She squeezes my fingers. \"No, you're not. We're almost there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I beat the nausea back, staring down at the ground in front of me.      The weight of the stares is pointed and sharp, and at the same      time, it's as if we exist in a vacuum. The sound has been sucked      from the room save for the occasional rustle of clothing, the      stray sob. We exist in a state of purgatory, waiting, waiting-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Now boarding . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My father rises from his seat on creaky limbs; he's aged years in      the nearly two months since President Batista fled the country,      since the winds of revolution drifted from the Sierra Maestra to      our corner of the island. Emilio Perez was once revered as one of      the wealthiest and most powerful men in Cuba; now there's little      to distinguish my father from the man sitting across the aisle,      from the gentleman lining up at the gate. We're all citizens of no      country now, all orphans of circumstance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I reach out and take Maria's hand with my spare one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She's silent, as though reality has finally sunk in. We all are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We walk in a line, somber and reticent, making our way onto the      tarmac. There's no breeze in the air today, the heat overpowering      as we shuffle forward, the sun beating down on our backs, the      plane looming in front of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't do this. I can't leave. I can't stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beatriz pulls me forward, a line of Perez girls, and I continue      on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We board the plane in an awkward shuffle, the silence cracking and      splintering as hushed voices give way to louder ones, a cacophony      of tears filling the cabin. Wails. Now that we've escaped the      departure area, the veneer of civility is stripped away to      something unvarnished and raw-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mourning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I take a seat next to the window, peering out the tiny glass,      hoping for a better view than that of the airport terminal, hoping      . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We roll back from the gate with a jolt and lurch, silence      descending in the cabin. In a flash, it's New Year's Eve again and      I'm standing in the ballroom of my parents' friends' house, a      glass of champagne in one hand. I'm laughing, my heart so full.      There's fear lingering in the background, both fear and      uncertainty, but there's also a sense of hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In minutes, my entire world changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e President Batista has fled the country! Long live a free Cuba!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Is this freedom?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We're gaining speed now, hurtling down the runway. My body heaves      with the movement, and I lose the battle, grabbing the bag in the      seat pocket in front of me, emptying the contents of my stomach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beatriz strokes my back as I hunch over, as the wheels leave the      ground, as we soar into the sky. The nausea hits me again and      again, an ignominious parting gift, and when I finally look up, a      startling shock of blue and green greets me, an artist's palette      beneath me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Christopher Columbus arrived in Cuba, he described it as the      most beautiful land human eyes had ever seen. And it is. But      there's more beyond the sea, the mountains, the clear sky. There's      so much more that we leave behind us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How long will we be gone?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A year? Two?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ojal‡.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Marisol\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e january 2017\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I was younger, I begged my grandmother to tell me about Cuba.      It was a mythical island, contained in my heart, entirely drawn      from the version of Cuba she created in exile in Miami and the      stories she shared with me. I was caught between two lands-two      iterations of myself-the one I inhabited in my body and the one I      lived in my dreams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We'd sit in the living room of my grandparents' sprawling house in      Coral Gables, and she'd show me old photos that had been smuggled      out of the country by intrepid family members, weaving tales about      her life in Havana, the adventures of her siblings, painting a      portrait of a land that existed in my imagination. Her stories      smelled of gardenias and jasmine, tasted of plantains and mamey,      and always, the sound of her old record player. Each time she'd      finish her tale she'd smile and promise I would see it myself one      day, that we'd return in grand style, reopening her family's      seaside estate in Varadero and the elegant home that took up      nearly the entire block of a tree-lined street in Havana.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Fidel dies, we'll return. You'll see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And finally, after nearly sixty years of keeping Cubans in      suspense, of false alarms and hoaxes, he did die, outlasting my      grandmother by mere months. The night he died, my family opened a      bottle of champagne my great-grandfather had bought nearly sixty      years ago for such an occasion, toasting Castro's demise in our      inimitable fashion. The champagne, sadly, like Fidel himself, was      past its prime, but we partied on Calle Ocho in Miami until the      sun rose, and still-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still we remain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His death did not erase nearly sixty years of exile, or ensure a      future of freedom. Instead I'm smuggling my grandmother's ashes      inside my suitcase, concealed as jars in my makeup case, honoring      her last request to me while we pray, hope, wait for things to      change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I die, take me back to Cuba. Spread my ashes over the land I      love. You'll know where.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And now sitting on the plane somewhere between Mexico City and      Havana, armed with a notebook filled with scribbled street names      and places to visit, a guidebook I purchased off the Internet, I      have no clue where to lay her to rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They read my grandmother's will six months ago, thirty family      members seated in a conference room in our attorney's office on      Brickell. Her sisters were there-Beatriz and Maria. Isabel passed      away the year before. Their children came with their spouses and      their children, the next generations paying their respects. Then      there was my father-her only child-my two sisters, and me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The main parts of her will were fairly straightforward, no major      surprises to be expected. My grandfather had died over two decades      earlier and turned the family sugar business over to my father to      run. There was the house in Palm Beach, which went to my sister      Daniela. The farm in Wellington and the horses were left to my      sister Lucia, the middle child. And I ended up with the house in      Coral Gables, the site of so many imaginary trips to Cuba.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There were monetary bequests, and artwork, lists upon lists of      items read by the attorney in a matter-of-fact tone, his      announcements met with the occasional tear or exclamation of      gratitude. And then there was her final wish-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Grandparents aren't supposed to play favorites, but my grandmother      never played by anyone else's rules. Maybe it was the fact that I      came into the world two months before my mother caught my father      in bed with a rubber heiress. Lucia and Daniela had years of      family unity before the Great Divorce, and after that, they had a      bond with my mother I never quite achieved. My early years were      logged between strategy sessions at the lawyers' offices, shuttled      back and forth between homes, until finally my mother washed her      hands of it all and went back to Spain, leaving me under the care      of my grandmother. So perhaps because I was the daughter she never      had, yet raised as her own, it made sense that she charged me with      this-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one in the family questioned it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From her sisters, I received a list of addresses-including the      Perez estate in Havana and the beach house no one had seen in over      fifty years. They put me in contact with Ana Rodriguez, my      grandmother's childhood best friend. Despite the passage of time,      she'd been gracious enough to offer to host me for the week I'd be      in Cuba. Perhaps she could shed some light on my grandmother's      final resting place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You always wanted to see Cuba, and it's my greatest regret that we      were unable to do so in my lifetime. I am consoled, at least, by      the image of you strolling along the Malec—n, the spray of salt      water on your face. I imagine you kneeling in the pews of the      Cathedral of Havana, sitting at a table at the Tropicana. Did I      ever tell you about the night we snuck out and went to the club?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I always dreamed Fidel would die before me, that I would return      home. But now my dream is a different one. I am an old woman, and      I have come to accept that I will never see Cuba again. But you      will.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the      world-the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon-taken from you.      They exist on the other side of a wall-there and not-unaltered by      time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of      dreams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My Cuba is gone, the Cuba I gave to you over the years swept away      by the winds of revolution. It's time for you to discover your own      Cuba.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302666359013,"sku":"NP9780399586682","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399586682.jpg?v=1767733693","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/next-year-in-havana-reeses-book-club-isbn-9780399586682","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}