{"product_id":"the-aguero-sisters-isbn-9780345406514","title":"The Aguero Sisters","description":"Reina and Constancia Agüero are Cuban sisters who have been estranged for thirty years. Reina--tall, darkly beautiful, and magnetically sexual--still lives in her homeland. Once a devoted daughter of la revolución, she now basks in the glow of her many admiring suitors, believing only in what she can grasp with her five senses. The pale and very petite Constancia lives in the United States, a beauty expert who sees miracles and portents wherever she looks. After she and her husband retire to Miami, she becomes haunted by the memory of her parents and the unexplained death of her beloved mother so long ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTold in the stirring voices of their parents, their daughters, and themselves, The Agüero Sisters tells a mesmerizing story about the power of myth to mask, transform, and finally, reveal the truth--as two women move toward an uncertain, long awaited reunion.\u003ci\u003eExcerpts from reviews of Cristina García's The Agüero \u003cbr\u003eSisters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An extraordinary new novel does justice to the Cuba of history as well as \u003cbr\u003ethe Cuba of imagination....Garcia has crafted a beautifully rounded work \u003cbr\u003eof art, as warm and wry and sensuous as the island she so clearly loves.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In 1992, Cristina Garcia's \u003ci\u003eDreaming in Cuban\u003c\/i\u003e announced the \u003cbr\u003epresence of a new star in the American literary firmament.... Garcia's \u003cbr\u003eremarkable second novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Agüero Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e, is even better, a \u003cbr\u003edeeper, more profound plunge into the mysteries of loyalty, love and \u003cbr\u003eidentity (national, familial and otherwise)....Cristina Garcia again \u003cbr\u003eproves herself a gifted chronicler of exile's promise and peril.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Five years after her debut, the former journalist has made good on her \u003cbr\u003eearly promise with a superb second novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Agüero \u003cbr\u003eSisters\u003c\/i\u003e....With sensual prose and a plot that captures the angst of \u003cbr\u003ethe Cuban diaspora...Garcia seductively draws us in and refuses to let go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eNewsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The conventions of magic realism can either amplify the story and give it \u003cbr\u003eresonance or fragment the narrative, draining it of clarity. Garcia's \u003cbr\u003ebeautifully written second novel...seems to embody both extremes....Her \u003cbr\u003eprose is lush and rhythmic, so that the novel has an almost feverish air.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A bold and very richly detailed portrait...Fluid, graceful, and extremely \u003cbr\u003erewarding: a work of high seriousness and rich detail.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cristina Garcia neatly sidesteps the curse of the much-feted first \u003cbr\u003enovel...with the assured \u003ci\u003eThe Agüero Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e, a vibrant tale of \u003cbr\u003ea repressed Manhattan cosmetics saleswomen and her sexy, Havana-based \u003cbr\u003esister that blends family, culture, and Garcia's shapely prose into a \u003cbr\u003erich, velvety world one is loath to leave.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is no paint-by-numbers allegory. Garcia's characters are \u003cbr\u003ethree-dimensional and her novel is filled with rich and compelling detail.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003eCristina García was born in Havana and grew up in New York City. Her first novel, \u003cb\u003eDreaming in Cuban,\u003c\/b\u003e was nominated for a National Book Award and has been widely translated. Ms. García has been a Guggenheim Fellow, a Hodder Fellow at Princeton University, and the recipient of a Whiting Writers' Award. She lives in Los Angeles with her daughter, Pilar.Reina Agüero, cleaving to a telephone pole with thighs strengthened by many\u003cbr\u003esuch climbs, is repairing a high-voltage cable outside El Cobre, a copper-mining\u003cbr\u003etown in eastern Cuba, when another storm blows in from the Cayman Trench.\u003cbr\u003eLightning, intricate as a skeleton, shatters the afternoon hum of the Sierra\u003cbr\u003eMaestra, illuminating the pitted, open-cast mine in the distance. Reina\u003cbr\u003eAgüero wipes one hand, then another, on her regulation jumpsuit as she works\u003cbr\u003eher way down the splintered pole. Her tools clang reassuringly from her belt. In\u003cbr\u003ethe evening, she will climb the coconut tree behind the government hotel and\u003cbr\u003emingle its milk with a little rum. She hopes the concoction will finally permit\u003cbr\u003eher to sleep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReina Agüero's insomnia began last summer, on the\u003cbr\u003ethirty-seventh anniversary of El Comandante's attack on the Moncada Barracks. On\u003cbr\u003ethe road, traveling for la revolución, it is especially difficult to rest. The\u003cbr\u003ebeds are unpredictable, too soft or infested with fleas, and the days are\u003cbr\u003elengthened by extra work. As a visiting master tradesman, Reina is expected not\u003cbr\u003eonly to repair the balkiest electrical equipment in rural Cuba but also to\u003cbr\u003econduct seminars for local electricians and suffer nightly ceremonies in her\u003cbr\u003ehonor. Generally, she eats too much fresh pineapple at these events, upsetting\u003cbr\u003eher sensitive digestive system. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A cluster of electricians applauds as Reina\u003cbr\u003edescends the last few feet of the pole. The ground is saturated with weeks of\u003cbr\u003eunseasonable winter rains. Together she and the men slip and grapple their way\u003cbr\u003edown the hill toward town, a quarter of which is newly lit by her effort. Reina\u003cbr\u003eis drenched, and her jumpsuit clings to her still-curvaceous form. She is\u003cbr\u003eforty-eight years old, but her body appears many years younger. She ignores the\u003cbr\u003emen who linger behind her, mesmerized by the size and swing of her buttocks. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReina is five feet eleven, a good four inches taller than most of the men with\u003cbr\u003ewhom she works. Her mouth is large and flawless, with barely discernible corners.\u003cbr\u003eThe most daring of her colleagues call her Compañera Amazona, a moniker she\u003cbr\u003esecretly relishes. Often, Reina selects the smallest, shyest electrician in a\u003cbr\u003egiven town for her special favors, leaving him weak and inconsolable for months.\u003cbr\u003eAfter she departs, black owls are frequently sighted in the ceiba trees. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On\u003cbr\u003ethe way back to her hotel, Reina stops in at the Basilica del Cobre. It is Gothic\u003cbr\u003eand gloomy and unwelcoming, like so many Catholic churches, but Reina has heard\u003cbr\u003eof the impressive curative powers of La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, the\u003cbr\u003eisland's patron saint. Reina doubts that La Virgen, with all the tragic ailments\u003cbr\u003elaid at her feet, would bother about a little sleeplessness. But Reina is\u003cbr\u003edesperate. She's tried every soporific--herbal teas and sleeping pills, even\u003cbr\u003esweet-potato plasters for her head--all to no avail. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not even the usual\u003cbr\u003erigorous lovemaking with Pepín Beltrán, her lover of twenty-four years, exhausts her sufficiently into slumber. Last week, during a dusk-to-midnight session,\u003cbr\u003ePepín's face went slack as he dropped dead asleep beneath her pleasure.\u003cbr\u003eAfterward, she lay awake in the dark until she could perceive every crack and\u003cbr\u003ecrevice in the ornate room. Years ago, it had been her father's study, one of\u003cbr\u003eeight chambers in their commodious old apartment in the Vedado section of Havana.\u003cbr\u003eAfter the revolution, the government rented out the remaining seven rooms to as\u003cbr\u003emany families. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pepín blamed the anarchy of books in the study for Reina's\u003cbr\u003einsomnia. There are over three thousand volumes on the carved mahogany shelves,\u003cbr\u003estacked on the marble floors, and on six lavishly decrepit armchairs. Many of the\u003cbr\u003ebooks were written by her father: \u003cb\u003eA Naturalist's Guide to the Pearl of the\u003cbr\u003eAntilles\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eReconsidering Bats\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eThe Owls of Oriente\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eIn Search of Erophylla\u003cbr\u003eSezekorni\u003c\/b\u003e, and his classic, \u003cb\u003eCuba: Flora and Fauna\u003c\/b\u003e. A former china closet serves\u003cbr\u003eas a display case for his most cherished skins, rare birds and bats long extinct,\u003cbr\u003especimens he himself stuffed with arsenical soap and that looked as fresh and\u003cbr\u003ealive as on the day he'd shot them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pepín begged Reina to clear these relics\u003cbr\u003efrom their love nest. But Reina refused. Nothing had changed here since her\u003cbr\u003efather's death, forty years before. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina stands before La Virgen's\u003cbr\u003eshrine in the back of the basilica. Hundreds of candles burn to her in pleading\u003cbr\u003eand thanksgiving. Centuries of offerings are piled into wobbly, glittering\u003cbr\u003etowers: medallions and military badges from those who survived wars under her\u003cbr\u003eprotection; crutches from devotees to whom she gave the strength to walk; ancient\u003cbr\u003etiaras, chalices, Egyptian silks, and wedding rings donated by pilgrims and the\u003cbr\u003emiraculously healed. The brown-skinned Virgin presides over these offerings in a\u003cbr\u003ecream satin gown, a gold lam\u0026amp;eacute cape, and her crown, poised and soothing as\u003cbr\u003eher Yoruban name: Oshún. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bless me, Virgen, for I have sinned,\" says Reina,\u003cbr\u003ekneeling before the saint and awkwardly crossing herself. She barely recalls the\u003cbr\u003eprayers she learned as a child, the rituals of the Protestant boarding school she\u003cbr\u003eand her sister were sent to after their mother died. \"Well, I haven't sinned\u003cbr\u003eexactly, but I can't sleep, and there must be a reason.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A medal from the\u003cbr\u003eSpanish-American War catches Reina's eye. A year after Cuba's independence, her\u003cbr\u003egrandfather had come to the island from the hills of Galicia. Reinaldo\u003cbr\u003eAgüero became a lector in the second-largest cigar factory in Pinar del Río\u003cbr\u003eand was greatly admired for his erudition and his rich baritone. Reina's sister,\u003cbr\u003eConstancia, used to say proudly that this made them true criollos. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not\u003cbr\u003every good at this, and you must have a lot on your mind, but I was hoping you\u003cbr\u003ecould give me a direction of significance.\" Reina unsnaps a wrench from her tool\u003cbr\u003ebelt and places it next to the medal from the Spanish-American War. \"It's not\u003cbr\u003emuch, I know. But maybe when you get a chance you could check in on me, okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That night, Reina lies in bed and considers La Virgen's dark methods\u003cbr\u003eof grace. Reina is uncertain of her own beliefs. What she enjoys most is the\u003cbr\u003efreedom from a finality of vision, of a definitive version of life's meaning. If\u003cbr\u003eshe could perceive nothing in its entirety, then why not celebrate what she could\u003cbr\u003egrasp with her own senses? Vive de la vida lo sublime. It had been her personal\u003cbr\u003emotto for as long as she could remember. After all, it seemed futile to chase\u003cbr\u003ewhat was forever elusive, when reality remained so largely unexplored. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina\u003cbr\u003epresses the musty hotel pillow over her nose and mouth and begins to count. One\u003cbr\u003eminute passes, then two. If she succeeds in rendering herself unconscious, Reina\u003cbr\u003ethinks, slumber might return. Six minutes pass, then seven. After eight minutes,\u003cbr\u003eReina, fully conscious and supremely irritated with La Virgen de la Caridad del\u003cbr\u003eCobre, removes the pillow from her face. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After her mother died, Reina's\u003cbr\u003efather also suffered from insomnia. But his was complete and incurable and drove\u003cbr\u003ehim to suicide two years after his wife's death. At least, Reina thinks, most\u003cbr\u003enights she manages to sleep an hour or two before dawn. Her body sighs with one\u003cbr\u003elong releasing breath, and that is the last thing she remembers before the\u003cbr\u003efaintest light awakens her, puzzled and refreshed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina has thought often of\u003cbr\u003eher father's last night in his study, of his double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun\u003cbr\u003eof Irish make, which is still in its velvet-lined case in the closet. His gun was\u003cbr\u003eideal for pulling birds out of any but the highest trees. Although her father\u003cbr\u003enever considered himself a killer by nature, he'd been an excellent shot\u003cbr\u003enonetheless, as effective on horseback as he was crouched low to the ground. Many\u003cbr\u003eof his specimens had found their way into the collections of the world's most\u003cbr\u003eprestigious museums. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The week after his death, a parcel arrived for Reina and\u003cbr\u003eher sister, Constancia, at their boarding school. In it was a selection of their\u003cbr\u003efather's lecture notes, rare stuffed bats and birds, and a dozen of his books,\u003cbr\u003efirst editions, glossy with color plates. Constancia wanted nothing to do with\u003cbr\u003eany of them, but Reina carefully repacked the artifacts and slid them under her\u003cbr\u003ebed. Despite her suspicions, she couldn't bear to leave the work of Papá's\u003cbr\u003elifetime for beetles and bookworms to devour. \"The quest for truth,\" Ignacio\u003cbr\u003eAgüero had written his daughters, \"is far more glorious than the quest for\u003cbr\u003epower.\" Their father had written this, and then he shot himself in the heart. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is the fourth of December. Reina is up before dawn. In the\u003cbr\u003ecountryside, people are already on the roads and the hillsides. This is a comfort\u003cbr\u003eto Reina, who hates to wake up feeling alone. As the first light filters and\u003cbr\u003espreads through the darkness, colors seem to her less concentrated, as if\u003cbr\u003esunlight, not its absence, diluted their strength. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e During her long wakeful\u003cbr\u003enights, Reina mentally inches her way from the periphery of her bed,\u003cbr\u003ereconstructing the world in concentric circles. Everything is at its most\u003cbr\u003eelemental in these circles, pure with the vital sheen of existence. Then a drift\u003cbr\u003eof memories overcomes her, reversing the progress of her life. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the worst\u003cbr\u003enights, Reina feels herself trapped as if on a magnetic plateau, with no fix on\u003cbr\u003ethe blackness. She confuses the stuffed bats with the birds, and the books with\u003cbr\u003ethe extinguished chandelier. She thinks often of her mother, hears her voice\u003cbr\u003eagain, feels the warm press of her breast against her cheek. Reina was six years\u003cbr\u003eold when her mother died on the collecting expedition in the Zapata Swamp. How is\u003cbr\u003eit possible that she has existed without her all these years? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina has one\u003cbr\u003emore job in El Cobre before returning home to Havana for a two-week vacation. The\u003cbr\u003eincessant rains have flooded the copper mine. The electric water pump dragged to\u003cbr\u003ethe site is almost prehistoric and has electrocuted two men since mid-November.\u003cbr\u003eNow not even the most skillful electricians will go near it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The same group\u003cbr\u003eof men greets Reina in the hotel dining room, over a breakfast of rolls and fresh\u003cbr\u003epapaya with lime. Reina looked them over carefully the day before but deemed\u003cbr\u003enobody worthy of her desire. They are all much too sure of their allure. This is\u003cbr\u003ea problem in Cuba. Even the most gnarled, toothless, scabrous, sclerotic,\u003cbr\u003epigeon-toed, dyspeptic, pestilential men on the island believe themselves\u003cbr\u003eirresistible to women. Reina has often pondered this incongruity. Too much mother\u003cbr\u003ecoddling is her theory. After the love and embraces of a Cuban mami, what man\u003cbr\u003ewouldn't think he is the center of the universe? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Electricians, in Reina's\u003cbr\u003eexperience, are in a category apart. Adept with their hands and making sparks\u003cbr\u003efly, they often look upon women as something of another electrical challenge.\u003cbr\u003eThey are reliable but rarely inspired, which is partly why Reina enjoys reducing\u003cbr\u003ethem to helplessness. Gratitude, she thinks, is a refreshing quality in a man.\u003cbr\u003eThis is why Pepín Beltrán continues to be her ideal lover, despite the fact that\u003cbr\u003ehe's married and wears orthopedic shoes. As an official in the Ministry of\u003cbr\u003eAgriculture, Pepín has nothing to do all day but rustle papers and daydream about\u003cbr\u003eher. By the time he arrives at her room every evening, with a packet of black\u003cbr\u003emarket delicacies, he is nearly faint with anticipation. He follows Reina's body\u003cbr\u003elike music. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina admits to a certain vanity. She basks in the admiration she\u003cbr\u003ereceives in her trade and in her bed, in the image of her image of herself. She\u003cbr\u003eis fond of saying she has few specialties but prides herself on doing them\u003cbr\u003eexceedingly well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nobody is allowed to carry Reina Agüero's\u003cbr\u003etoolbox. She insists upon this, forcibly when necessary. It weighs close to\u003cbr\u003eseventy pounds, but Reina carries it as if it contained no more than a pork\u003cbr\u003esandwich and a carton of milk. Most days she makes do with her tool belt, but the\u003cbr\u003epump at El Cobre's mine requires more electrical finesse. It is a forty-minute\u003cbr\u003ewalk uphill in the rain. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Others from the town join the electricians on their\u003cbr\u003etrek to the mine. Word has spread of the lady electrician's ingenuity, and soon a\u003cbr\u003ecolorful procession of El Cobre's truants and elaborately underemployed citizens\u003cbr\u003efollow Reina and her associates up the hill. Salvation or catastrophe, Reina\u003cbr\u003enotices, is always guaranteed to draw a crowd. The rain comes down harder. The\u003cbr\u003ecitizens protect themselves with palm leaves and torn strips of cardboard and two\u003cbr\u003eblack umbrellas marked propriedad del estado. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Topsoil slides down the hill in\u003cbr\u003eblack rivulets. Snakes and mice and a profusion of underground creatures sweep\u003cbr\u003epast them as they climb. The trees are crowded with fretful birds, frogs, and\u003cbr\u003elizards seeking refuge from the floods. One electrician, a flat-headed man named\u003cbr\u003eAgosto Piedra, steps knee-deep into a pocket of mud and unleashes a string of\u003cbr\u003eprofanities so original it makes everyone laugh. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina is the first to reach\u003cbr\u003ethe mouth of the copper mine. It is an amphitheater of decay. In the seventeenth\u003cbr\u003ecentury, slaves extracted enough ore from the mine to meet all of the country's\u003cbr\u003eartillery needs. A hundred years later, they turned on their masters with muskets\u003cbr\u003eand machetes and, eventually, through the intervention of the Bishop of Santiago\u003cbr\u003eand La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre herself, were declared free citizens. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt will take something of a divine intervention to get the thick, foul-smelling\u003cbr\u003ewater out of the mine, Reina thinks. The pump, actually two pumps clumsily linked\u003cbr\u003eby a series of exposed wires, is sunk in a foot of mud. Reina motions for her\u003cbr\u003eattendant electricians to help her push the pump to drier land, but nobody moves\u003cbr\u003ea muscle. Instead they look back at her, alternately embarrassed and defiant. The\u003cbr\u003emachine has already claimed two lives. Revolutionary dedication goes only so far.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina puts down her toolbox. She circles the machine once, twice, three\u003cbr\u003etimes, before deciding on an angle. The mud sucks at her knee-high regulation\u003cbr\u003eboots. She takes a deep breath, settles loosely on her haunches. Then, with the\u003cbr\u003espeed and strength of a wrestler, she forces the power of her entire body into\u003cbr\u003eher right shoulder. The machine moves two feet out of the mud. She repeats the\u003cbr\u003emaneuver, so focused she appears in a trance, then again and again until the\u003cbr\u003ewhole contraption sits precariously on the lip of the mine. The crowd is silent.\u003cbr\u003eThe rain continues to roar down. Overhead, an aura vulture wheels through the\u003cbr\u003eair. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What happens next occurs so fast that nobody present can describe the\u003cbr\u003eevents accurately or in sequence. One moment, Reina is removing a side panel of\u003cbr\u003ethe water pump with her battery-operated screwdriver, and the next, thousands of\u003cbr\u003ebirds flee the trees at once, whirling madly in the rain. The ground begins to\u003cbr\u003eshudder and fissure. Reina jumps on the pump as it begins to careen downhill on a\u003cbr\u003ewave of mud belched forth from the mine. The pump crushes everything in its path,\u003cbr\u003eleaving a flattened double wake of dirt and brambles that stops short before a\u003cbr\u003egiant mahogany tree. Reina sees the tree coming and is almost relieved. It is a\u003cbr\u003ehealing tree, she remembers, its bark used to treat rheumatism, tetanus, and\u003cbr\u003epneumonia. Like the earth, it is violently trembling. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The impact rattles\u003cbr\u003eReina's spine, breaks her nose and both thumbs, and loosens a back molar. A\u003cbr\u003etangle of her hair is pulled out by the roots. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina is pinioned forty feet\u003cbr\u003ehigh in the tree's uppermost branches. It is another kingdom entirely. Her pores\u003cbr\u003eabsorb the green saturation of leaves, the merciful scent of the earth slowly\u003cbr\u003eascending its limbs. Above her, the sky blossoms with gray velvet, with the\u003cbr\u003efading light of long-departed stars. Suddenly, Reina wants her daughter to be\u003cbr\u003ewith her, to share this air and the strange exhilaration of height. She would\u003cbr\u003esay: \"Dulcita, all the gifts of the world are here.\" But Reina knows too well the\u003cbr\u003euselessness of words, their power to divide and create loneliness. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reina's\u003cbr\u003ebody is sticky with blood and emulsions she does not recognize. Then nothing\u003cbr\u003ematters except an unexpected blindness, her heart's rhythm, and an exquisite\u003cbr\u003esense of heat.Ballantine Reader's Circle","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302102388965,"sku":"NP9780345406514","price":23.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345406514.jpg?v=1767738045","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-aguero-sisters-isbn-9780345406514","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}