{"product_id":"until-next-summer-isbn-9780593640821","title":"Until Next Summer","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A heartfelt and hilarious frolic through a nostalgic landscape of color wars, first kisses, and toilet-paper porch decor—with a cocktail in hand.\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eShelby Van Pelt, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRemarkably Bright Creatures\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo former best friends each find love at an adults-only summer camp in this romantic and nostalgic novel that proves “once a camp person, always a camp person.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Growing up, Jessie and Hillary lived for summer, when they’d be reunited at Camp Chickawah. The best friends vowed to become counselors together someday, but they drifted apart after Hillary broke her promise and only Jessie stuck to their plan, working her way up to become the camp director. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Jessie learns that the camp will be sold, she decides to plan one last hurrah, inviting past campers—including Hillary—to a nostalgic “adult summer camp” before closing for good. Jessie and Hillary rebuild their friendship as they relive the best time of their lives—only now there are adult beverages, skinny dipping, and romantic entanglements. Straitlaced Hillary agrees to a “no strings attached” summer fling with the camp chef, while outgoing Jessie is drawn to a moody, reclusive writer who’s rented a cabin to work on his novel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The friends soon realize this doesn’t have to be the last summer. They’ll team up and work together, just like the old days. But if they can’t save their beloved camp, will they be able to take the happiness of this summer away with them?\"\u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer \u003c\/i\u003eis a heartfelt and hilarious frolic through a nostalgic landscape of color wars, first kisses, and toilet-paper porch decor—with a cocktail in hand. Whether you’re a “camp person” or not, I defy you to read Ali Brady’s latest without glowing from the inside at this tender and hopeful exploration of friendship, romance, and the magic that only a very special place in the woods can hold.\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eShelby Van Pelt, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRemarkably Bright Creatures \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For fans of every single good thing\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003efriendship, romance, summer camp, and reclaiming your authentic self\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ethis book is a complete winner. It’s redemptive and romantic in the most perfect way.\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnnabel Monaghan, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSame Time Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Get ready for an extra dose of nostalgic summer feels\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ewith a side of steamy romance\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ein this delight of a novel by authors Alison Hammer and Bradeigh Godfrey, who write together as Ali Brady. You'll fall in love with plucky Jessie and earnest Hillary as the two women\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ewhose friendship fractured a decade ago\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003etry to find their way back to trusting each other, all while trying to save the summer camp that meant so much to them as kids. Throw in a hot, conflicted camp chef and a sexy, brooding writer holed up in a camp cabin with his dog, and you have yourself a recipe for two spectacular summer flings\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eand maybe even more. But just like the calm waters of the fictional Camp Chickawah's lake, there's more depth than you might expect beneath the surface, and you'll find yourself laughing and crying along with Jessie and Hillary as they host several weeks of adult campers and are forced to discover what it really means to save the day\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003enot just for the camp, but in their own lives, too. \u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e charms with crackling summer romance, the magic of true friendship, and an against-the-odds story of discovering the things that matter\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eand finding the courage to fight for them.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Kristin Harmel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e is an absolute must read! This novel beautifully captures everything that's magical and marvelous about long summer days, away camp, best friends, first kisses, finding your people and the place of your heart. When everything the Chickawah campers love is placed in jeopardy, our protagonists try everything they can think of to save the day. Rarely have I been so completely invested in the outcome of a story. In a word, it's Chicka-wonderful! Hey, if you know, you know and if you don't know you need to read \u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e!\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJenn McKinlay, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eLove at First Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you to Ali Brady for taking me back to sleepaway camp. First loves, shower shoes, Color Wars, the camp play, best friend necklaces... you didn't miss a detail about what makes camp a place where time moves differently and the outside world is a galaxy away. \u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e is an irresistible frolic through the joys of summer, friendship and young romance but also a reminder of the heartache that comes along with that unforgettable time in life. This book is for anyone who still thinks about their first crush, their first friend or their first sip of bug juice.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eElyssa Friedland, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Most Likely Club\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ali Brady is back with a can’t-miss vacation-in-pages. Two estranged friends come together to celebrate the last season at their favorite place with the best idea of all time: adult summer camp! Whether you’re a former camper or could simply use an escape, run don’t walk to pick up this charming, fun, and utterly poignant novel about the pieces of our younger selves that are always waiting to be rediscovered. Ali Brady captures the feel of carefree childhood days so vividly that you can practically smell the s’mores. \u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e, like camp itself, brims with summer romance, forever friendship, and, maybe most of all, finding who you’re meant to be. As a camp fanatic, I give this one five huge stars—and now I want to go to Camp Chickawah too!\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKristy Woodson Harvey, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Summer of Songbirds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Until Next Summer is the book equivalent of catching fireflies on a warm summer night and I couldn’t put it down.  Full of charm, nostalgia and swoon, Ali Brady’s newest release is best consumed by the light of a glowing campfire.\"\u003cb\u003e—Lynn Painter, New York Times Bestselling Author  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Until Next Summer grabbed me with its summer camp nostalgia, the deep friendship between its protagonists, and two simmering romances.  I was rooting for every single character to find their happily ever after, especially Camp Chickawah!\"\u003cb\u003e—Jessica Saunders, author of \u003ci\u003eLove, Me\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"While the romances have their steamy moments, this story is ultimately proof that platonic soulmates are just as important as romantic ones. A fun, sun-drenched homage to camp memories.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Until Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e, the sweet, steamy third novel by Ali Brady (\u003ci\u003eThe Beach Trap\u003c\/i\u003e), celebrates the magic of summer camp and the glittering potential of second chances both romantic and platonic.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Summer nostalgia, friendship and romance meld in \u003ci\u003eUntil Next Summer\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Woman's World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAli Brady\u003c\/b\u003e is the pen name of writing BFFs Alison Hammer and Bradeigh Godfrey. \u003ci\u003eThe Beach Trap\u003c\/i\u003e is their first book together. Alison lives in Chicago and works as a VP and creative director at an advertising agency. She’s the author of \u003ci\u003eYou and Me and Us\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLittle Pieces of Me\u003c\/i\u003e. Bradeigh lives with her family in Utah, where she works as a physician. She’s the author of the psychological thriller \u003ci\u003eImposter\u003c\/i\u003e.one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJessie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAugust\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was a kid, I had a button on my backpack that read i live ten months for two. When people noticed it, I'd get one of two reactions: total confusion (Ten months of what? Does this poor girl have a terminal illness?), or a knowing smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ones who smiled would inevitably ask one question. A question that let me know, without a doubt, that they were my kind of people:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So where'd you go to camp?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo matter the age gap or difference in our backgrounds, we'd start swapping stories, sharing memories. The gruff custodian at my elementary school bragged about winning Color Wars when he was fourteen. A bus driver sang his favorite camp song (The Princess Pat . . . lived in a tree), complete with hand motions. My pediatrician told me she once caught her marshmallow on fire and then, panicking, waved her roasting stick in the air, causing the marshmallow to fall onto her bare foot. She even showed me the burn scar, taking her shoe off in the middle of her clinic room while I waited for my twelve-year-old vaccinations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere's what I took from those conversations: there's something magical about summer camp. Those days stick in your mind like pine sap in your hair, like the scent of campfire smoke on your clothes. Even decades later, the memories remain vivid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is why I decided that I didn't want to spend ten months slogging through what everyone else called Real Life only to spend two months living what felt like my real life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wanted it all the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's sometimes still hard to believe I achieved that childhood dream. That this is my full-time, year-round, always and forever job. I am the head camp director at Camp Chickawah, and we've just completed another successful summer session.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe big lawn in the middle of the property is abuzz, hundreds of campers milling around, duffels and sleeping bags heaped in messy piles. Counselors try their best to wrangle the kids as they exchange tearful hugs with their cabinmates and friends, promising to see each other next summer. Then we herd them onto buses, double-checking that their gear is safely stowed below, and wave as they take off down the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gather my summer staff-the counselors, lifeguards, kitchen crew, sailing and archery and tennis instructors-and thank them for working so hard. I remind them that camp people never say goodbye; we say \"see ya next summer.\" So that's what they do, exchanging phone numbers and hugs before taking off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then everything goes silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only signs of the three hundred people who called this place home for the past eight weeks are the trampled ground, scraps of trash, and whispers of memory floating through the air: campfires and songs, pranks and crafts, friendships to last a lifetime. I take a deep breath, thinking how grateful I am to be part of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the same time, I'm exhausted. Each day at camp feels like a week, and each week feels like a month. I haven't had a full night of sleep since May-I'm always listening for the knock on my cabin door. This summer, I drove two people with broken bones to the emergency room in the middle of the night (one camper, one counselor), calmed a pack of terrified ten-year-olds when a tree fell on their cabin's porch during a rainstorm, and stayed up all night cleaning vomit after a stomach bug ran through camp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd most importantly: I kept a calm, reassuring smile on my face the entire time. After all, I set the tone for the summer. The former owners, Nathaniel and Lola Valentine, taught me this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Welp, made it through another year,\" a gruff voice says, and I turn to see my assistant camp director, Dot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike me, she's dressed in Camp Chickawah gear-khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. Dot is five feet tall and stocky, built like a human bowling pin with short gray hair. I'm nearly a foot taller, with strawberry blonde hair in two braids and skin that freckles or burns within minutes of sun exposure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smile. \"It was a good summer, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It was Chicka-wonderful. Nathaniel and Lola would be proud.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDot's been a staple of Camp Chickawah since my days as a camper, and now she's looking at me for direction-something I still haven't gotten used to, even after four years of being her boss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's do a sweep of the grounds for lost items,\" I say. \"Then we call it a day. Sound okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sounds great!\" Dot says, and off we go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning, after sleeping for ten glorious hours, I head toward the lake. The air is cool, faintly scented with pine, and full of birdsong. I pull my favorite canoe from the shed-it’s hand-carved birchwood and nearly a century old-and slide it halfway into the water, sending ripples across the shimmering surface. After discarding my hiking boots and wool socks on the dock, I pop my earbuds in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's time for some Broadway magic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI press play on the original cast recording of Hadestown. The iconic trombone begins wailing, joined by the inimitable André De Shields, and as I wade into the cool water and transfer myself into the canoe, I can't help dancing. Luckily, no one's around to see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter stowing my phone in a dry bag near my feet, I shove myself out with my paddle. Our camp hugs the west side of the lake; the rest is ringed with pine trees. The rising sun paints a golden streak across the water, and I follow it, paddling until my shoulders burn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCanoes can be tricky to navigate solo, especially an old wooden one, but I love the nostalgia, the knowledge that countless campers and counselors have sat where I am now. Soon I relax into the rhythm and pull of paddle on water, and my exhaustion melts away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've spent every summer at Camp Chickawah since I was eight years old. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, splitting custody fifty-fifty because they both \"loved me so much.\" I believe them-but the fact is, packing up and moving to a different house each week does a number on a child's sense of stability. It's not only adjusting to a different home-it's an entirely different culture. Different food in the fridge, different neighbors, different rules and expectations. Every week, just as I'd settled in at one home, I'd have to readjust all over again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is why that first summer at camp felt revolutionary. Eight whole weeks sleeping in the same bed. Associating with the same people, following the same routine. Camp was the stable home I'd never had. Every summer I returned, and when I was sixteen, I applied for the counselor-in-training program, where I was able to teach and mentor the younger campers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore than anything, I wanted to become a real counselor during my summer breaks in college. My best camp friend and I were going to do it together, but in the end, she bailed on me. It was painful-the kind of hurt that takes years to heal-but I took the job anyway. When I graduated (with a bachelor's in recreation administration-yes, it's a real degree), Nathaniel and Lola offered to keep me on as an assistant director, one of the few year-round positions at Camp Chickawah. When they retired, I became head director.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNathaniel and Lola were more than my mentors-they were like an extra set of grandparents who instilled in me the values of hard work and integrity, who taught me the importance of giving our campers a place to learn skills, make friends, and grow. Even though they've passed away, it feels like they're still with me. And like Dot said, I think they'd be proud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn hour later, I'm pulling the canoe onto the shore when I hear footsteps. Turning, I see Dot and two other people: Jack and Mary, Nathaniel and Lola's son and daughter. He's short and stocky, with his dad's square shoulders, and she's short and soft, like her mother. They inherited the camp, but neither of them has any interest in running it, so they've left it in my hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hi!\" I say, putting my earbuds away. \"So nice to see you both. What brings you to camp?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack gives his sister a quick glance. \"We're wrapping up Mom and Dad's estate. Can we talk?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re selling the camp?” I say, dumbfounded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe three of us are sitting in the Lodge, a rustic two-story building overlooking the lake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The camp hasn't made a profit in years,\" Jack says, which of course I know. But making money was never Nathaniel and Lola's goal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But-but it's been in your family since 1914!\" I protest. \"Parents depend on this place for their kids each summer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary gives me a sad smile and her eyes crinkle around the edges, just like Lola's. \"I've tried to find a buyer who wants to keep operating it, but no one's interested-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I could reach out to the camp community,\" I say, my voice tinged with desperation. I'm part of a huge online group of summer camp directors throughout North America. There has to be someone who understands how important this place is. How irreplaceable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack shakes his head. \"Mary's already tried that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'd buy Jack out if I could,\" Mary says. \"But there's no way I can afford it-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And your health, Mary,\" Jack cuts in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary closes her mouth and nods. \"Yes. Well, that too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't know what they're referring to, and it doesn't feel appropriate to ask. But Mary looks thinner than I remember, the shadows under her eyes deeper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePanic is rising in my chest. This can't be happening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So . . . what does this mean?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary and Jack exchange glances again. Mary's eyes fill with tears, like she's silently pleading with him, but Jack gives a shake of his head before turning to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We're listing the property as residential real estate,\" Jack says, his voice brisk. All business.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know what this means-I've seen it happen throughout our area. Luxury vacation developments, condos, and town houses crowding the lakefront, rustic cottages torn down to make way for huge, fancy lake houses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Of course, you'll get a portion of the sale, Jessie,\" Mary says brightly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI startle. \"Wait-what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary turns to her brother. \"I thought you sent her a copy of the will, Jack?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll send it when I get home,\" Jack says, shooting his sister a peeved glance. Then, to me: \"You get one percent. Should be a tidy sum with a sale this large.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe seems offended by this, as if losing a fraction of his own profit is a profound injustice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor my part? I don't care about the money. I'm not sure I even want it-it would feel tainted somehow, though it was thoughtful of Nathaniel and Lola to think of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But what does this mean for my staff?\" I say. \"Do you want us to just . . . clear out?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, no, of course not,\" Mary rushes to say. \"The whole process will take a while.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Probably not as long as you think,\" Jack mutters under his breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnger flares inside me. I want to grab them by their shoulders and shake them, ask how they can do this. Don't they understand how much this place means? To their parents, to all our campers. To me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI remember Dot saying Jack hated camp as a kid, that he resented how his parents spent all their time and energy here. Mary loved camp, apparently, but she's never been strong enough to stand up to her older brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she smiles gently. \"Don't worry-we haven't even listed it yet. And whenever we get an offer, we'll make sure to delay closing until next fall. We're not going to just toss you out on your keister, you know?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe gives a little laugh, but I can't join in, even half-heartedly. My camp is closing. After twenty years, this will summer will be my last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etwo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJessie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeptember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's been two weeks since the news from Jack and Mary Valentine, and I'm still reeling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've been going through our standard end-of-season tasks, so every day brings another reminder that this is the last time we'll do any of it. The last time Mr. Billy, our groundskeeper, will repair the shingles on the Arts and Crafts cabin; the last time Dot will inspect the watercraft; the last time I'll count how many bows and arrows survived the summer and how many I'll need to order for next year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a few weeks, Dot and I will move into our rented rooms in North Fork, Minnesota, the closest town, a forty-five-minute drive away. Mr. Billy goes to stay with his brother in Florida. Dot and I spend the winter months enrolling campers and hiring counselors and staff. We'll return to the property in April to start prepping for summer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur last summer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStuffing my hands in my pockets, I head down the path to the girls' area to check the cabins. On the way, I pass Mr. Billy, his angular frame stooped as he pushes a wheelbarrow full of trimmed branches. I wave, and he grunts. He's taken care of the camp for as long as I can remember-a huge responsibility, since we cover three hundred acres of land, with dozens of buildings and a thousand feet of lakefront-but I've never thought of him as old. In the past couple weeks, though, he's aged a decade. His typical vibe is one of mild annoyance, but now he seems almost fragile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy boots crunch through fallen pine needles; they're dry and brittle, like my mood. When I pop my earbuds in, the revival of Sweeney Todd with Josh Groban starts playing. A musical about a man hell-bent on murderous revenge after everything he loves is taken from him . . . maybe not the wisest choice. I turn it off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first girls' cabin comes into view. It's over a hundred years old, with a big front porch and a peaked roof. During the summer, the porch railings of all the cabins are covered with a rainbow of drying towels and bathing suits, but today they're barren. I wonder if the future owner will save any of these buildings, or if they'll bulldoze everything, erasing a century of memories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought makes me physically sick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI climb the steps to the first cabin, open the door, and walk inside. My boots echo on the wood floor. The air smells like decay; the bare bunk beds remind me of skeletons. But I tell myself to stop being melodramatic and inspect the beds, the mattresses, the blinds, checking them off my list. Briskly, I move from cabin to cabin, trying to avoid the onslaught of memories.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302400086245,"sku":"NP9780593640821","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593640821.jpg?v=1767743304","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/until-next-summer-isbn-9780593640821","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}