It is 1958 and Dana’s pearl necklace and earrings are a gift from the aspiring novelist on the first anniversary of their marriage a few months earlier. They are at the Caribe Hilton Hotel in San Juan, a magical place where they watched, from the end of a pier, a half dozen sharks cavorting near an underwater light at sunrise on their first date. Dana nurses a Tom Collins. The writer’s rum on the rocks is off camera.

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