Along the Infinite Sea (46 page)

I think you're just like your son.

5.

They watch the sun sink from the shelter of the porch, curled up in the old rocking chair Stefan repaired himself, covered by a thick plaid horse blanket. There's a cold snap coming. It's maybe even going to freeze tonight, he can smell it in the air. A good night to share a bed with the woman you love.

“Two more questions,” he whispers in her hair.

“What's that?”

“The first one. How did you find me?”

She laughs. “It took months. I hired an investigator. I figured you would have a new name of some kind. I gave him a list of possibilities. And a couple of weeks ago he sent me an article about Cumberland Island, and a man named Stefan Himmelfarb who was caring for the wild horses who were injured or sick, and I knew it had to be you. I read that article and I could feel you behind the ink. But when I arrived at the hotel in Saint Mary's, I lost my nerve.”

“
You
, Annabelle?”

“Yes, me. I'm not the nubile young maiden I once was, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“This is nonsense. You are still the most beautiful woman I have ever met, despite the immense crookedness of your toes.”

She snorts her very practical American disbelief. “And besides, you had three decades to fall out of love with me and find some other woman to warm your heart.”

“Don't be stupid.” He tucks the blanket around her shoulder.

“Well, that's my answer, like it or not. So what's your second question?”

“In fact, since you ask, I have a great many questions, and we will have to spend long weeks answering them all. This may take until the new year at least. But the most important question is this.”

He pauses, for effect. The sun drops another millimeter, just
touching the tips of the marsh grass, illuminating the backs of the horses as they saunter habitually across the meadow to the lean-to he built with his own hands, and the hay he has just laid out for them, with Annabelle's help.

And wasn't that almost as good as saying her name aloud? Sharing the evening chores, side by side, in the manner of a couple married for years. Maybe she will stay until the new year. Maybe she will stay all winter, and they will share this routine every night. He hardly dares to think about the spring. There is such a thing as too much joy, and the perils of tempting fate.

“Well?” she says.

He turns her face toward him and fixes her sternly.

“What in the hell did the two of you do with my yacht?”

A
few years ago, I came across a short article in the newspaper, concerning a vintage automobile—a rare 1936 Mercedes 540K Special Roadster—that had been discovered in a shed at an inn in Greenwich, Connecticut, where I then lived. According to the article, a German baroness had driven this extraordinary car around Europe in the years before the Second World War, having various affairs (including one with a Jewish Englishman) and generally making herself unpopular with the ruling party in Germany. Eventually, she fled to America with her Mercedes, and at the time of the car's rediscovery in 1989, it hadn't been touched in two decades. A cigarette stub still rested in the ashtray, stained with lipstick, and a single leather glove inhabited the glove compartment. Fully restored, the car sold at auction in 2012 for nearly twelve million dollars. I couldn't resist.

But I'm a writer of novels, not biographies, so I wanted to make up a story of my own and weave it into the overall narrative of my fictional Schuyler family, which now stretches over several books. I also felt I had something more to say about the journey—physical and
moral—undertaken by the people of Europe between the two world wars, and the discovery of a rare 1936 Mercedes in a Cape Cod shed seemed like the perfect springboard into this world.

Most of the characters in this book—and all of the principal ones—never existed in real life, no matter how vibrantly they live in my imagination. There was no Johann von Kleist in the German high command, and no Jewish nemesis by the name of Stefan Silverman. While the Himmelfarbs did not exist, nor did they die on the night of 9–10 November 1938, millions of German Jews were not so lucky. Kristallnacht saw the destruction of a thousand synagogues and seven thousand businesses; over thirty thousand were sent to camps like that at Dachau, and the number of dead and injured will never be known exactly. Despite the horror expressed in the foreign press in the days following the pogrom, the world—“weary of everything”—responded more or less as Stefan imagined it would. Only the quiet heroism of individual Germans emerged to redeem humanity that night.

As a writer of historical fiction, however, I try to keep the history as my background, and my characters at the center of the stage. This novel isn't intended as a textbook on Nazi Germany and the politics of prewar Europe; for those interested in learning more about this crucial year in Hitler's consolidation of power, I highly recommend Giles MacDonogh's engaging and exhaustive
1938: Hitler's Gamble,
to which I referred again and again.

As for the identity of the father of Pepper's baby, I have no comment.

The book you hold in your hands is not the original version of
Along the Infinite Sea
. Writing swiftly on a tight deadline, I tried to open the file one evening—the night before April Fool's Day, ahem—and had no luck. Neither did the assembled geniuses at the Apple Store. I sent the file to Putnam, where it was referred to the ominously titled Forensics Department. The cadaver could not be dissected, and neither could any of the copies I had saved earlier.

So I started over. I rewrote those first 250 pages—the writers among you will now proceed to throw up—and the story took an entirely different turn. Go figure. I could not, however, have decided exactly how the love triangle of Stefan, Johann, and Annabelle would play out without the emergency help of my immensely talented friend Karen White, who took my phone call and walked me through my very complicated plot until I realized what I had to do. In her own wonderful novels, Karen is an expert at moments of emotional impact, and I might not have had the courage for that final resolution on the German border without her clear vision and her assurance. I hope she enjoys reading the result.

Beyond Karen and her creative assistance, I have many more wonderful people to thank for their help in putting the finished book into your hands. Alexandra Machinist, my irreplaceable literary agent, has held my hand and walked me through a fireworks year, and I am deeply grateful to her and to her hardworking colleagues at ICM for all their support. As for the talented and enthusiastic team at Putnam—my wonderful editor, Laura Perciasepe (whose name alone gives me joy); my publicist, Katie McKee; my whiz-girl marketing mavens, Lydia Hirt and Mary Stone; the ridiculously talented art department that delivers me cover after stunning cover; and a host of other superb professionals—I simply can't say enough. You have taken me on a marvelous journey, and I can only hope it's been as much fun for you as it's been for me.

I have so many people to thank in the book world—writers, bloggers, booksellers, readers—I can't even begin to list them here, but you know who you are. Your bookish enthusiasm keeps me writing, even on those days when I'm in a muddle, and I thank you with all my heart for your kind words, your emails and tweets and Facebook posts, and your energetic company when we meet at book events.

I owe special thanks to my lovely friends at the Putnam Restaurant on Greenwich Avenue—my diner of choice, and that's saying something—who fry my bacon just so and keep the coffee coming generously while I frown and stab at my laptop all morning. It's amazing how much you can write when someone keeps stopping by to refill your coffee cup.

And finally, as always, to my family—friends, in-laws, outlaws—and most especially my beloved husband, Sydney, and our four crazy kids. I love you all.

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