From the  New York Times  bestselling author of Her Last Flight comes another riveting novel of the Schuyler sisters—where the epi c story of star-crossed lovers in pre-war Europe collides with a woman on the run in the swinging '60s... In the autumn of 1966, Pepper Schuyler's problems are in a class of their own. To find a way to take care of herself and the baby she carries—the result of an affair with a married, legendary politician—she fixes up a beautiful and rare vintage Mercedes and sells it at auction.  But the car's new owner, the glamorous Annabelle Dommerich, has her own secrets: a Nazi husband, a Jewish lover, a flight from Europe, and a love so profound it transcends decades. As the many threads of Annabelle's life before the Second World War stretch out to entangle Pepper in 1960s America, and the father of her unborn baby tracks her down to a remote town in coastal Georgia, the two women must come together to face down the shadows of their complicated pasts. AN INDIE NEXT AND LIBRARY READS PICK A KIRKUS REVIEWS BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR THE BEST OF SKIMMREADS 2016  Praise for Along the Infinite Sea   “A story about star-crossed lovers told in flashbacks. You’ll be as hooked as the first time you watched The Bourne Identity , and you’ll cry as much as the first time you watched The Notebook .”—theSkimm “Riveting historical fiction that illuminates love so strong that it transcends decades.”— The Boston Globe   “A world filled with elegance, charm, and bygone manners...No one does it better than Beatriz.”—Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author   “Passionate and starry-eyed, Williams's latest romance is a beautiful escape from everyday life.”—Shelf Awareness “A frothy trip to a more romantic era we like to believe existed, a place filled with yacht affairs and racing Mercedes. In a world packed with traffic and Twitter, it’s a welcome retreat.”—Bustle   “With the killer charm of a Rodgers and Hammerstein score and a touch of du Maurier intrigue, Williams' latest sexy and enthralling period drama...draws readers into the parallel, luxe worlds of two sparky women in the post-Camelot 1960s.”— Kirkus Reviews (starred review)   “With spunky characters full of grace and grit...The swift pacing and emotional twists and turns of the plot will leave readers guessing up to the final pages. Recommended for readers who enjoyed the atmosphere and characters of Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins .”— Library Journal Beatriz Williams lives with her husband and children in Connecticut. She is the New York Times bestselling author of Along the Infinite Sea , Tiny Little Thing , The Secret Life of Violet Grant , A Hundred Summers , and Overseas . She also writes under the pseudonym Juliana Gray.   Also by Beatriz Williams Title Page Copyright Dedication Overture Annabelle   First Movement Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle   Second Movement Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle   Intermezzo Annabelle   Third Movement Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper   Fourth Movement Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle Pepper Annabelle   Fifth Movement Pepper Annabelle Coda Stefan   Historical Note Acknowledgments     Overture “To see all without looking; to hear all without listening.” CÉSAR RITZ King of Hoteliers, Hotelier of Kings       Annabelle PARIS • 1937 All you really need to know about the Paris Ritz is this: by the middle of 1937, Coco Chanel was living in a handsome suite on the third floor, and the bartender—an intuitive mixologist named Frank Meier—had invented the Bloody Mary sixteen summers earlier to cure a Hemingway hangover. Mind you, when I arrived at Nick Greenwald’s farewell party on that hot July night, I wasn’t altogether aware of this history. I didn’t run with the Ritz crowd. Mosquitoes, my husband called them. And maybe I should have listened to my husband. Maybe no good could come from visiting the bar at the Paris Ritz; maybe you were doomed to commit some frivolous and irresponsible act, maybe you were doomed to hover around dangerously until you had drawn the blood from another human being or else had your own blood drawn instead. But Johann—my husband—wasn’t around that night. I tiptoed in through the unfashionable Place Vendôme entrance on my brother’s arm instead, since Johann had been recalled to Berlin for an assignment of a few months that had stretched into several. In those days, you couldn’t just flit back and forth between Paris and Berlin, any more than you could flit between heaven and hell; and furthermore, why would you want to? Paris had everything I needed, everything I loved, and Berlin in 1937 was no place for a liberal-minded woman nurturing a young child and an impossible rift in her marriage. I stayed defiantly in France, where you could still attend a party for a man named Greenwald, where anyone could dine where he pleased and shop and bank where he pleased, where you could sleep with anyone who