In the dark moments, Helen reminded herself that she’d always known what she was getting into.
On that late summer afternoon in 1975, they’d been dating for just over two years. The Dennehey family rented the same beach house in Old Lyme every August, and her fiancé, Charlie Cole, was visiting for the week. The house was always too crowded, the shower always ran out of hot water, sand gritted the floor in every room, but even in the chaos, the Dennehey family had certain rules. It didn’t matter that Charlie and Helen were now officially engaged. Until they were married, they would sleep in separate rooms. “You can’t just go to confession at the end of the week?” Charlie joked. “Isn’t that what it’s for?”
Because Charlie was their tall, handsome, unmistakably Waspy guest, and because the Irish Catholic clan seemed to retain some weird epigenetic respect for Anglo types, he was given one of the good bedrooms. Helen, meanwhile, was relegated to a bunk bed on the third floor, along with the cadre of younger cousins. During that particular August afternoon, when the rest of the family had trooped down to the beach, Helen was lying on her bunk, reading a James Michener paperback. The floorboards in the hallway creaked. She lowered her book, and there in the doorway was Charlie, grinning his big grin.
They were still at the stage when it was unthinkable that they might go more than twenty-four hours without having sex. Afterward, he lay on his stomach, eyes half-closed, drowsy and content. Helen traced a finger up and down his naked back. His shoulders were tanned and strong; unlike the fair-skinned Helen, he took to the sun easily. “Mmm,” he said. “How am I supposed to live without this?”
“It’s only a year,” Helen said. “A year is nothing.”
Charlie lifted his head. “What if you came with me?”
She laughed. “And do what?”
“This,” he said. “For starters.”
“This.” She smiled. “And what else?”
“Well, whatever you want.” He rolled over, propped himself up on his elbow. “That’s the thing. You know how far my salary goes in a place like Algiers? You wouldn’t even have to worry about working. You could, I don’t know. Perfect your French. Write that book you always wanted to write. Helen, I’m serious! Do you really want to spend another year of your life in Connecticut?”
It began as a lark. But as he kept talking, Charlie began to wonder out loud why this had never occurred to him. They didn’t need to wait a year to get married. They could do it now. They were madly in love. What else mattered? She listened with bemusement, knowing that it would never happen. Helen Dennehey, the good girl, the Phi Beta Kappa bookworm, drop out of college for a man? The plan had always been for them to do long distance for the year, and then they would get married after she graduated from Connecticut College, and then she would join Charlie in Algeria.
“I know what you’re going to say.” Charlie held up a hand. “It’s irresponsible. Sure. But set aside responsibility for a second. Imagine it, Hel. The whole day writing in cafés. Weekend trips to the desert. The sea. The light.” He grinned, took her hand, kissed it. “Not to mention an apartment all to ourselves.”
Later, it was obvious. This was what Charlie Cole did. This, in fact, was what he was trained to do. To bound into your life and show you how much better, how much more exciting that life could be. He wasn’t exactly lying. What made people believe him was the fact that he believed it, too. Earlier that summer, after Charlie received news of his posting, Helen was curious to learn more about Algiers, so she read The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. Dark as it was, the world of that novel had enchanted her: the cafés, the desert, the sea, the light. And Charlie talked, and he made it sound so real. The bunk bed above them, the rusted springs and the sagging mattress, might as well have been the glittering stars of the Sahara.
Words, mere words. How could they be enough to cause her to throw everything overboard? Maybe it was the post-sex haze of pleasure, or the scent of sun and beachgrass, or the dried salt on their skin. Or maybe it was knowing that Charlie was actually right. She didn’t want to spend another year of her life in Connecticut.
In any case, it worked. Two weeks later, Helen and Charlie were married. Three weeks later, they were boarding a plane for Africa.
It was during his senior year at Yale that Charlie was approached by the CIA. His father, who had served in the OSS during World War II, suggested to his friends in Langley that his son might be a suitable candidate. During the long courtship, Charlie made up for his middling grades with a well-calibrated demeanor. Just the right amount of interest in the job; just the right blend of optimism and realism. In the end, his performance did the trick.
His decision to accept the offer didn’t come as much of a surprise. But it did, to Helen, seem like a mistake. They never exactly argued about his decision—she recognized that it was his decision to make—but they did have a series of fraught conversations. Helen asked him, once, if he was joining the agency just to impress his father. Charlie scoffed at this, in fact he seemed deeply offended by the notion, so she never raised it again.
She was still getting used to the sight of the gold band on her finger when they arrived in Algiers in September 1975. Predictably, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as either of them were anticipating. But her diligence helped her to pass the time (she learned to cook, she made friends with the expat wives, she read Flaubert and Zola in the original French), and then the posting was over, and it was followed by the posting in Switzerland, and the posting in Germany. Her twenties passed in a blur of packed boxes, currency exchanges, constant goodbyes. Charlie found it simple enough to trade one place for the other—each was merely the next rung on the ladder—but Helen felt the losses acutely. The ancient light of Algiers, the punctual calm of Switzerland, the fairy-tale melancholy of Germany. Eventually she developed a fondness for these places, but the fondness always seemed to happen just before they left.
In 1982, Charlie was assigned to a post in Helsinki. He was overjoyed. Like all the most ambitious officers in those years, he was a Russia specialist, and the opportunities afforded by Finland’s proximity to the Soviet Union suited his ambitions. By this time, Helen decided to stop making the same mistake she always made. She wasn’t yet using the word regret—she was too deeply in love with Charlie for that—but she was beginning to recognize the shortcomings of this life. And Helsinki was drab and lifeless, a cold prison sentence that she would rather just endure than attempt to mask. She wouldn’t even bother trying to make friends. But that was before she met Maurice Adler.
One night during that first winter, Charlie brought Maurice home for dinner. Maurice, he explained to Helen, was a Russian native who had moved to the West. Now he was a professor at the University of Helsinki, and one of the agency’s most valuable cutouts: an intermediary through which officers like Charlie could communicate with sources. Despite her malaise, Helen felt obligated to be a proper host to their guest—anything less than that would have been rude—so she made coq au vin from Julia Child’s cookbook.
The three of them sat at the little pine table in the kitchen. At first she thought Maurice an odd man. He had nice manners, and asked perceptive questions, but he also seemed slightly absent, as if she were getting a convincing performance of the person, but not the person himself. But then Charlie went into the living room to change the music, and Maurice leaned forward and said, “Charlie tells me you’re rereading Proust?” That was when something in her, or something in him, or maybe something in both of them—that shy sense of hesitancy—began to evaporate.
The three of them wound up lingering at the table, talking late into the night. When Maurice finally left, he asked Helen if she’d like to have coffee the next week, so they could talk more without (a wry smile) dragging poor Charlie into their literary minutiae, and Charlie (smiling too) said that was a great idea. Later yet, as they were getting ready for bed, Charlie earnestly asked what she’d thought of Maurice, and Helen understood that Charlie had done this for her. He had gone out and found her a friend. He knew that she needed more than just him to stave off the loneliness.
Maurice began what became a ritual of weekly visits. Helen would brew a pot of coffee, and he would bring a box of lingonberry pastries. Over time, their conversations grew more wide-ranging, more personal. He was eleven years older than her, but the age gap didn’t matter. She often surprised herself with her candor. Helen wasn’t much of a crier, but in the middle of telling a story about the stray cat who lived outside their apartment in Algiers, she found herself, embarrassingly, beginning to tear up.
“I’m sorry.” She swiped her knuckles across her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying. Charlie was the one who fed him, not me. I didn’t even like that stupid cat.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Sometimes it’s easier to cry about the small things.”
Another kind of friend (a female kind of friend, if she were being honest) might have pressed the question. Helen, honey. You can tell me. What’s really the matter? But this wasn’t the nature of their friendship. Their relationship would always be marked with a degree of deference. You could only know so much about another person. They had decided, for whatever reason, to respect those limits.
Although sometimes, within the privacy of their marriage, she couldn’t resist trying to find out more. “But what does Maurice do for you, exactly?” She and Charlie were walking back from a cocktail party at the British embassy on a frosty night, satin slingbacks dangling from her gloved finger. The winter sidewalks were treacherous, and Helen had adopted the local custom of differentiating between outdoor shoes (her snow boots) and indoor shoes (her high heels). Maurice had been at the party, too, but he’d left early, without saying goodbye.
“He’s kind of like a connective tissue,” Charlie said. “A Finn might be spooked by an American. But if Maurice does the approach, they might be more receptive.”
“Is that what he was doing tonight, do you think? Going to meet someone?”
Charlie shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You aren’t even curious?”
“Honestly, Hel, it’s not always that exciting. He basically spends most of his time doing what he does with you. Visiting, drinking coffee, talking. Getting to know people. Figuring out what makes them tick.”
She felt flushed, and slightly queasy. She suddenly regretted bringing this up.
Charlie smiled. “Not that he’d ever try to recruit you. Actually, that’s the whole reason I thought you guys would hit it off.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s blurry. The boundary between his regular life and what he does for us. He doesn’t really work for us, but he’s also always working for us. Does that make sense? And that can get confusing. Point is, he doesn’t have to worry about that when he’s talking to you. He can’t recruit you. Because, you know.” He slid his arm down her waist, grabbed playfully at her butt. “I’ve already taken care of that.”
She swatted his hand away and said, “You wish.” But as they slipped and skidded home, she felt a lightness, a relief. While there wasn’t any physical chemistry between her and Maurice (she adored him, but not like that), Helen nonetheless—sometimes—felt guilt about their deepening friendship. Precisely because he never pushed, she was letting him see the parts of her that were quietly dissatisfied, the parts whose existence no one else knew about. It felt—sometimes—like a violation of the primacy of her and Charlie’s marriage.
Many decades later, on that July night in New York City, Helen and Sidney were out at a dinner party. After saying goodbye to Jenny in Central Park, Amanda beelined for her mother and stepfather’s apartment. The doorman let her in, and Amanda, exhausted from the last several days, went straight to the guest room and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
Ten hours later, she opened her eyes. The bedroom was cool and dim from the blackout shades. Helen must have crept in at some point, knowing that Amanda would have forgotten to draw them. She rolled over: there was a note on the nightstand. Didn’t want to wake you. Running errands this morning, I’ll be back with breakfast. I’m so glad you’re here.
Amanda lingered in the shower, basking in the hot water, allowing herself to momentarily forget the developments of the past week. She always slept better under her mother’s roof. Helen and Sidney had moved to this apartment eight years ago, after Sidney’s big promotion at the investment bank, so Amanda had never actually lived here, but the doorman always remembered her, and Helen always kept her favorite snacks handy, just in case.
She was in the kitchen, helping herself to coffee, when a voice echoed from the foyer. “Honey? Are you up?”
Helen appeared around the corner. She was dressed for her exercise class, black yoga pants and a black tank top, her gray bob held back with a headband. “You’re probably starving,” she said. “Sorry, sweetheart. That took longer than I thought. I bumped into Mrs. Markopolous. She told me to tell you to tell Georgia that she needs to visit more often.”
They hugged, and Amanda noticed, as she had been noticing over the last several years, that she was now slightly taller than her mother. Helen was diligent about her yoga and Pilates and strength training, but nothing could slow the march of time, or of bone density loss. Amanda said: “I can vouch that Georgia had already called her mother twice before I managed to leave her apartment yesterday morning.”
“She said Georgia has been picking fights lately.”
“Fighting is their love language.”
“Well, I’m on her mother’s side. Anyway. Then I got to Bagelworks and a fresh batch was coming in ten minutes, so I decided to wait. See? Still hot.”
Amanda opened the paper bag, the aroma of yeast and malt filling the air. She smiled, feeling a childlike happiness. Bagelworks was a mile away from the apartment, which in Manhattan terms meant it was in another state, but it was the place they had gone every Saturday morning, back when it was just the two of them, back when Helen was still in night school, back when they lived in that dingy walk-up on First Avenue. Bagelworks was her mother’s way of making it clear that Amanda’s visits, even if they were brief, were a special occasion.
“So,” Helen said, as she buttered a sesame bagel. She passed half to Amanda. In return Amanda passed her half of an everything with cream cheese. Neither of them could remember when or why they started this half-and-half habit; they had always just done it. “Tell me. What news from the Eternal City?”
“Well, actually. I just found out I’m getting promoted. Station chief.”
“Station chief!” Helen exclaimed. “Honey! That’s a big deal.”
“I guess,” she said. “Yeah. I don’t know.”
While Amanda looked down and took a big bite of her bagel, Helen gazed at her. After a beat, she said: “You don’t seem very happy about this.”
Amanda shrugged. “It was unexpected.”
“So what brought this about? Something bad?”
“Well, definitely not something good.”
“Give me the number,” Helen said, because this was their way of talking about Amanda’s job without actually talking about Amanda’s job. “One to ten.”
This morning, Diane Vogel would have woken up in an empty bed. Her husband’s clothes in his closet, his toothbrush by the sink: the trip wires were infinite. Yesterday had made the guilt concrete. Amanda hated the idea of putting a number on his death. She hated that she knew exactly what that number was. “Like a seven.”
“Bad, then.”
“Yeah. Bad.” She sighed. “Although it’s not just this one thing. It’s part of something bigger. Normally I don’t mind a challenge. But this one. I’m kind of worried about it.”
Helen was a good listener. She wasn’t the type to fill a silence, especially when she sensed a theme was being worked out. Amanda was always the one to change the subject, to pivot from the things they weren’t allowed to discuss. Her mind whirred through options like a deck of cards. She could ask her mother about her book club; about Sidney’s new board appointment; about the kids, Amanda’s half siblings, Vanessa and Caleb.
But she had to do this. She spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. “Can I ask you something? It’s about Dad. It’s about what happened in Helsinki.”
Helen arched an eyebrow. “You mean the affair.”
“Yes. Well, sort of. Did you know anything about the other woman?”
“Not much. She was British. Her name was Mary. I only saw her the one time. You were there, too, actually.”
“I was?”
“It was outside our apartment. You were tiny, you wouldn’t remember. In the moment, I didn’t realize it was her. I had suspected something like it for a long time. But I didn’t actually put it together for several months.”
“You suspected? And you didn’t say anything to Dad?”
“It was just a hunch. I didn’t have any evidence. And I thought, if I ask him about it, he’ll just say no. Your father was a good liar. That was his job. And then I would be wondering if he was lying or telling the truth, and that sounded exhausting. It was already so hard. He worked all the time. I was trying to keep you and me afloat. So I just… lived with it. It’s okay, sweetheart. It was a long time ago. A long time ago.”
Amanda’s face contorted in discomfort. The smell of cream cheese was making her queasy. There was, she realized, a good reason she had never asked about the affair. Probably there were things a child wasn’t meant to know about her parents. But what choice did she have? She said: “How long had you suspected him?”
“The first time or the second time?”
“There were two affairs?”
“No, no. It was the same woman. Both times I confronted him around your birthday. When you turned four, in 1987. But he apologized, and I agreed to give him another chance. And then when you turned six, in 1989. That’s when I decided to leave. I don’t know why it always happened on your birthday.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I know why. It’s because when I looked at you, at this beautiful child, I knew that I couldn’t keep doing this to you. I couldn’t let you grow up with my resentment. Your birthday had a way of reminding me of that.”
“My birthday,” Amanda echoed. “And we moved to New York right after that?”
“In May. It took me a few weeks to get everything together.”
“And Dad left Helsinki about… let’s see… nine months later?”
“Oh.” Helen furrowed her brow, puzzled by this new line of inquiry. “Well, right. Nine months. We left in May. He got his transfer in February.”
“Did you believe it?”
“Believe what?”
“The story about him requesting a transfer.”
Amanda had heard rumors about her father’s departure from Helsinki in 1990. Charlie had always claimed that he had requested the transfer; that he was burned out by the Clandestine Service; that he was ready to come home for good. But the transfer, inevitably, carried the suggestion of disgrace. Amanda had always suspected there was more to the story. “It just doesn’t seem likely,” she added. “That he would actually want that.”
“I remember it so well,” Helen said. “I was making dinner. The phone rang, and it was your father, saying he was coming back. He said our leaving had been a wake-up call. I guess I did believe him. He did sound different. But that phone call… It was also when I realized I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I thought, if Charlie is telling the truth, if he really has changed, then he is going to make some woman very happy. God, that was a sad phone call. But part of me also knew it had to happen. It was the only way for us to both be okay.”
The kitchen was quiet and calm. Across the table, Helen was unruffled by the old memories. Amanda believed in the sincerity of her mother’s belief. But it hadn’t actually answered her question. Those nine months. Helen leaves Charlie in May 1989. Charlie leaves Helsinki in February 1990. If it was really as simple as that, if Helen’s departure was the wake-up call, then why did he wait those nine months to change his life?
The gap didn’t make sense. Those nine months. Something had happened in those nine months.
In 1984, Maurice left Helsinki for a new teaching position in Paris. Helen wouldn’t go so far as to blame the changes in their marriage on Maurice’s departure. On the other hand, it seemed like more than a coincidence that, soon after Maurice left, her and Charlie’s disagreements went from run-of-the-mill to—well—fundamental.
She had gotten pregnant soon after arriving in Finland. Helen gave birth to Amanda Margaret Cole, named for two of their grandmothers, on April 18, 1983. That first year wasn’t so bad. There was constant fatigue, but it was a shared fatigue. Charlie, a workhorse at heart, was happiest when he had something to keep him busy. Keeping a newborn alive was the most relentless kind of busyness. The nature of his work sometimes kept him away, but when he was there, he was there.
And in that first year, Maurice was good company to all of them. He doted on the baby. He spoke to her in Russian, saying she was the smartest child he’d ever met. He gave her a beautiful set of wooden blocks for her first birthday. Helen had been scared by the thought of raising their child abroad, of being so far from grandparents and cousins, of missing holidays and birthday parties and summers at the Old Lyme beach house. But when Amanda arrived, Helen realized that it was okay. She was going to grow up with something different. Not better, not worse; just different.
And then, in the summer of 1984, Maurice told her that he was taking the job in Paris. He would be leaving in a few weeks. “No!” she cried. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. Oh, Maurice. I’m happy for you. I am! I just can’t imagine you not being here.”
The two of them were sitting in the living room, watching Amanda traverse the Berber rug, bought years ago in Algiers. She had taken her first tentative steps, but she still preferred the speed and reassurance of crawling. “It’s a short flight,” Maurice said. “I’ll come back often. Every other month, at least.”
“Still. Oh, Maurice. We’re going to miss you so much.”
But Helen told herself—and believed, she really did believe—that things would be okay. Gradually, she was adjusting to life in Helsinki. She’d met a handful of other moms through the local playgroup. With Amanda, her days gained a structure they had been lacking. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the toddler was acquiring preferences, opinions, habits. Her daughter was becoming so specific, and Helen found this enchanting. She would miss Maurice, but he had to do what was right for him, and she would adapt. She always did.
What she hadn’t banked on was Charlie’s reaction. At first he was sulky and quiet, refusing to talk about it, unwilling to admit to his feelings. If anything, Charlie seemed strangely resentful, like he was taking the departure personally. And then, a few weeks later, he came home with a grim look on his face. “I have to go to Washington,” he said.
“Why?” Helen said, while attempting to spoon applesauce into Amanda’s mouth.
“I have to brief the director about something.”
It was a short trip, just a few days. But then, almost as soon as he was back, he was off again. This cadence was new. In the past, he’d never had to travel this much. Nor had he had this number of weekend and overnight shifts. When Helen asked where he was going, Charlie only gave bare-bones answers. Par for the course when married to a spy, but in the past, Charlie had always been semi-apologetic about this withholding. Now he almost seemed to enjoy it. “I don’t get it,” Helen said, after yet another spur-of-the-moment trip. “It was never like this before. Did something change?” Then, unable to conceal her prickliness, she added: “They do realize you have a toddler, right?”
“It’s my job, Helen,” he snapped. “It’s not like I have an option here.”
And because she’d had a long day with their teething, tearful, fussy daughter, she stayed silent, deciding not to wade into that eternal, godawful, breadwinner-versus-homemaker fight. They’d had it too many times already.
In December of that year, the embassy hosted its annual holiday party. Helen found herself talking to a man named Jack. The men who worked with Charlie always had names like Jack and Bill and Bob. Partway through the conversation, she realized she was meant to know who Jack was. Jack was important. Charlie had told her about him. But in addition to the teething, Amanda was going through a new phase of sleep regression, and Helen’s mind felt like mush. Jack finally saved her when he said:
“I have to admit, it’s a big job. But I count myself lucky. Great people here in Helsinki. Outstanding people. They make it easy for me to look good.” He chuckled, and Helen’s memory snapped into place. Of course! Jack was the new station chief. Or newish. He’d started in the summer, right around the time of Maurice’s departure.
“Charlie’s been especially great,” he continued. “Always happy to go the extra mile. Always volunteering to step up. Real team player. I know it can’t be easy with a little one at home. But it never stops him from raising his hand. I just want you to know.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “I see the sacrifice, and I appreciate it. I mean the sacrifice you’re making.”
“Oh,” Helen said. “That’s… well, that’s nice to hear.”
When she excused herself to get another drink, she noticed Charlie across the room, head tipped back in laughter. Chipper old Charlie Cole, hail-fellow-well-met. He was so likeable, but he also liked being likeable, and this was the problem. He would never let his colleagues see his frustration, or fatigue, or anxiety. Which meant that he kept it to himself until he got home, at which point Helen, and Helen alone, was forced to bear the brunt of his mood.
As the night went on, her sense of aggravation mounted. So there wasn’t some dramatic new operation afoot. There wasn’t some save-the-world ploy. This was simply Charlie doing what came naturally. Helen understood that this trait was hardwired into him, that he would never really change. But she also believed it was her spousal right to call him out on it.
“You should have checked with me.” They were back at the apartment, had just paid the babysitter. She spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Amanda. “All of this travel, Charlie? The overnight shifts? Jack told me you keep volunteering for them. It’s kind of shitty to hear that.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
“Well, then, explain it to me. I’m listening.”
“It shouldn’t be like this.” Charlie sounded morose. He’d had a few more drinks than usual. “I’m thirty-three. I’ve got nothing to show for myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can tell what you’re thinking, Helen. But this isn’t a vanity thing. It’s not just about getting Jack to like me. Christ almighty. I’m shallow, but I’m not that shallow.”
She was a little taken aback by the accuracy of his perception. “Charlie,” she said gently. “You’ve got plenty to show for yourself.”
“Not where it counts. Almost three years in Helsinki. Three years in a city packed with spies, and I haven’t managed to recruit a single agent. I’m fucking this up. This should be my big moment, and I’m fucking it up. I’m just so goddamn mediocre.”
She blinked. What the fuck was happening? Charlie had experienced bouts of insecurity in the past, but nothing like this. She was confused, but she was also angry, because this was self-pity in the extreme. She wished that Maurice was there. Maurice would tell him to snap out of it, and Charlie would actually listen to him. Charlie respected Maurice, because he was a part of his world, but because Maurice didn’t actually have any power, it kept Charlie’s people-pleasing complex in abeyance.
And this was when she realized: Oh. He doesn’t just miss him. He needs him.
They were standing in the kitchen. Charlie had moved to the refrigerator to get a beer. His back was turned, his shoulders hunched forward. Helen’s heart swelled with tenderness. “Oh, honey,” she said. And she was about to say that she thought she understood, but then Amanda began to cry.
Charlie looked up, but Helen said, “It’s okay. I’ll get it.”
After changing Amanda, she carried her into the kitchen, bouncing her lightly against her shoulder, trying to guide her back to sleep. Charlie sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Amanda was babbling and gurgling, but he didn’t hear her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Helen. I know this hasn’t been fair to you.”
“I’m only asking that we talk about it. You have to do what you have to do. But this is our life, Charlie. Let’s just talk about these things before you decide.”
“I’m going to try to be better,” he said. “I promise.”
But he didn’t try. Not really. And though it took several more years to play out, if Helen had to put a date on it, that was probably the beginning of the end.