Zelda sat at the kitchen island next to a bowl of mashed potatoes, watching her husband act domestic. She’d never imagined she’d enjoy this kind of life—if anything, after a week, she figured she’d be setting the dirty laundry on fire and shrieking about Betty Friedan. Yet here she was, feeling oddly content and even a bit amused at herself. Meanwhile, dropping a knob of butter into a cast iron skillet, August diced garlic as it melted. The way he took care of her, making her feel safe and cherished, was shocking but undeniably pleasant. The sizzle of butter and garlic filled the air as he added cloves and thyme, then began basting filet mignon. He was making something French, but simple enough—he claimed—that even Fred could gag it down.

“I like watching you slave over a hot stove,” she teased, leaning back on her stool with a playful grin.

He shot her a dark look, although the corners of his lips twitched slightly.

Sipping her water, she favored him with her most innocent expression.

Picking up his tongs, he glowered at the steaks. “I have no interest in being Fred’s latest crush,” he complained, turning them with practiced ease.

“Someone has to be,” she pointed out equably. “Adolf isn’t coming back until the next wedding.” And August was going to a lot of effort, however grumpy he pretended to be; this would be their first dinner party as a married couple. “Charlotte and I are going dress shopping tomorrow.”

August studied the meat thermometer, his brow furrowing in concentration. “I’m glad someone’s excited for that pagan nonsense,” he replied, not sounding glad at all.

Her eyebrows shot up in mock horror. “What,” she asked, feigning shock, “you don’t want to watch Charlotte poke at Klaus with a ceremonial dagger? Fred still has quite the scar, on his palm.”

Transferring his irritation to the peppercorns, August began pulverizing them with a mortar and pestle. “I want to poke at Klaus with a ceremonial dagger. Unfortunately, however, he and I would then also be married. And Iron Cross Barbie is bad enough as a brother-in-law.”

“That’s not quite the threesome I’d envisioned,” she quipped.

With a long-suffering sigh, he moved the steaks to a cutting board. “Even I’m not that sadistic,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his apron.

After that, he dumped the contents of the mortar into the pan, adding more butter and garlic and this time some shallots. Dinner clearly wasn’t a health food, but the kitchen smelled divine. As someone for whom Kraft mac n’ cheese represented a serious challenge, his focused calm amazed her. She’d brought several boxes home from the store earlier; muttering something about orange sludge, he’d confiscated them and started grating cheese and God he was the sexiest man on earth. She was beginning to wish guests weren’t arriving, no matter how much steak would go to waste. Instead, she dashed herself with the conversational equivalent of ice water. “Gretchen.”

Removing the skillet from the heat, August dashed in cognac. Then he leaned back as the flame shot up before returning it to the burner and adding cream. “Herr Anderson is either a fascinating psychological study,” he remarked, “or the stupidest man alive.”

“John is preparing his application for Junkerschule,” she volunteered, helping herself to a spoonful of potato. “And you are technically his girlfriend’s boss, so I’m sure he’s anxious to impress you.”

Untying his apron, her husband pulled it off and tossed it over the stool next to her. Then he picked her up, ignoring her squeal of protest, and sat her down on the granite countertop. “I only want to impress you,” he murmured, nuzzling the soft spot behind her ear.

“What about the steak?” she gasped, her pulse quickening.

“It’s still resting.” He trailed his lips down to her collarbone, his touch leaving tendrils of heat.

“We won’t be able to do this forever,” she protested, swallowing.

He paused, his lips tickling her skin. “No?”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her desire mingling with a growing sense of urgency. “Our days of living alone are numbered,” she reminded him, somewhere between reproachful and regretful. Putting on a show for the deer was one thing, but they were about to be parents.

His chuckle was low and warm, and it sent the most delicious vibrations straight to her core. “Would that be our stunningly attractive au pair?” he inquired, his fingers finding the first button on her blouse. “Because it might be interesting, watching you with a woman.”

She shivered again, her breath hitching in her throat as a hand cupped her breast. “She’ll have questions about the whips and canes mounted to the wall upstairs and….” And suddenly, she couldn’t think of anything except the thumb brushing back and forth across her aching nipple.

“I also collect antique guns.” His voice held a note of amusement, as he savored her torment. “No one’s suggesting that I use those on you, unless you’ve had some very interesting conversations with the milkman. Although right now, I think I only need….” Trailing off, he pushed her back onto the granite and freed her from the black lace confection he’d given her earlier.

A moan escaped her lips as she arched her back, desperate to maintain contact.

The doorbell rang.

With a frustrated noise, he stepped back, irritation etched into his features. Zelda, cheeks flushed and heart still racing, scrambled to adjust her lingerie and button her blouse. She hoped she still looked presentable as she hopped down to the floor, smoothing her skirt. It was always the way, wasn’t it? Just as things were getting interesting, something—or someone—had to come along and ruin the moment. But they had a lifetime to practice their quickie game, she reminded herself, flashing him a slightly embarrassed grin.

Fred was at the door when August opened it, Marie-France peering over his shoulder with a distinct scowl of disapproval. Gretchen seemed impressed by their sleek cube of a home, while John’s gape-mouthed stare suggested that he might pass out. “Hello, hello!” Fred exclaimed heartily, shaking August’s hand. “What a…modern place this is! Very modern.”

“Bauhaus,” August corrected him. “Walter Gropius designed it.”

Fred stared at him in flat incomprehension. “Does he work for the urban planning department?”

August opened his mouth to respond but, before he could, John threw up his arm in a salute. Managing to both acknowledge the gesture and wave him off, August welcomed them all inside. “No one salutes me in my own home,” he insisted to the terrified Rottenführer. “Except my wife.”

Fred gave August a once-over. “It’s odd,” he observed, “seeing you out of uniform.”

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Taking Fred’s coat, Zelda nodded. “Don’t worry, he’ll change back into it before bed.”

John, in spite of himself, burst out laughing.

Marie-France sniffed, no doubt mortified at the impropriety of married people suggesting they weren’t virgins. Either that, or she was still bent out of shape about architecture. August absented himself to fix drinks, while Zelda herded their guests into the living room. Fred amused himself at the bookcase while Gretchen, frowning, poked at a chair. “This furniture is weird.”

John shot her a look. “You have a lovely home,” he announced robustly.

Exhaling sharply, Gretchen threw herself down on the couch and looked bored. Marie-France joined her, clasping her knees and blinking. John joined Fred, who explained that here was a book called Der Mensch und die Sonne, and it was entirely full of naked men. John made a noise that Zelda found difficult to describe, and Gretchen mumbled something to her mother, who whacked her.

Hans Surén, naturism’s most vocal proponent, was arrested for public masturbation in 1942. August, returning with a tray, fortunately didn’t mention that. Nor did he quote Surén’s assertion that naked exercise was the daily rule in Ancient Greece—youths, men, and maidens together! And that it must’ve been a magnificent spectacle to see them in the ecstasy of their rhythmic movements. August also, thankfully, chose not to explain that Gropius had been the poster child for what Hitler called degenerate art. He’d fled the regime in 1934, first to England and then to the United States, living out the rest of his life in a house down the road.

The Bauhaus movement had been a dream: to create an artistic utopia, where artists and craftspeople of all walks of life could create together in peace. Neither gender nor sexual orientation had mattered to Gropius; he’d prized talent and, even more than that, commitment. But the problem with utopias was that they were just that—dreams. Reality always found a way to seep in, like rain through the tiniest cracks, eroding the foundations until only the ideal remained, an echo of what could’ve been if everyone had only overcome their differences.

And that was the problem with family, Zelda reflected, as Fred gave John an encouraging pat and Gretchen pretended to snore: the good news and the bad news were the same news. Family wasn’t about blood, but it also wasn’t about shared interests or even values; family was about showing up, and staying. She’d take someone who sucked beside her in that foxhole over someone who said all the right things and then ran at the first sign of trouble. She’d have crossed the street to avoid everyone in this house before the war, but she couldn’t choose who wanted to love her.

She smiled at her husband, feeling a rush of gratitude. Life wasn’t about waiting for a perfect moment, a utopia that would never come. It was about embracing the imperfection, the surprise, and finding meaning—and beauty—in both. It was about love, in the end, in all of its flawed and messy glory. For the first time since those ships had appeared at the mouth of Boston Harbor, the future was more than just a gray cloud. She had a lot of growing up to do, and so did August, but she also had hope. So why did she feel like something was wrong?

Shaking her head slightly, as if to clear it, she gestured toward the dining room. “I think dinner’s ready.”

At that announcement, Fred made a beeline.

Marie-France traipsed along behind, stopping to purse her lips at a painting. “I didn’t realize we were framing kindergarten collages these days,” she commented, her tone dripping with disdain. “Yours, or August’s?”

“László Moholy-Nagy’s,” Zelda replied, sounding more patient than she felt. “This is Z VII. Moholy was a rationalist and a technophile, committed to exploring the artistic potential of new media and industrial techniques, so after—

“Did he forget to finish it?” Marie-France’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “It looks like the blueprint for a failed geometry project.”

Appearing at her shoulder, John adopted a serious expression. “It’s a postmodern commentary on assembling IKEA furniture without instructions,” he explained with a straight face. Then, as Marie-France nodded sagely, he caught Zelda’s eye and winked.

Marie-France launched into a tirade about IKEA, Gretchen asked if all the walls were red, and Zelda helped August bring everything in from the kitchen.

“Which was when Moholy called for artists to stop painting in pigment,” John finished as she reappeared, “and instead, as he called it, painting in light. He actually had something of a crisis of identity, and Z VII was the last painting he worked on before he gave up painting altogether and—

“Steak au Poivre!” Marie-France trumpeted, her eyes lighting up.

Everyone settled into their seats and began to eat, the room filled with the sounds of contented chewing and the clinking of cutlery against plates. Fred seemed to have forgotten all about August’s book collection, as he enthusiastically tucked into his steak. Gretchen, for once, was too busy savoring the perfectly cooked meat to complain about anything and Marie-France, so used to eyeing everything with suspicion, now looked positively enraptured. John, trying to cut his steak with military precision, seemed torn between being the perfect guest and absconding with the platter.

Helping himself to another massive scoop of potato, Fred beamed. “Zelda, this is magnificent!” he gushed, his tone rich with appreciation.

Gretchen nodded in agreement, much to her own shock. “I had no idea you could cook,” she admitted, looking at Zelda with newfound respect.

“I can’t.” Zelda’s tone was mild, almost teasing. “August is the chef around here.”

She might as well have announced that the angel Gabriel himself had descended from Heaven with dinner, the effect on the table was so profound. Marie-France gaped at her plate, then at August, slack-jawed. “He did?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

John hid his smile behind his beer, his eyes sparkling with humor.

Fred stared at his host, stricken. “August, why?” he demanded, his fork hovering mid-air.

Appraising him coolly, August sipped his scotch. “Because my wife is challenged by eggs,” he replied dryly.

“But eggs are quite challenging,” Marie-France insisted, nodding earnestly as if defending the honor of breakfast foods.

Gesturing at his plate, Fred grimaced. “You can’t pick up the slack forever, man.”

August arched an eyebrow. “I can’t?”

“Men don’t get married,” Fred blurted, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “to cook their own dinners!”

Zelda was about to joke that single men must not need to eat and good for them when Gretchen slammed her fist down on the table, making everything on it jump. “God, Dad, no wonder Mom hates you!” she thundered, her voice trembling with frustration.

Fred raised his hands defensively. “I’m just joking!” he protested. “You know your mother can’t cook, dumpling. Her eggs taste like a gryphon birthed them and then forgot about them.”

“At least she can find the refrigerator,” Gretchen shot back, her eyes flashing. “Which is more than—ow!”

John grabbed her arm firmly. “Can I speak with you?” he hissed into her ear. “Alone?”

Zelda watched with interest as, not waiting for a response, John dragged her friend from the table.

“Well,” August announced brightly, breaking the tension, “I know I’m having fun.”

Fred turned to his wife, his tone softening. “I don’t care that you light butter on fire.”

Marie-France smiled timidly, a hint of relief in her eyes, and Fred smiled back, reassuringly.

“She took classes,” Fred informed the table, his voice proud.

When Marie-France laughed this time, she sounded like a different person. “You don’t know what my eggs were like before!” she confessed, giggling. “And at nineteen, I also knew everything.” Craning her head, she peered into the living room. “Should we check on them?”

“Wouldn’t want to interrupt something,” Fred replied with a chuckle.

An assessment that seemed, from Zelda’s perspective, entirely too optimistic.

August turned to him, astonished. “In our living room?”

“That couch,” Marie-France conceded, wrinkling her nose, “is quite uncomfortable.”