Captured Moments

CHAPTER EIGHT: OLD TO NEW

The brass door knocker gleamed in the late afternoon sun as Marie fussed with the camera settings one more time. Their little Cape Cod house sat proud on Maple Street, with its fresh white paint contrasting against the dark green shutters Landon had hung himself last month. The rose bushes they'd planted after moving in were finally blooming, their pink petals reminding her of the ones that had lined the streets of Paris all those years ago. It is now 1953

"Honey, you sure this contraption won't explode?" Landon called from the porch swing, his teasing voice carrying the same warmth it had when they'd first met. He was wearing the blue chambray shirt she'd ironed that morning, his dark hair neatly combed despite the humid June air. The sight of him still made her heart skip, just like it had that spring morning in '41 on that quiet French street.

"Oh hush, you!" Marie laughed, adjusting the timer on their new Kodak Duaflex III. "This camera cost us a month's worth of grocery money. It better work!" She smoothed down her yellow sundress, remembering how different life had been when she'd worn sensible skirts and carried armfuls of books through France, never expecting her whole world to change when she dropped them.

Landon's leg was bothering him today; she could tell by the way he'd been favoring it since breakfast. The war had left its mark, but he never complained. Not her Landon. The same man who'd once scrambled to help a stranger gather her scattered books on a French sidewalk, fresh off a transport from England, still tackled every challenge with that quiet determination.

"Scoot over, soldier," she said, sliding onto the swing beside him. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, comfortable and secure.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Landon asked, his fingers playing with a loose curl that had escaped her carefully pinned hair. "That little café in France where we had our first real conversation. After I helped you with your books, you insisted on buying me coffee to say thank you."

Marie smiled, remembering. "And you told me you'd just arrived from England, heading to your next posting. I thought you were the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my life, even if you did look a little lost on those French streets."

"Lost until I found you," he corrected softly. "Who'd have thought dropping those books would lead to all this?"

The camera clicked, capturing their tender moment.

"Speaking of life-changing moments..." Marie reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a tiny white box tied with a blue ribbon. "I have something for you."

Inside the box lay a miniature pair of white baby booties she'd secretly knitted, tucked beside a small note that read: "To mon cher soldat – Your newest recruit reports for duty December 1953!" The French endearment was a callback to their first meetings, when her American accent had stumbled over the foreign words.

Landon's hands trembled as he lifted the tiny boots. For a moment, he just stared, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Marie..." his voice cracked. "Are we...? Are you...?"

She took his hand and placed it on her still-flat stomach. "Remember last month when we drove the new Buick to that little lake house? Well, seems we brought back more than just fishing stories."

The tears came then – the kind that transformed Landon's whole face, making him look like that young soldier who'd once knelt without hesitation to help gather scattered books on a French sidewalk. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.

"A baby," he whispered, voice rough with emotion. "Our baby."

Marie felt his tears dampen her shoulder. "Doctor Williams confirmed it yesterday. I almost burst keeping it secret this long! I wanted to tell you right away, but then I thought... what better way than with our new camera? Now we'll have this moment captured forever."

Landon pulled back, his eyes shining. "You amazing, wonderful woman." His hand cradled her face, thumb brushing away her own happy tears. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"What's that?"

"That vegetable garden I've been planning for the backyard? Guess I better start drawing up plans for a swing set instead." His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes – the same smile that had made her heart flutter on that fateful French morning.

In their neighbor's yard, Mrs. Peterson's wind chimes tinkled in the evening breeze. From somewhere down the street came the distant sound of Perry Como on somebody's radio, singing about home and love. The scent of Marie's fresh-baked apple pie drifted through the screen door behind them, so different from the croissants and café au lait that had accompanied their first conversations.

Landon's hand hadn't moved from her middle, as if he could already feel the miracle growing beneath his palm. "Je t'aime," he whispered, using one of the few French phrases he'd learned for her, pressing his forehead to hers. "Both of you."

Marie closed her eyes, committing every detail of this moment to memory – the warmth of the setting sun on her face, the gentle creak of the porch swing, the solid strength of Landon's arms around her, and the overwhelming joy that seemed too big for their little front porch to contain.

In twelve years of knowing each other, from scattered books in France to war-time letters to wedding vows, she'd never seen Landon cry like this. Happy tears that spoke of dreams coming true and answered prayers and the kind of love that begins with a chance encounter on a foreign street.

"Well," she said, wiping her eyes with a laugh, "I guess we better take another picture. This one's got to be perfect – it's going in the baby book. Our little Franco-American miracle."