Years, Love

Something More

1969

She opened the window and breathed in deeply, inhaling the crisp morning air. She looked down to the street and waved to a neighbor. Christine gasped as the black and white cat leapt onto the window seat. "Domino," she acknowledged the feline with a soft laugh and stroked her hand down the cat's back. "You scared me."

She moved to the record player as she heard a loud, demanding meow. "No. I can't spend all day showing you affection, Dom," she stated as she put on an Otis Redding record. Her eyes rolled as the cat meowed more. She strode over to the window and tickled the cat's ears. "You aren't starved for love. Be a good boy," she cooed and left the animal to bask in the sunlight.

Christine made a cup of coffee and joined Domino on the window seat. She bumped a cigarette out of her pack and lit up with a match, stretching out her long legs and inhaling deeply. She cherished her first cigarette of the day. The blonde felt the nicotine buzz through her system as she lazily gazed out the window. She smiled softly as Domino settled into her lap and nudged at her hand. Christine ignored his subtle plea for attention until he gnawed at her wedding ring. "Okay. Okay," she huffed, watching him roll onto his back as she scratched under his chin. The cat thought all her focus should be on him since she'd made the decision to step out of the spotlight two months ago.

She finished her cigarette and coffee and lifted Domino out of her lap, placing him on the floor. Christine stood and placed her hands on her hips, surveying the Chalk Farm flat. Her plan was to clean and rearrange the space. She chewed her bottom lip, debating on where to begin. "Catch all closet?" she inquired to the cat as he weaved in between her legs. She glanced to the ceiling and shook her head. "Wonderful. Retire from a music career and spend your days asking a cat's opinion," she muttered under her breath.

As soon as she opened the closet door, she felt overwhelmed by the clutter. "Bloody hell," she griped. Her pale eyes darted to the junk occupying the small closet. She hated how John put anything and everything into it. Before anything could tumble out, she closed the door and decided to save that mess for last. She spent the rest of her morning and most of the afternoon cleaning and pushing furniture around until she was absolutely satisfied with her work.

She stood in front of the small, cramped closet and heaved a sigh as she turned the loose doorknob, pulling the door open and shaking her head. Christine thought she'd start from top to bottom with the untidy wardrobe. She rose to her toes, stretching to reach a box on the top shelf. She cursed as a hat box fell at her feet and spilled onto the wooden floor. Her eyebrows crinkled as she looked down at the contents scattered around her bare feet. She sat down and picked up several of the envelopes, reading the labels. A warm smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Old softie," she whispered. Her husband had kept every letter from her. She opened the first one she'd sent to him and read intently, chuckling and remembering each event she told him about. Her correspondence to him was always lengthy since she painstakingly updated John on every detail of her life. She finished a few and took a break to put the kettle on. Christine took a tea cup from the cabinet above the sink and grinned at the scrap of paper in the bottom. She unrolled it and read her husband's scrawl. I love you because of your intelligence. You were smart enough to fall in love with me and say yes when I asked. His latest reason why he loved her caused a giggle to escape her. She stuck the note in the empty tea chest along with the others.

With a cup of hot tea in hand, Christine reclaimed her spot on the floor and rifled through the remaining envelopes. Her breath hitched in her throat. She found the letter, the one she'd sent to John while he was in the States with Fleetwood Mac. Christine tucked her hair behind her ears and pulled the pages out of the envelope. She read and felt her eyes sting as the feelings she had while penning the missive washed over her. She had been so uncertain of their relationship. Their six-month courtship had been casual, slow, and unhurried. Nothing like she had expected a romance to be.