Disclaimers: Last chappie folks. I'm very sad to see this end. Very sad indeed. But I don't own anything, as always, and I love you all. As always. Thank you for your love and support of my original character(s), I was afraid you would hate her. But you didn't! Thank you soooooooooooooooooo much. Hugs and brownies for everyone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Terrorist!" Delaney yelled as a middle-aged white woman cut her off. "Stop looking for Osama Bin Laden! He's right here! Posing as Martha Stewart in the Elantra in front of me!" She screamed, hating how everyone else in the whole world drove. She put on her turn signal, pulled on to her street, and parked in front of her house.
Fishing her keys from her overly enormous purse, Delaney unlocked her home and pushed open the door. "Honey, I'm home!" She called into the empty house before she realized that it was Thursday- Keaton worked late on Thursdays. Deciding to take advantage of having the house to herself, Delaney set down her things, put on her pajamas, and ordered herself some pizza.
Halfway through her extra-large, extra-cheesy slice of heaven, Delaney's attention was drawn to the big hole in the wall, leading down to the basement. She was almost done with the diary, much to Keaton's relief, but there was still so much to look at downstairs. All those people Moira had painted, family, friends, who were they? She looked at the clock- Keaton was due to be home in half an hour. Suddenly, she felt stupid for worrying when he came home. If she could come home late to find him eating Ben&Jerry's and watching Spongebob Squarepants in his boxers, he could certainly find her down in her basement doing work.
With that thought in mind, she turned on the faulty light and descended into history. She moved her favorite painting- the one of Jack with the baby- and sat down on the ancient sofa with the diary. Opening up to one of the last pages, she began to read.
May 22nd, 1901
Dear Diary,
It's a very strange feeling, to be standing on the edge of the rest of your life. Everything is about to change tomorrow- I'm getting married. This is not the first time since I moved to New York that I don't know how to express how I'm feeling. Joy, excitement, hope…these words all fit, but for some reason…they don't seem to be enough. I suppose what matters is that I know how I feel, not how I put it into words. Jack is the writer, after all, not me.
I can scarcely believe how beautifully things have turned out, as I sit here and look at my wedding gown. The gown that Sarah made for me, most excitedly, when I told her. The same Sarah who is now set to marry that Mr. Rushworth she had left New York to go to work for. I was finally able to meet Kora, David's fiancée, yesterday when their train arrived from Santa Fe. David, much to my surprise, has offered to walk me down the aisle. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to have a best friend. I've missed him. Kora's lovely, though, I don't think I've ever met a sweeter person.
Mother and the Baron were not able to make it back to New York for the wedding, but they sent quite a bit of money- that Jack and I plan to put toward our new house that we've been making payments on. Oh, it's just lovely. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a big kitchen and-most exciting- an enormous basement that Jack has suggested I use as my studio. That sounds awful funny- to think that I might have a studio. It's hard to believe, but I think Mother may have fashioned herself to accepting the fact that her only child is marrying someone that she hasn't hand-selected. I stopped caring what Mother thought about Jack a long time ago, but it is nice to have her blessing, if not permission.
I believe I'm on the verge of sheer exhaustion, but at the same time, brimming with anticipation for tomorrow. I've only just gotten back from the church, which that friend of Elizabeth's has turned into the most beautiful place on earth. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it! But I should sleep.
It's a very strange feeling, thinking about everything that has happened since I came to New York, all the things I had to lose in order to get where I am today- and all the things I'm about to gain. It's just…strange. For instance, if I hadn't lost my father, Mother never would have thought of leaving Boston. And if Grandpa hadn't passed away, I never would have become friends with Jack. Life's funny, isn't it?
Well, I suppose this will be either my last, or one of my last diary entries, unless I decide to keep one later. So, Diary, thank you for listening. I'm going to go pour myself a glass of wine and toast to the rest of my life. Cheers!
Love always,
Moira
Delaney read the last few lines, smiled, and closed the book, feeling tears in her eyes. It was over. There weren't anymore diaries- that was it. Her mission-to find out the story behind how MB became MK between '99 and '03, was completed. She knew now.
She got to her feet and picked up the nearest painting. It was of the boy she understood to be Racetrack, holding hands with a very pretty woman. She turned it over and noticed something she hadn't seen before: at the bottom, left corner, written very lightly in pencil were the words 'Race and Tanya.' It was dated '01, and Delaney had to wonder whether Moira had only started painting after she'd gotten married, because there were no paintings before 1901, only sketches.
She turned back to the sofa and picked up her favorite picture again. Turning it over, she saw that it too had been labeled: Jack with Emma. Delaney smiled. Emma Kelly. Just thinking about it made her smile wider.
"Del?" Keaton's voice could be heard just before his wife saw him come down the stairs; she went back to the painting.
"Hi, honey. How was your day?" She asked, absentmindedly.
"What are you doing?"
"Just, figuring out what I need to know."
"Delaney, I'm worried about you." He stated plainly. Her head shot up,
"Worried? About me?"
"Yes, you spend all your time down here, reading that damn diary and looking at pictures!"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I want you to stop! I want my wife back!" He exclaimed desperately. Delaney looked at the painting in her hands.
"I'll put it away tomorrow." She agreed, finally.
"No. Tonight, I'll help you." He went to pick up something.
"No, no, no! Don't- don't touch it. I'll do it. I promise. I'll be done in an hour, and then we can work on fixing the wall and figuring out what we want to do with the space. Okay?" Keaton looked at her for a while,
"I'm going to go take a shower and change-"
"I'll be done by the time you get back." She finished quickly. He nodded and went upstairs.
Delaney sat, surrounded by pictures, at a loss. She didn't want to give up Moira's life- she liked it, sometimes, much more than her own. And she didn't want to give up these paintings, because well, they had sort of become like family to her. But she had been pissing Keaton off for weeks, and that was never fun. So, it was with a heavy heart that she sighed, "Sorry guys," she told the paintings, "my life has to take priority over yours," and got to her feet.
Keaton would most likely want to use the space for something, so it would do no good to simply put things back the way she'd found it. But then what about all of the pictures? He wouldn't just throw them out, would he? No, she decided, he wouldn't. She picked up the sketchbooks, the diary, the pink dress she had been hanging up, and Moira's little box, and opened the trunk.
She'd neglected, however, to ever take time to look at the actual photographs that were now left at the bottom of the black box. Putting everything aside once again, Delaney swept her hand along the bottom, pulling out the remains. In her hand were twelve pictures, and an envelope that felt full. She set the letter next to her and looked through the pictures. There were several of individual children on birthdays or holidays of some sort, one of four children, standing next to one another, looking like steps, all dressed up. On the back, it was labeled: Emma, Ben, Nathan, and Danny. Del grinned- four children. They were pretty kids, she thought, and went back to the pictures.
The rest were snapshots of grown-up newsies. Racetrack, with that woman from the painting, Tanya- they were a cute couple. In the photo she was holding, they were both grinning like idiots, waving at the camera. She wondered who had enough money to even have a camera back then, but decided it had to have been David or someone like that. She flipped through the rest of the pictures, smiling at each one, as Moira and Jack's life became more real to her with each frame.
When the pictures were finished, Delaney slowly began placing everything back in the trunk. She put the dress in first, followed by the sketchbooks, and the little box of mementos, and then she placed the little stack of pictures beside the box, and the diary on top of it all. When everything was neatly put away, she turned her attention to the letter that was resting beside her knee.
Delaney slid a fingernail under the seal and broke it quickly, before feeling a hint of guilt. Soon, however, she realized that she had already read the poor girl's entire diary and rooted through all of her things- one more letter wasn't going to hurt anything. As she pulled the paper out of the envelope and opened it up, Delaney saw that it was not addressed to Moira, but started simply with To whomever reads this.
Now curious, she read on.
February 1947
To whomever reads this,
By now, you've probably read Moira's diary, seen all the sketchbooks and paintings, and looked at her favorite pictures. Most people would think that all of that would be enough, but as I was glancing through her diary, I noticed that she never wrote anything after we got married. You can stop reading now, if you think this is going to bore you, but I'm going to take the liberty of filling in the gaps for you, as briefly as I can.
We moved into this house after getting married, in 1901, and then we had Emma, who brightened our lives like a permanent ray of sunshine. After her there was Ben, then Nathan, and then Danny. Moira still worked at Sutherton, so all the kids went there for free, while I kept on at The Sun. Moira used to laugh, a reporter who couldn't spell to save his life married an English teacher, and she was pretty sure it was fate.
And everyone else? All of our friends? Well, Race married that Tanya girl, not long after Moira and I got hitched. They lived down the street for a long while, before moving, when their house got too small. Everyone else moved on, got real jobs and families, we've lost touch with most of them. David and Kora are still out in Santa Fe, they come visit every Christmas. Ever since Moira died last winter, they've been trying to get me to come out there with them. But my home is here, I know that. I love New York, and this house. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to sell it- I can't take care of it anymore. So, it's to a smaller apartment that I go.
I was going to pack all of this stuff up, and put it in storage or something, but it didn't feel right. This was Moira's favorite place in the whole house, she'd spend hours down here, painting, or sometimes just sitting on the couch, looking at other paintings she'd already done. So, I'm not taking this stuff, it hurts too much to look at it. I'm going to keep everything exactly the way she left it, board up the wall, and just let fate do with it what She likes.
That was it. That was our whole life, down here in this basement. I don't know if anyone will read this, but know that even now, as I'm sitting here, ready to leave, I can feel nothing but gratitude for my beautiful, ordinary life. Yes, if I can describe what Moira brought to my life in a single word, it would be BEAUTY. She made life simply beautiful.
Sincerely,
Jack Kelly.
Now, Delaney was crying. She'd made his life beautiful. The simplicity of that statement, and the understanding she now had for what life had been for them had brought tears to her eyes. It was so sad to think of Jack all alone in this house, after Moira had died. She started crying again.
"Del?" Keaton was standing at the foot of the stairs. When had he come down? "What's wrong?" He asked, concerned at the sight of his wife, practically weeping, holding a letter.
"He loved her so much." She choked out, showing him the letter when he came over and sat down next to her. He took it from her hands and skimmed it, while rubbing Delaney's back with a freed hand, hoping to calm her down.
"Wow." He said, handing it back to her.
"I know!" They sat there in silence for a few minutes until Delaney put the letter back in its envelope and laid it on top of everything in the box.
"But, Del-"
"What?"
"This room, all these paintings, what are we going to do with them all?" He asked, finally realizing how much all of it meant to his wife.
"Well I can't just give them away! I mean, they're practically like family now!" She exclaimed wiping under her eyes. Keaton thought about this for a second,
"Then why don't we hang them in our family room?" Delaney looked at him, shocked for a minute, before grinning widely.
And that's exactly what they did…
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Well, friends. That was it. That's all she wrote. I had a ball doing this story, your support means so much to me. Thank you for accepting Moira as a decent character, and realizing that there is a little Moira in all of us. I love you all! Cheers!
~Bella~
