Ginger Fox Part 2

"Excuse me, Madame Roy." I glance around the golden room with white curtains and a large bed fit for a queen inside it.
"Oh, at last you've arrived! Come in, come in..." I see the petite lady emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a pink silk robe, waving her hand in the air, beckoning me to enter. "You may go, Lira. Thank you for being so helpful."
"Thank you." I smile at Lira, watching her step back and close the door behind her as she leaves.
The smile on the little, cunning woman's face fades, replaced by a serious expression as soon as the maid departs.
"You wanted to speak with me..." The tip of her finger, smelling of body lotion, rises to just inches from my mouth, signaling me to be silent.
I look at her in confusion as she simply walks to the door, opening it just a crack to peek down the hallway. She quickly sticks her head out, like a little meerkat popping out of its burrow to check for predators before retreating back to safety. I smile at the comparison. The little woman reminds me exactly of the small animal, with her sharp eyes and brown hair, due to her height, her perceptive gaze that misses nothing, and her brown bun.
"Well, she really is gone." She closes the door, turning the key and giving me a conspiratorial smile. "My mother always said that if you want to know what's going on inside a house, ask the servants. They always know everything."
I’m not sure whether to laugh at her way of speaking or to feel sympathy for poor Lira, who is always silent inside the mansion. I’ve never seen her lurking in the corners just to overhear what’s going on behind the walls, but I think it’s best not to express my opinion.
"Come here, dear!" She raises her hand towards me, walking to the corner of the room where a door stands open. "Normally, when I make a mess, Baby helps me, but she just retired to her room, not even coming down for dinner." I know this. Baby locked herself in her room after we came back from the beach. "I had to dine alone." The old lady scolds, looking like a child who has been abandoned.
As we stop in front of the open door, I see boxes scattered on the floor, with several papers.
"I tried to pull just one, and the rest came along," Aunt Charlotte sighs with distaste, raising her pleading eyes to me. "Could you help me? I didn’t want to ask Lira to handle my memories, and since Baby is showing no sign of coming out of her room, you’re the only one left to turn to."
"Of course, no problem at all." I smile at her, bending down to pick up the first box that is overturned on top of the others. "Jon wanted to go to bed early, so I have time to help you." I move the box, retrieving the papers that had fallen out.
They are old letters, small candy wrappers, and used theater tickets. I smile affectionately. Her box is full of sentimental value.
"I know it may seem like just trash to some..." She approaches me, picking up one of the letters and letting her face reflect tenderness for her memories. "But they are important to me."
She smooths the letter with such care, as if it is truly the most important thing in her life.
"Look, this was the last letter Boxtom, my husband, wrote to me." With a long sigh, she puts the letter back into the box. "Twenty-five years of a happy marriage."
"It must have been difficult to get over his loss," I say softly, watching her walk to her vanity.
Aunt Charlotte opens the drawer on the side of her vanity, taking out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, then filling them. I turn around, placing the box on the top shelf where it is empty.
"Buried Boxtom was easier than signing the divorce papers." She walks slowly, handing me a glass when I turn back to her.
"Did you separate?" She nods, drinking from her glass.
"I loved, loved my husband, we had so much fun. Boxtom was the ideal husband every woman would wish for. He took care of me, showered me with gifts, trips, jewelry, and cars."
I sip the drink she offers me, bending down to grab the second box. Since the lid is tightly sealed, I simply raise my arm, keeping it in place.

"We were in Moscow when the tragedy happened." I swallow the rest of the drink, averting my eyes from hers immediately. "But you already know that, don't you? You know about the tragedy?"
She extends her hand to take the glass, looking at me intently. Damn, I’m terrible at keeping secrets!
"Your eyes tell everything that your mouth doesn’t say, dear." Aunt Charlotte returns to her bottle, filling the glasses again.
"Yes..." I whisper awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. "Bob told me the other day about Mr. Roy and Baby’s parents."
"That boy is impudent." She walks slowly, her eyes fixed on me. "But he didn’t lie." She extends the glass again for me to take.
"Thank you, I’ll just have this one more. Two glasses of drink are more than enough for today." I feel embarrassed in front of her, feeling like an intruder in the family’s past, but with so many questions and curiosities overshadowing the previous ones. What led to Aunt Charlotte’s separation? "Did you come back to take care of them?"
"Yes, I came back immediately," the old lady sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of me, one hand on her leg and the other holding her glass.
At this moment, as I look at Aunt Charlotte, she reminds me of movie stars from the 70s, who, despite the passage of time diminishing their glory, still carry the poise and elegance of yesteryears.
"That’s what my Reimond would have done for me. He would have done that for me if I had been a mother." Her speech is melancholic, lost in her memories. "Boxtom didn’t agree much with me taking care of the children; he wanted to continue the travels, the galas between the congresses. The arrival of the children changed the frivolous life we had. So he made me choose."
What I see in her eyes is not regret. The little old lady shows courage and love for her nephews.
"You chose them." I stay silent, drinking my drink, knowing deep inside that if I were faced with such a decision, I would make the same choice.
I bend down, take the last box, fix its lid, and bring it closer to the other two.
"I asked for a divorce from him, said that I would be free to follow my path, as mine was already set with my nephews," she sighs calmly, gesturing with her hand as if dispersing her thoughts. "I had a few romances here and there throughout my life, but to truly love, I loved only one man. That’s why when Boxtom died, I didn’t suffer so much, because I had already lost him in life, long before his eyes closed."
I feel empathy for her suffering, almost to the point of crossing the room and hugging her with all the affection I can muster, but I still force myself to stay in my place.
"When you love someone like that, you will understand that losing someone in life, detaching from their path, becoming just a memory, is worse than losing them to death."
I don’t know how to respond. I loved Tom deeply at some point in my life, or perhaps I loved the idealized version of him, the dream I built upon him, but the truth is that my love for Tom isn’t like she describes. I still feel the pain of discovering the betrayal, but at the same time, I feel good that, in some way, I ended our relationship, which had become torturous. I raise my fingers, wipe my face, take a deep breath, and push my thoughts about my failed love life away.
"Well, I think I’ve packed everything." I try to force a weak smile on my face, knowing I’m not very successful.
"Thank you very much, dear." She raises her glass, taking the last sip. I do the same with my drink.
I move my body, looking at her small closet filled with jewelry, shoes, clothes, and bags, but I’m drawn to a frame hidden at the back, on the middle shelf. I lower my glass, looking at it attentively. An elegant man is leaning against a black vintage Rolls-Royce, with a large white house and a blooming garden in the background. The boy next to him, dressed in a tennis outfit, gazes directly at the person taking the photo, not smiling at all. His features are so familiar, with his jet-black hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes, reminding me of Jon. If he were a little more solidly built, I could say it was Jon in this photo at six or seven years old. I raise my fingers, holding the picture frame, looking at the man's face, which is joyful, smiling, and shows great happiness. He bears identical features to the boy next to him. The silent boy resembles Jon so much that I’m certain he must be Mr. James, even though I don’t know him. The eyebrows, the thin nose, everything reminds me of Jon.