Page 10 of The Vines Between Us
"Take these." He added a bundle of herbs to my purchase. "On the house. Henri always said rosemary was the secret to a proper coq au vin."
At the cheese stall, a similar exchange. At the butcher's. At the wine merchant's, where I purchased two bottles of local red that weren't Moreau vintages—a small betrayal that stung more than it should have.
"Alexandre Moreau!"
I turned to find Madame Fontaine, the café owner, hurrying toward me. She'd aged since I'd last seen her—her dark hair now streaked with silver, new lines around her eyes—but her smile remained the same.
"Madame Fontaine." I managed a smile as she clasped my hands in hers.
"We've all been wondering when you'd come. Such a tragedy about Henri." Her eyes welled. "He spoke of you often, you know. So proud of your success in Paris."
The guilt twisted deeper. "I should have visited more."
"Life gets complicated, Henri knew as much." She squeezed my hands. "You're here now. That's what matters."
I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just here to settle the estate."
"Of course, of course." Her eyes held mine a moment too long. "Have you seen Hugo yet?"
The name hit like a physical blow. "No."
"Poor boy. He's been struggling alone these past months. First his grandfather Claude's death, then Henri's. The vineyard next door is practically in ruins." She lowered her voice. "They say he might lose it. Been trying to manage the property—impossible task for one person, especially with Claude's debts."
My chest tightened. "Hugo's grandfather died too?"
"Six months ago. Henri took it hard—they were such dear friends." She tilted her head. "You didn't know?"
I shook my head, another failure to add to my growing list. I hadn't known Claude had died. Hadn't known Hugo was struggling. Hadn't known anything about the lives of people who had once meant everything to me.
"Hugo's at the edge of ruin, just like you," she continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. "Such a shame to see both vineyards failing after generations of success. The two finest winemaking families in the region..."
I mumbled something noncommittal, desperate to end the conversation before she mentioned more memories I couldn't bear to face.
"Well, I won't keep you." She patted my arm. "Come by the café anytime. I still make those almond pastries you loved as a boy."
I thanked her and escaped, going back to the safety of the market. The weight of the village's expectations pressed down on me with each step. They all remembered me as Henri's grandson, the summer boy who knew every corner of the vineyard. None of them saw the stranger I'd become.
And Hugo. Hugo was here, just next door, separated from me by a stone wall and fourteen years of silence. The thought of seeing him again—those eyes that had once looked at me with such trust, such love—made my steps falter. What would I even say? Sorry I disappeared? Sorry I never wrote? Sorry I built a life that had no place for you in it?
I clutched my market basket tighter, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of everything I didn't know. Fourteen years of village history, fourteen years of Henri's life, fourteen years of Hugo's struggles—all lost to me because I'd been too afraid to come back.
"Alexandre?"
The voice behind me froze me in place. That voice—deeper now, but with the same melodic quality that had whispered my name in the darkness of summer nights so long ago.
I turned slowly, and fourteen years evaporated like morning dew.
Hugo stood before me, a canvas bag of produce hanging from one shoulder. His auburn hair was pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to frame his face. The boyish softness had given way to more defined features, but those eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold catching the afternoon light—were exactly as I remembered them.
"I heard you were back," he said.
Simple words that carried the weight of our entire history. Not angry, not accusatory, just a statement of fact. I'd returned, and he knew.
"Hugo." My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "I... yes. For the estate."
He nodded, shifting his weight slightly. The movement was so familiar—the same way he'd always stood when uncertain, one hip cocked, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh.
"I'm sorry about Henri," he said.
