Page 11 of The Vines Between Us
"And I'm sorry about Claude. I just heard."
A shadow crossed his face. "Six months ago. It was... difficult."
We stood in awkward silence, surrounded by the bustle of the market. Fourteen years of unspoken words hung between us, too numerous to even begin addressing in this public square.
"You look well," he offered, his eyes taking me in. I felt suddenly self-conscious in my expensive city clothes, so out of place among the casual village attire.
"So do you." It was more than politeness. Despite the obvious fatigue around his eyes, Hugo looked... right. Connected to this place in a way I'd never managed to be.
He gestured to my overflowing basket. "That's a lot to carry backto the domaine."
"I'll manage."
"I'm headed that way." He shrugged with the same easy grace I remembered. "Our properties still share the same road, last I checked."
Hugo's gaze held mine, searching for something I'd buried years ago. Did he remember that summer day when my father had arrived unannounced, how I'd pulled away from Hugo mid-sentence, my body instinctively tensing? How I'd introduced him as "my friend from the neighbouring vineyard" while my father's cold eyes assessed him? Hugo had noticed—he always noticed everything about me—but he never knew why I suddenly became a different person whenever my father appeared.
I wanted to refuse. Needed to refuse. Walking alone with Hugo was dangerous territory—too many memories, too much unresolved between us. But refusing would acknowledge the power he still held, so I nodded instead.
"If you're going that way anyway."
The walk from the village square to the vineyard road stretched longer than I remembered. We moved in uncomfortable silence at first, the space between us carefully maintained.
"Henri kept your room exactly the same," Hugo said finally, breaking the tension. "All those books you left behind. That map of Bordeaux wine regions you pinned to the wall."
I swallowed hard. "I should have come back sooner."
"Yes," he agreed simply. No absolution offered, just quiet acknowledgment of my failure.
We turned onto the dirt road that separated our properties, the one I'd walked countless times as a teenager, heart pounding with anticipation of seeing him. Now my heart pounded for different reasons—anxiety, guilt, and something else I refused to name.
"The vines look terrible," I said, desperate to change the subject.
Hugo sighed. "They've been neglected. Henri's healthdeclined quickly this past year. He couldn't manage the physical work, and couldn't afford to hire enough help."
"And your vineyard?"
His mouth tightened. "Not much better. Even with the state insurance plan, Claude's medical bills..." He trailed off, then squared his shoulders. "But I'm making progress. Focusing on the best parcels, letting the rest go for now."
We approached the stone wall that marked the boundary between our properties. A gap in the wall had served as our meeting place all those summers ago. I deliberately looked away from it.
"I could show you what you're dealing with," Hugo offered as we neared the domaine. "Give you an assessment of the vineyard's condition."
Every instinct told me to refuse. To thank him politely and retreat to the safety of the domaine's walls. But the practical part of me—the businessman—knew I needed that information.
"That would be helpful," I conceded.
Hugo set down his market bag on the domaine's front steps. "We should start with the south-facing slopes. They'll be your best chance for salvaging anything this season."
I placed my groceries beside his. "Lead the way."
We walked in silence through overgrown rows of vines. I watched Hugo's movements—the way he stopped occasionally to examine a vine, gently turning a leaf or inspecting a cluster of immature grapes. His hands moved with practiced precision, the same hands that had once traced patterns on my skin under starlight.
"You've been doing this alone for how long?" I asked Hugo, trying to break up the tense silence between us.
"Since Claude died. A year before that if you count when he got too sick to help much." Hugo bent to examine a vine, his movements automatic, expert. "I know every meter of this soil, every quirk of our microclimate. But the business side..." Hestraightened, looking frustrated. "I can make wine. I can't make money."
"What do you mean?"
