Page 12 of The Vines Between Us
"I applied for a small EU sustainability grant last year. Took me three months to navigate the paperwork, and I still got rejected. Meanwhile, I know there are programs out there that could help—agricultural innovation funds, rural development money—but I don't know how to access them." He gestured toward his modest house. "Claude usually handled all that, and even then he wasn't very good at it. I just worked the vines."
"And the finances?"
Hugo's jaw tightened. "Not great," he replied, before changing the subject. "These Merlot vines are stressed but salvageable. The Cabernet Franc on the eastern slope is in worse shape. You'd need to prune aggressively, probably lose this year's harvest entirely."
"I wouldn't know where to begin," I admitted, my mind suddenly blank as I gazed at Hugo.
He glanced at me, something unreadable in his expression. "You used to know. Henri taught us both, or have you forgotten that too?"
"That was a lifetime ago."
"Was it?" His voice remained neutral, but his eyes held mine for a beat too long.
We continued through the vineyard, Hugo pointing out problems and potential solutions with quiet competence. I tried to focus on his words rather than the way sunlight caught in his hair or how his shirt clung to his shoulders when he reached to demonstrate proper pruning technique.
"The equipment shed is this way," he said, leading me toward a stone building I remembered well. "You'll need to see what's still functional."
Inside, dust motes danced in the shafts of light from the high windows. The familiar smell of oil, earth, and wood enveloped me, triggering a cascade of memories. Henri teaching me tomaintain the old tractor. Hugo and I hiding from summer rain, laughing as water dripped from our hair.
Hugo ran his hand along an ancient grape press. "This should still work, with some maintenance. The sorting table needs repairs."
I watched him move through the space with the ease of someone who belonged there. I'd once felt that same belonging, that same connection to this land and its rhythms.
"How do you do it?" I asked suddenly.
He looked up, questioning.
"Manage alone. All of this." I gestured to encompass the endless work of a vineyard.
Something flickered across his face—vulnerability quickly masked. "I don't have a choice. This land is all I have."
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. While I'd been building my corporate career in Paris, Hugo had remained rooted here, carrying on his family's legacy despite overwhelming odds.
"Claude would be proud," I said softly.
Hugo's hands stilled on the equipment he'd been examining. For a moment, I thought I'd overstepped, but then he nodded, a barely perceptible movement.
"Henri was proud of you too," he said. "Always talking about his grandson, the successful businessman."
Shame burned through me. "I abandoned him. Abandoned all of this."
"You had your reasons." His voice was carefully neutral, but the question lingered unasked: What were those reasons? Why had I left without saying goodbye? Why had I never returned until now?
We emerged from the shed into the late afternoon light. The vineyard stretched before us, neglected but still beautiful in its own way. Beyond the stone wall, Hugo's property mirrored ours—struggling, but showing signs of careful attention.
"I should get back," Hugo said, glancing toward his land. "There's still work to do before sunset."
We walked in silence back to the domaine, where our groceries still waited on the steps. Hugo picked up his canvas bag, adjusting it on his shoulder.
"Thank you," I said stiffly. "For the assessment."
He nodded. "If you need help..." He let the offer hang unfinished.
"I'll manage," I said automatically, the same words I'd used at the market.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You always said that."
The simple observation cracked something in my chest. He remembered. Of course he remembered. While I'd spent fourteen years trying to forget, Hugo had carried our shared history with him.
