Page 19 of The Vines Between Us
I did remember. Those evenings had provided cover for Hugo and me to slip away, thinking ourselves so clever. I wondered now if our grandfathers had noticed our absences, if they'd exchanged knowing glances as we disappeared among the vines, each too preoccupied with their own conversation to comment on ours.
Hugo reached for another bottle, his sleeve pulling back to reveal his wrist. I found myself staring at his hands—the same hands I'd once known so well. Slender fingers, now callused from vineyard work. A small scar on his thumb that I remembered from when he'd cut himself pruning.
"Your hands haven't changed," I said before I could stop myself.
Hugo looked up, surprise crossing his features. "What?"
"Your hands," I repeated, feeling foolish but unable to look away. "They're the same."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Not entirely. More callusesnow. Claude couldn't afford proper workers this last year, so I had to do everything myself.”
I thought of my own hands, soft from years behind a desk. “As I said before, I don’t think I would even know where to begin."
"You did once," Hugo said, his voice gentle. "Henri taught you everything."
"And I forgot it all."
"Did you?" Hugo challenged. "Or did you just pack it away, like everything else from here?"
The question hit too close to home. I turned away, pretending to examine another bottle. "Tell me about Claude's last days," I said, changing the subject. "Were they... was he in pain?"
Hugo allowed the diversion. "At the end, yes. But he was lucid until the last week. Kept talking about regrets. Said he wished he'd been braver, more vocal, more demanding." He set down the bottle he'd been holding. "I didn't understand then. I thought he meant braver about treatment options or something."
"And Henri?" I asked. "How was he after?"
"Devastated," Hugo said simply. "He came to the funeral, stood in the back. Wouldn't speak to anyone. After that, he just... faded. The vineyard went untended. He stopped coming to the village. Three months later, he was gone too."
"Heart failure," I murmured. "That's what the doctor said."
Hugo's gaze was steady. "The village says he died of grief."
Something broke open inside me at those words. I thought of Henri, alone in this house after Claude's death. No one to share wine with. No one who understood the language of vines and terroir the way they had shared it.
"I should have been here," I said again, the words barely audible.
"Yes," Hugo agreed, but without accusation. "You should have. But you're here now."
I looked up, meeting his eyes. In them, I saw not just the boyI'd once loved, but the man who'd stayed true to his origins and himself—who'd shouldered his burden while I'd run from mine.
"I don't know if I can save this place," I admitted.
"I don't know if I can save Claude's either," Hugo replied. "But maybe..." He hesitated. "Maybe we could figure it out together. For them."
His hand rested on the shelf beside mine, our fingers nearly touching among the dusty bottles that told the story of our grandfathers' lives. Not just neighbours. Not just business partners. Two men who'd found something in each other that had sustained them for nearly half a century.
"For them," I agreed, and for the first time since returning to Saint-Émilion, I felt something like purpose taking root.
Chapter Seven
ALEXANDRE
The morning sun had barely cleared the church spire when I pushed open the door to Café de la Place. The familiar bell tinkled overhead, announcing my entrance to the handful of early patrons scattered throughout the small space. Several heads turned, conversation pausing momentarily before resuming at a slightly lower volume.
I'd forgotten how it felt to be the subject of village scrutiny. In Paris, anonymity was a luxury I took for granted. Here, my presence carried the weight of history—both Henri's legacy and my own abandonment of it.
Madame Fontaine spotted me from behind the counter, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in the same practical bun she'd worn for decades.
"Alexandre! Back again so soon?" She gestured to an empty table by the window. "The usual?"
