Page 20 of The Vines Between Us
I nodded, though I doubted she truly remembered my coffee preference from fourteen years ago. The table offered a clear view of the village square, where the Wednesday market was just beginningto set up. Farmers unloaded produce from weathered trucks, arranging displays with practiced efficiency.
"One café crème," Madame Fontaine said, placing the steaming cup before me. "Still take it with two sugars?"
She did remember. Something tightened in my chest.
"Merci," I murmured, stirring the coffee slowly. "The village looks much the same."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Looks can deceive. Much has changed, especially this past year."
Before I could ask what she meant, the bell chimed again. Two men entered—one in his sixties with a weather-beaten face, the other younger but with the same stooped shoulders that spoke of decades in the vineyards. They nodded in my direction—a courtesy rather than a greeting—before taking seats at the counter.
"Any word from Mathieu?" the older man asked Madame Fontaine.
She shook her head. "Signed the papers yesterday, from what I hear."
"Fourth one this year," the younger man muttered. "Bastards don't even wait for the bodies to cool."
"Marcel," Madame Fontaine cautioned, glancing in my direction.
I pretended to focus on my coffee, but kept my ears open. The name Mathieu sounded familiar—perhaps one of the smaller vineyards on the eastern slope?
"VitaVine's already changed the signage," Marcel continued, lowering his voice. "No more Domaine Lefèvre. Just another 'VitaVine Property' now."
The older man spat a curse. "Five generations, gone like that. And for what? So some corporation can make bulk box swill for export?"
I nearly choked on my coffee. Lefèvre had been one of the oldest family vineyards in the region—smaller than Moreau, butrespected for their exceptional Cabernet Franc. The idea of it becoming corporate property sent a chill through me.
"Mathieu held out as long as he could," Madame Fontaine said. "After Marie's death and his boy's financial misfortunes... what choice did he have?"
"There's always a choice," the older man grumbled.
"Is there, though?" Marcel countered. "Look at poor Tremblay. That boy Hugo's working himself to death, and for what? Another bad season and VitaVine will be knocking on his door too."
My fingers tightened around my cup. Hugo hadn't mentioned that it was this bad yesterday. Then again, why would he share all of his financial troubles with me, of all people?
"They're circling Domaine Moreau as well," the older man said. "Henri barely in the ground, and already the vultures are watching."
"Enough, both of you," Madame Fontaine hissed, nodding meaningfully in my direction.
Too late. I'd heard enough to understand exactly what was happening. I pushed back my chair and approached the counter, ignoring the uncomfortable silence that fell.
"Who or what is VitaVine?" I asked directly.
The men exchanged glances. Madame Fontaine sighed.
"VitaVine Corporation," she explained. "They began buying properties about three years ago. Small holdings at first, then larger estates as they gained a foothold."
"Corporate wine," Marcel added with disgust. "Mass production methods, mechanized harvesting, chemical shortcuts—everything that Saint-Émilion winemaking is not."
"And they're targeting struggling vineyards?" I pressed.
The older man—whose name I now recalled was Alain Bonnet—gave me a hard look. "They're targeting everyone. But yes, they start with those in financial trouble. Offer just enough to cover debts, but far less than market value. When desperation sets in, people sell. They're predators, preying on the weak."
"Like Mathieu," I murmured.
"Like Mathieu," Madame Fontaine confirmed. "Like the Rousseaus before him. Like the Pelletiers last autumn."
"And now they've set their sights on Moreau?" The thought made my blood boil. Henri would rather have burned the vines himself than see them fall into corporate hands.
