Page 21 of The Vines Between Us
"They've approached every vineyard in the appellation," Alain said. "Some of us told them where to shove their offers."
"But it gets harder each year," Marcel added. "Bad harvests, rising costs, changing climate. Meanwhile, VitaVine keeps buying up supply chains, equipment services, even controlling water access in some areas."
"They create the pressure, then offer the solution," Madame Fontaine said quietly. "Quite clever, in a rather despicable way."
I felt a rush of anger unlike anything I'd experienced in years. The corporate world I'd inhabited in Paris was cutthroat, certainly, but this was different. This was personal—an attack on not just livelihoods but heritage, identity, generations of knowledge and tradition.
"What's being done about it?" I demanded. "Surely the appellation authorities—"
"Talk," Alain interrupted. "Meetings. Committees. Inquiries. Meanwhile, VitaVine buys another property every few months."
"We need action, not talk," Marcel added. "But what can small producers do against a multinational conglomerate like VitaVine?"
Madame Fontaine refilled my cup without asking. "Perhaps you could tell us, Alexandre. You come from the corporate world now, don't you? Isn't this the sort of thing you understand?"
There was no malice in her question, only a directness that was typically French. Still, it stung. Was that how they saw me now? Not as Henri's grandson, but as one of them—the corporate vultures?
"I understand it," I admitted. "But I don't condone it."
"Well," she said, her eyes softening slightly, "that's something, at least."
The bell above the door chimed again. More villagers entered, and the morning routine of the café continued around us. But something had shifted in the air between us—a tentative solidarity formed in shared concern.
"I'll need to know more," I said finally. "Everything you can tell me about VitaVine's operations here."
Alain raised an eyebrow. "Planning to fight them, are you?"
I thought of Henri's neglected vines, of Hugo working alone to save his grandfather's legacy, of generations of tradition at risk of disappearing.
"Perhaps," I replied.
The conversation with the vignerons continued for another hour, each sharing stories of VitaVine's tactics—water access mysteriously restricted during critical growing periods, equipment repairs delayed until desperate vineyard owners accepted lowball offers, distributors suddenly dropping small producers after VitaVine acquisitions.
I scribbled notes in my pocket notebook, my corporate strategy background helping me see the pattern. This wasn't opportunistic vulture capitalism; it was a coordinated campaign to systematically dismantle family vineyards one by one.
"They've hired local faces to make the offers seem friendlier," Marcel explained. "But make no mistake, there's nothing local about—"
The café fell silent mid-sentence. Through the window, a gleaming black Bentley rolled to a stop in the village square, looking absurdly out of place among the weathered Peugeots and Citroëns. The door opened, and a tall silver-haired man in a tailored navy suit emerged.
"Speak of the devil," Étienne muttered.
The man paused to survey the village square with the casual ownership of someone who believed everything had its price. His gaze swept across the ancient stone buildings, lingering on the café window where we sat watching. A practiced smile appeared on his face as he straightened his cuffs and strode toward the café door.
The bell chimed, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
"Bonjour, mes amis," he called, his voice carrying a polished warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
No one responded. Madame Fontaine busied herself wiping an already clean counter. Marcel suddenly found his coffee fascinating.
The newcomer seemed untroubled by the frosty reception. His gaze landed on me—the only unfamiliar face in the room—and his smile widened.
"Ah, you must be Alexandre Moreau," he said, approaching my table with his hand extended. "I'd hoped to catch you. Étienne Rousseau, VitaVine's regional acquisition and market director."
I stood slowly, acutely aware of every eye in the café watching us. His handshake was firm, his palm dry and cool.
"How did you know who I am?" I asked.
"Saint-Émilion is a small community. News travels." He gestured to the empty chair across from me. "May I?"
