Page 25 of The Vines Between Us
The ancient oak stood exactly as I remembered—massive trunk scarred with age, branches spreading wide to create a perfect canopy of dappled shade. As children, Hugo and I had climbed its lower branches; as teenagers, we'd leaned against its trunk during countless conversations about our futures.
Hugo spread a worn blanket on the ground and unpacked a simple lunch—baguette sandwiches, cheese, and a thermos of cold water. We sat with our backs against the trunk, shoulders not quite touching.
"You never talked much about your life in Lyon," Hugo said, breaking a comfortable silence.
I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the distant hills. "Nothing worth talking about."
"Your father visited only twice the whole time I knew you. I remember how different you were when he was around."
My hands stilled on the bread I was breaking. "Henri was my real family," I said finally. "This place was my home."
Hugo didn't press, but his eyes held understanding that made my throat tight. How much had he guessed? How much had Henri told him after I left?
"Henri used to meet my grandfather here every evening," Hugo said, changing the subject. "Claude told me they'd walk the property line together, discussing the day's work."
I thought of the letters I'd found. "They were close."
"More than I realized." Hugo picked at the crust of his sandwich. "When Claude got sick, he spoke of Henri constantly. At first, I thought it was just their shared history, but near the end..." He trailed off, eyes fixed on the distant vineyard rows.
"How bad was it?" I asked softly.
Hugo's face tightened. "There were good days, and then there were bad days. The last two months..." He shook his head. "He couldn't work. Could barely get out of bed. I hired help when Icould afford it, but mostly it was just me, trying to manage the vineyard and care for him."
Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I should have been here, I was a fool."
"You didn't know." Hugo's voice held no accusation. "Claude never wanted people to see him suffer. He was proud that way, like Henri." He took a deep breath. "The worst part was watching him worry about the vineyard. He knew I couldn't handle everything alone, but he refused to sell, even when the bills piled up."
"That sounds familiar," I said, thinking of my own stubborn refusal to consider VitaVine's offer.
"Some days I wonder if I'm honouring his memory or just being foolish." Hugo's admission hung in the air between us. "The debts keep mounting. Equipment breaks. And I'm just one person fighting against all of it."
I'd never heard Hugo sound so defeated. The confident vineyard expert from this morning had vanished, replaced by someone exhausted and uncertain.
"I understand," I said, surprising myself with the admission. "In Paris, I have this life that looks perfect on paper. Executive position, corner office, salary that lets me buy anything I want. And it's completely empty."
Hugo turned to look at me, his eyes questioning.
"I don't have friends, just colleagues. My apartment could belong to anyone—there's nothing personal in it. I work fourteen-hour days because I have nothing to go home to." The words spilled out, unchecked. "The morning Bertrand called about Henri's debts, do you know what my first thought was? Not grief. Not memories. Just irritation at having my schedule disrupted."
"But you came," Hugo said softly.
"I came because I had to. But staying... that's different." I met his eyes. "Being here, working with you today—it's the first time in years I've felt like I'm doing something that matters."
Hugo's expression softened. He reached out, hesitated, thenbrushed a leaf from my hair. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
"Alexandre—" he began, but a distant rumble of thunder cut him off.
We both looked up. Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, advancing quickly across the previously clear sky.
"Summer storm," Hugo said, gathering our lunch things. "We should get back to the house."
We'd barely made it halfway across the vineyard when the first fat raindrops began to fall. Within seconds, the gentle shower transformed into a downpour. Lightning flashed overhead, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder.
"The cellar!" Hugo shouted over the storm. "It's closer!"
We ran for the stone outbuilding that housed the wine cellar, rain plastering our clothes to our bodies. Hugo reached the heavy wooden door first, wrestling it open against the wind. We tumbled inside, and he pulled the door shut behind us, plunging us into near-darkness.
"There should be a lantern," I said, feeling along the wall where I remembered Henri keeping emergency supplies. My fingers found the familiar shape, and soon a warm glow illuminated the space.
