Page 27 of The Vines Between Us
"You can open this." He handed me a corkscrewand a dusty bottle. "From Claude's private collection. A 1989 Saint-Émilion Grand Cru. He was saving it for a special occasion."
I examined the label, recognizing the vineyard—one of the region's finest. "This is too valuable to waste on a simple dinner."
Hugo paused his chopping to look at me directly. "Sharing it with you isn't a waste."
Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I busied myself with the cork, working it free with a satisfying pop. Hugo placed two glasses on the counter, and I poured the ruby liquid, watching it catch the light.
"To our grandfathers," Hugo said, raising his glass.
"To Henri and Claude," I echoed, touching my glass to his.
The wine was magnificent—complex, velvety, with notes of black cherry and cedar. We sipped in appreciative silence as Hugo returned to his cooking, slicing mushrooms and mincing garlic with the confidence of someone who'd prepared countless meals.
"When did you learn to cook? I don't remember you making meals like this when I was last here," I asked, leaning against the counter beside him.
"Claude taught me. Said no self-respecting Frenchman should rely on restaurants." He smiled at the memory. "He was hopeless with business but brilliant with food and wine."
"Henri was the opposite. Perfect with accounts, terrible with anything requiring creativity."
"They balanced each other," Hugo said, his voice softening. "Like puzzle pieces."
I watched him work, the easy domesticity of his movements hypnotic. He'd rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms corded with muscle from vineyard work. A lock of auburn hair fell across his forehead as he bent to check something in the oven, and I fought the sudden urge to brush it back.
"Dinner's ready," he announced, transferring a perfectly roasted chicken to a serving platter. "Nothing elaborate—just poulet rôti with herbs from the garden, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread from the village."
"It looks incredible," I said honestly.
We carried everything to the small table on Claude's terrace, where Hugo had lit candles against the gathering dusk. Cicadas chirped in the vineyard beyond, and the setting sun painted the sky in shades of pink and gold.
"This is incredible," I said, taking my first bite of the perfectly roasted chicken.
"Like I said, Claude taught me well. This kitchen actually feels like a home."
"Unlike Henri's house?" I asked, thinking of the austere manor I'd inherited.
Hugo nodded. "Henri was... formal. Even in private. Everything had its proper place."
"Including me?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"What do you mean?" Hugo asked, his expression curious.
I took a sip of wine, buying time. "I always felt like I was walking on eggshells around him. Like I was afraid of disappointing him."
"Were you?"
"Yes," I admitted, the confession coming easier than expected. "Henri represented everything good in my life. This place, these summers... I couldn't bear the thought of losing them."
"By being yourself?" Hugo's question was gentle but direct.
I focused on cutting a piece of chicken. "By being too much trouble. Too... complicated."
Hugo was quiet for a moment. "You know, Claude always said Henri was proudest when he talked about you. Not about your grades or achievements. Just about having you here."
Something tightened in my throat. "I wish I'd known that then."
"Maybe he didn't know how to show it. Our grandfathers' generation wasn't big on emotional expression."
I thought about the unfinished letter in Henri'sstudy, the hints of hidden depths to my grandfather I'd never known. "No, they weren't."
