Page 28 of The Vines Between Us
The food was simple but perfect—the chicken juicy and fragrant with rosemary and thyme, the vegetables caramelized to sweetness, the bread crusty and still warm. We ate with the appetite that comes from physical work, letting conversation flow easily between us.
Hugo told me about his struggles after Claude's death, about learning to manage the vineyard alone. I found myself sharing stories from Paris—not the polished professional version, but the lonelier truth of it.
"Do you miss it?" Hugo asked as we finished our first glass of wine. "The city?"
"I miss the certainty of it," I said slowly. "Knowing my role, my place. Here, I feel like I'm constantly off-balance."
"Maybe that's not entirely bad."
"What do you mean?"
Hugo smiled, the expression soft in the fading light. "Maybe being off-balance means you're learning something new."
With each glass, the careful distance we'd maintained began to dissolve. I found myself laughing at Hugo's stories about Claude's eccentricities—his superstitious refusal to harvest on Tuesdays, his habit of playing opera to the fermenting wine because he believed Mozart improved the bouquet.
"Remember when he caught us stealing that bottle of Sauternes?" Hugo asked, his eyes crinkling with mirth.
"God, yes. We were what—sixteen? Seventeen? He made us write an essay on the proper appreciation of dessert wines instead of punishing us, before handing us the bottle of Cabernet."
"And then reminded us how to taste properly," Hugo added. "Said if we were going to drink his wine, we'd better do it with respect."
"Henri would have locked the cellar and lectured us about property rights."
"But he never did catch us, did he?" Hugo's smile turnedmischievous. "Not even that time in the north vineyard when you—"
"Don't," I interrupted, feeling heat rise to my face that had nothing to do with the wine.
Hugo's expression softened. "I've thought about that summer every day for fourteen years," he said quietly. "Wondering if you ever thought about it too."
The directness of his statement caught me off guard. In Paris, I'd cultivated relationships characterized by their simplicity—physical without emotional entanglement, ending before they could become complicated. Hugo had never been simple.
"I thought about it," I admitted, my voice rough. "I tried not to, but I did."
"Why didn't you say goodbye?" The question hung between us, unavoidable now.
I stared into my wine glass. "I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of how much it hurt to leave you." The truth spilled out, loosened by wine and twilight. "I thought a clean break would be easier."
"Was it?"
"No," I whispered. "It wasn't easier at all."
Hugo reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "I waited for you to come back. Every summer, I thought, 'This will be the year.'"
The naked honesty in his voice undid me. "I'm sorry," I said, turning my hand to grasp his. "I was a coward."
"You're here now," he said simply.
After dinner, we moved to Claude's living room with the remainder of the wine. The formal distance between us had dissolved, replaced by the easy physical proximity of our youth—Hugo's shoulder against mine as he reached for a leather-bound album from the bookshelf, our knees touching as we sat side by side on the sofa.
"Claude kept everything," Hugo explained, opening the album. "Every photograph, every memory."
The pages were filled with images of village life—harvests and festivals, birthdays and celebrations. Claude appeared in many, his exuberant smile unchanged across decades. I recognized younger versions of the villagers I'd seen at the café, their faces less lined, their postures more vigorous.
"There's Henri," I said, pointing to a photograph of my grandfather judging wines at a village competition, his expression serious even in celebration.
