Page 29 of The Vines Between Us
"He always looked so stern in public," Hugo observed. "Like he was carrying the weight of the world."
We turned the pages, watching the years pass in images. I noticed something curious—in almost every group photograph, Henri and Claude stood together. Sometimes at opposite ends of a gathering, sometimes in the centre, but always in the same frame.
"They were fixtures in the village," Hugo murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "Everyone respected them both."
He turned another page, and we both froze.
The photograph showed a village festival from perhaps twenty-five years ago. Coloured lights strung between plane trees, trestle tables laden with food, villagers dancing to what I imagined was accordion music. In the foreground stood Henri and Claude, captured in a moment of unguarded joy.
They stood closer than mere neighbours would—Claude's shoulder pressed against Henri's, Henri's hand resting on Claude's back in a gesture of casual intimacy. But it was their expressions that stopped my breath. They were looking at each other, not the camera, Henri's usual reserve completely dissolved, his face transformed by a smile of such tenderness it made my chest ache. Claude was mid-laugh, his head tilted toward Henri as if sharing a private joke.
"They spent so much time together," Hugo said softly, studying the photograph.
"Yes," I agreed, leaning closer to see the image. Our shoulders brushed, sending an unexpected warmth through me. "They certainly were close."
"Claude used to get this look on his face whenever Henri's name came up," Hugo said, his voice low. "I never thought much about it then."
I was acutely aware of Hugo beside me, the scent of vineyard soil and something distinctly him filling my senses. "Henri kept all these letters, all these photographs. They must have meant a great deal to each other."
I thought about Henri's unfinished letter in the study, his need to explain something important before the end. What had he wanted to tell me about his life? Was it about his friendship with Claude?
"They had business dealings together for—"
"Fifty years, at least," Hugo finished. "Since before we were born."
We fell silent, shoulders still touching as we looked through the album. The quiet between us grew charged, filled with something unspoken. I could feel Hugo's warmth beside me, the slight movement of his breath.
"It explains why Henri declined so quickly after Claude died," I said, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "He wasn't just losing a business partner. He was losing his closest friend."
Hugo closed the album gently, but didn't move away. "All those years, sharing everything but keeping parts of themselves private. I wonder if they ever regretted that."
"They found a way to be together," I said, the word 'together' hanging between us. "Even if it wasn't perfect."
"Is that enough? A partial connection?" Hugo turned to face me fully, his eyes intense in the lamplight. "Could you live that way?"
The question wasn't just about our grandfathers anymore. Hugo's face was inches from mine, his eyes searching mine foranswers I wasn't ready to give. I could feel the pull between us, magnetic and familiar, urging me to close the distance.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I leaned forward slightly. Hugo's breath caught, his lips parting. For one suspended moment, I thought I might actually kiss him—let myself fall back into something I'd spent fourteen years running from.
Then panic flooded through me. Images flashed in my mind: my father's rage, my mother's tears, the corporate life I'd built as a fortress against vulnerability. I jerked back abruptly, nearly knocking over the wine bottle.
"I should check on that equipment order," I said, my voice too loud in the quiet room. "Early start tomorrow."
Confusion and hurt flickered across Hugo's face before he masked it with a polite nod. "Of course."
As I fled the room, I could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing down on me, heavier than the summer air. I'd come back to save the vineyard, not to resurrect ghosts of the past—especially not the ones that still had the power to undo me completely.
Chapter Ten
HUGO
The front door closed with a soft click that somehow hurt more than if Alexandre had slammed it. I remained frozen on the sofa, the photo album still open between us—between where we had been sitting just moments ago. The cushion beside me retained the warmth of his body, a ghost of his presence already fading.
"Equipment orders," I muttered to the empty room, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. "Right."
I reached for the wine bottle, finding it nearly empty. The 1989 Saint-Émilion that Claude had treasured, saved for "moments that matter"—poured and shared for a man who couldn't bear to stay seated beside me for longer than it took to realize we might kiss.
I listened to his footsteps cross the gravel outside, then the car door opening and closing. The engine started with a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet night. Only then did I move to the kitchen window, watching his taillights disappear down the drive, red pinpricks swallowed by darkness. The same view I'd watched countless times as a teenager, standing in this verykitchen after summer evenings spent together, watching him return to Henri's house across the vineyard. Always leaving, always putting distance between us.
