Page 30 of The Vines Between Us
Some things never changed.
Only when the sound of his car had completely faded did I allow myself to exhale, a shaky breath that caught painfully in my throat.
The candles burned low as I sat alone in Claude's living room, surrounded by ghosts—Claude's possessions, Henri's memory, and the echo of Alexandre's presence still lingering in the space he'd vacated.
I poured the last of the wine into my glass, swirling it absently. Claude had always said that great wines, like great loves, required patience. "Some vintages need time to reveal their true character," he'd told me once. "You can't rush what's meant to age."
But fourteen years was a long time to wait, and Alexandre's retreat tonight suggested he might never be ready to face what lay between us. The thought hollowed me out, leaving an ache that the wine couldn't touch.
I stared at the photograph of Claude and Henri at the village festival, their faces illuminated with joy and something unmistakably intimate. How many nights had they spent like this? How many almost-moments had they shared before retreating to their separate homes, their separate lives? The parallel was too painful to ignore.
I carried our dishes to the kitchen, methodically washing each one, giving my hands something to do while my mind circled the same painful track. When Claude was dying, he'd made me promise not to waste my life on regrets. "I've had my share," he'd said, his voice weak but insistent. "Don't follow my example."
At the time, I'd thought he meant his business failures, the vineyard's struggles. Now, looking at that photograph of him with Henri, I understood with perfect clarity—his greatest regret had been the things left unsaid between them, the life they might have shared more openly had they known their time was limited.
I dried my hands and walked onto the terrace, looking across the moonlit vineyards toward the lights still burning in Henri's manor house. Alexandre was there now, probably pacing the study or burying himself in financial papers, anything to avoid thinking about what had almost happened between us.
Tomorrow we would see each other again, would work side by side in the vineyard as if tonight had never happened. I would be professional, helpful, keeping my distance while we focused on saving our grandfathers' legacy. It was what we'd agreed to, after all—a business arrangement, nothing more.
But as I stood in the darkness, the scent of the vineyard rising around me, I made a decision. I wouldn't wait another fourteen years. I wouldn't follow Claude and Henri's example of partial connections and silent longing. Alexandre Moreau could run from me, from himself, from what lay between us, but I wouldn't make it easy for him this time.
I'd spent half my life waiting for him to come back. Now that he had, I wasn't about to let him disappear again without a fight.
The wine glass in my hand caught the moonlight, the last swallow of the Saint-Émilion gleaming like a promise. I raised it in a silent toast toward Henri's house, toward Alexandre.
"À la prochaine," I whispered. Until next time.
Because there would be a next time. Of that, I was undoubtedly certain.
Chapter Eleven
ALEXANDRE
Ibarely slept that night, my mind replaying the moment in Hugo's living room—the weight of history between us, the photographs of our grandfathers, and that near-kiss that had sent me fleeing like a coward. When dawn finally broke, I was already dressed and pacing the kitchen, nursing my third cup of coffee.
The knock at the door came earlier than expected. Hugo stood on the threshold, hair pulled back in a messy bun, dressed in worn work clothes. If he harboured any resentment about my abrupt departure last night, his face didn't show it.
"I thought we might get an early start," he said, holding up a paper bag. "Brought croissants."
I stepped aside to let him in, grateful for the pretense of normalcy. "I've made coffee."
We ate in silence at the kitchen table, the only sounds the crinkling of pastry paper and the occasional sip of coffee. Finally, Hugo spread a hand-drawn map across the table.
"I've been thinking about our vineyards," he said, tapping thepaper. "If we're going to stand against VitaVine, we need to know exactly what we're working with."
I leaned forward, studying the map. He'd drawn both properties, Domaine Moreau and Domaine Tremblay, with detailed sections marked by soil type and grape variety.
"We should walk the entire perimeter today," I suggested. "Both properties, assess what can be saved."
Hugo nodded. "I've been thinking the same thing. It's nearly thirty-six hectares combined."
That's a full day's work."
"At least," he agreed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You up for it, Parisian?"
Despite myself, I smiled back. "Try to keep up, Tremblay."
We started at the northeastern corner of Domaine Moreau, where the morning sun cast long shadows across the vines. Hugo carried a clipboard, making notes as we walked, while I documented everything with my phone camera. The familiar rhythm of vineyard work returned to me with surprising ease, muscle memory from all those childhood summers.
