Page 33 of The Vines Between Us
Chapter Twelve
ALEXANDRE
Yet again, sleep eluded me as my mind refused to silence itself. The memory of Hugo's lips against mine haunted me through the night, making rest impossible. By five in the morning, I abandoned all pretence of sleep and rose from the tangled sheets, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts—the vineyard's dire situation, VitaVine's threats, and most disturbingly, the feel of Hugo's hands in my hair.
The house creaked around me as I paced the hallways. I needed distraction until our meeting at seven. My wandering led me to Grand-père Henri's bedroom door, a space I'd deliberately avoided since my return. Something about staying in his room felt wrong, so I'd chosen Grandmother Margot's bedroom instead.
I hesitated, hand on the doorknob. Perhaps in here, surrounded by Henri's personal effects, I might find some peace—or at least enough distraction to quiet my mind.
The door swung open with a soft protest of hinges. The scent hit me first—Henri's cologne, lavender from the sachets Margot had always made, and something medicinal that spoke of his final days. The bed was neatly made, a blue quilt pulledtight across the mattress. His reading glasses sat folded on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water and a dog-eared copy of Camus.
"I should have been here," I whispered, guilt washing over me anew. "I'm sorry, Grand-père."
I moved to the desk in the corner, running my fingers along the polished surface. A stack of vineyard paperwork sat beside a framed photograph of Henri and me from my last summer here—fourteen years ago. I picked it up, studying my younger self. I looked happy, unaware of how drastically my life would change.
Setting down the photograph, I noticed a leather-bound book partially hidden beneath the papers. I pulled it free, recognizing a journal similar to the one we'd found in the cellar. This one looked newer, its pages less yellowed.
I hesitated. Reading Henri's private thoughts felt intrusive, yet something compelled me to open it. I flipped to a random entry from the previous year.
12 April, 2024
Claude has been gone for three months now. The pain doesn't lessen. How does one continue when half of oneself is missing? I find myself walking to the property line, staring at his villa, as if he might appear on the terrace with a bottle of wine and that smile that has been my sun for nearly half a century.
I stared at the words, my breath catching. I flipped back several pages.
20 January, 2024
Claude is fading. The doctors give him weeks, perhaps days. Hugo doesn't leave his side. The boy is exhausted but refuses help. He is so much like his grandfather—stubborn, loyal to a fault. I sit with them when I can, but it destroys me to see Claude this way. He asked me today if I regretted our life together—all those years of secrecy, of stolen moments. How could I regret the greatest love of my life? I told him I would choose the same path a thousand times over if it meant loving him.
My hands trembled as I turned back further, scanning entries that painted a picture so different from what I'dbelieved. My grandfather and Claude hadn't merely been business partners or friends. They had loved each other—deeply, completely—for decades.
How had I missed this? The signs must have been there, even during my childhood summers. But I'd been too young, too self-absorbed, too focused on my own summer romance with Hugo to notice the one playing out between our grandfathers.
The final entry, dated just days before Henri's death, made my throat tighten:
I cannot bear this world without him in it. The vineyard holds no joy now. I neglect what once gave my life purpose. A life half-lived is no life at all. When love presents itself, grasp it with both hands and never let go.
I closed the journal, pressing it against my chest. The grandfather I thought I knew had been only part of the story. The real Henri had loved Claude Tremblay for almost half a century, hiding his heart from the world.
I checked my watch—6:45. Hugo would be waiting at the equipment shed soon. But this couldn't wait. Hugo needed to see this journal, to understand the truth about our grandfathers.
I rushed from the house, journal clutched to my chest, and took the path that led directly to Domaine Tremblay. The morning air was cool against my face, dew soaking my shoes as I cut across the fields separating our properties.
Hugo's lights were on, smoke curling from the chimney. I knocked urgently on his door.
"Alexandre?" Hugo opened the door, coffee mug in hand, surprise evident on his face. "I thought we were meeting at the shed—"
"I found this," I interrupted, pushing past him into the warmth of his kitchen. I placed the journal on the wooden table. "In Henri's bedroom. It's... it changes everything."
Hugo set down his coffee and picked up the journal, opening to where I had placed a marker. His eyes widened as he read, then looked up in astonishment.
"My God," he whispered, sinking into a chair. "All this time..."
"They loved each other," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "For decades, Hugo. In secret."
Hugo flipped through more pages, his hands beginning to tremble. "The great lost love Claude always talked about... it was Henri," he said softly. "All those stories he told me growing up, about loving someone he couldn't have... I always thought it was just some boyfriend from his youth."
"I had no idea," I admitted, sitting opposite Hugo. "How did we not see it?"
