Page 4 of The Vines Between Us
The devastation was absolute. Vines that should have been meticulously trained along their wires sprawled in chaotic tangles, some collapsing under their own weight. Others had broken free entirely, crawling across the earth like desperate, searching fingers. Weeds choked the rows where Henri had once walked daily, touching each vine like a beloved child.
I set my briefcase down, suddenly aware of its absurdity in this place. What good were contracts and fountain pens here?This wasn't a business problem to be solved with signatures and legal terms. This was... death.
The main path to the house was nearly invisible beneath knee-high grass. I followed it from memory rather than sight, each step heavier than the last. Around the bend, Henri's pride appeared—the rose garden that had framed the approach to the manor house. Each summer of my childhood, I'd helped him tend these bushes, learning their names like family members: Pierre de Ronsard, Belle Époque, Souvenir de la Malmaison.
Now they were barely recognizable, their once-proud canes bent and broken. A few desperate blooms still pushed through, misshapen and small, struggling for light among the weeds.
I knelt beside one bush, its single bloom drooping toward the earth. The deep crimson petals were already browning at the edges. I touched it gently, and three petals detached, spiraling to the ground.
"Je suis désolé," I whispered, though whether to the roses or to Henri, I couldn't say.
I continued toward the house, each new vista revealing fresh wounds. The equipment barn's door hung open, revealing rusted machinery. The tractor Henri had maintained with religious devotion sat partially disassembled, as if he'd been in the middle of repairs when—
When what? When illness overtook him? The notary hadn't specified how Henri spent his final months. I hadn't asked, though now I regretted it.
The manor house loomed ahead, its stone facade still proud despite the neglect. Wisteria vines had gone wild, obscuring windows and threatening to pull down the ancient trellises. I remembered helping Henri prune those vines each spring, how he'd insisted on saving every cutting.
"Never waste what can be reborn," he'd told me, showing me how to root the cuttings in small pots of soil.
I reached for the massive iron key in my pocket—the one I'd held onto since my childhood. It turned with surprising ease inthe lock. The door swung inward on well-oiled hinges. At least Henri had maintained this much.
The smell hit me first—dust and closed air, but beneath it, the scent of Henri himself. Clove cigarettes he wasn't supposed to smoke. The lavender soap my grandmother Margot had always made. The faint mineral tang of cellar air that clung to his clothes.
I stepped inside, my footprints marking the dusty floor. Sunlight struggled through dirty windows, catching motes that danced in the disturbed air.
"Grand-père?" I called softly, then felt foolish. There would be no answer. Not anymore.
The entry hall opened to the grand salon where Henri had hosted tastings for important clients. Crystal decanters still lined the sideboard, their surfaces dulled with dust. Wine stains marked the ancient oak table where I'd first learned to properly taste—"Do not drink, Alexandre. Taste and savour it. There's a world of difference."
I moved through the house like a ghost myself, touching nothing, disturbing as little as possible. The kitchen, where Margot had taught me to make tarte tatin. The formal dining room, where I'd been allowed to join adult dinners only after I could properly identify which fork to use for fish. The library, where Henri—
I paused at the threshold of Henri's study, my hand hesitating on the doorknob. The last time I'd been in this room, my father had followed me, whiskey on his breath and rage in his eyes. "Stop embarrassing yourself," he'd hissed, gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. "Your grandfather didn't build all this for you to throw it away." I'd been seventeen then, caught between my grandfather's quiet acceptance and my father's relentless disapproval.
I stopped in the doorway of the library, breath catching. Unlike the other rooms, this one showed signs of recent habitation. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the side table. Books lay open on the desk. Papers were scattered across the surface,weighted down by a familiar paperweight—a glass globe containing a perfect miniature of the vineyard.
I crossed to the desk, drawn by the sense of interruption. This wasn't a room that had been abandoned gradually. This was a life paused mid-sentence.
Henri's reading glasses lay folded atop an unfinished letter. I picked them up, the metal frames still holding the shape of his face. How many times had I watched him remove these glasses, pinch the bridge of his nose, then replace them to continue working? The gesture so familiar I could feel the phantom movement in my own hands.
The letter beneath was addressed to me.
Mon cher Alexandre,
If you are reading this, I have failed in my courage once again. There are truths I should have spoken to you in life that now must be entrusted to paper. First, about
The letter stopped mid-sentence. Whatever truth Henri had meant to share remained unwritten.
I sank into his chair, still holding his glasses. The leather cushion exhaled softly, releasing his scent. I pressed the glasses to my chest, suddenly unable to breathe past the tightness in my throat.
"Why didn't you call me?" I whispered. "I would have come. I would have—"
The lie caught in my throat. Would I have come? If Henri had called, would I have made excuses about meetings and deadlines? Would I have promised to visit "soon" while we both understood soon meant never?
The first sob surprised me—a harsh, broken sound I didn't recognize as my own. The second brought a flood, years of carefully dammed emotion breaking free all at once. I curled forward over the desk, clutching Henri's glasses as if they might somehow connect me to him, might somehow let me apologize for the fourteen years of absence. For the phone calls I'd cut short. For the invitations I'd declined. For the distance I'd created andmaintained because closeness meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant pain.
I wept until my throat was raw, until my eyes burned, until Henri's letter was spotted with tears. I wept for the boy I'd been and the man I'd become. I wept for Henri, for Hugo, for secrets kept too long. I wept for the vineyard dying outside these walls.
When no more tears would come, I sat in the gathering darkness, Henri's glasses still in my hand. The vineyard outside continued its slow surrender to chaos. The house creaked and settled around me, as if sighing in relief that someone had finally mourned properly within its walls.
