Page 51 of The Vines Between Us
I suddenly understood what Hugo was doing—creating opposition without an actual plan. Years of corporate presentations and thinking on my feet kicked in. If there was one thing business school had prepared me for, it was spinning compelling narratives from thin air.
"Our solution," I added, stepping forward with newfound confidence, "is cooperation. Not corporate takeover."
I hadn't planned to speak, had no slides or brochures. But standing beside Hugo, facing our neighbours, words came naturally—the kind of business-school rhetoric I'd used in countless presentations.
"Domaine Moreau and Domaine Tremblay are combining resources while maintaining separate identities. Shared equipment. Coordinated harvest schedules. Joint marketing."
I caught Hugo's momentary surprised glance before he smoothly picked up the thread. "But that's just the beginning," he continued, as if we'd rehearsed this. "We're proposing a Saint-Émilion Small Producers Alliance. A formal cooperative that preserves individual ownership while creating collective strength."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—interest, skepticism, curiosity. Hugo and I exchanged a quick look, a silent agreement to keep building this vision we were creating on the spot.
"Imagine," I said, drawing on every business model I'd ever studied, "shared access to equipment too expensive for any single vineyard. Collective bargaining with suppliers. A unified marketing presence that still celebrates each domaine's unique character."
"Pooled knowledge," Hugo added without missing a beat. "The Pelletier sisters' traditional pruning techniques preserved and shared. Marcel's father's old method for handling early frosts. My grandfather Claude's approach to sustainable pest management."
I noticed Madame Pelletier nodding vigorously, her sister clutching her arm in excitement.
"Our grandfathers understood this," I continued, thinking of Henri and Claude's hidden partnership. "They helped each other through hard times while maintaining their individual legacies. We can formalize what they did informally."
Rousseau cleared his throat. "A charming fantasy. But without significant capital investment—"
"We're not finished," Hugo interrupted firmly. "With all of our pooled resources, the alliance could create a shared processing facility—not as massive as VitaVine's proposal, but more efficient than what we have now. A cooperative tasting room in the village center. Joint distribution channels."
I nodded, impressed by how quickly Hugo was elaborating on my improvised concept. "And most importantly, control stays with the families who've worked this land for generations. The people who see these vineyards not just as assets but as living heritage."
"The soil of Saint-Émilion isn't just dirt," Hugo's voice softened. "It's the accumulation of centuries of knowledge, passion, and care. VitaVine sees land to exploit. We see a legacy to preserve."
The room had gone completely silent. I could feel the weight of every gaze—some skeptical, some hopeful, all intensely focused.
"This sounds admirable," Rousseau interjected smoothly, "but ultimately impractical. Where will the initial investment come from? How will you structure governance? What about vineyards already struggling with succession planning?"
Valid questions. Questions we didn't have answers for because we'd invented this entire concept minutes ago. I felt our momentum faltering.
"There's nothing vague about it," I countered, channeling the authoritative tone I'd used in countless boardroom presentations. "Hugo and I have already drafted preliminary bylaws. We can circulate them tomorrow and hold working sessions to refine them."
Hugo's momentarily widened eyes told me he was surprised by my bold lie, but he recovered instantly, nodding as if we'd spent weeks on these nonexistent documents.
"And regarding capital," Hugo added smoothly, "we're exploring several options, including applying for EU agricultural preservation grants as a collective."
I fought to keep my expression neutral. Hugo was as good at this impromptu deception as I was—perhaps better, since he actually understood the agricultural grant landscape.
Then Madame Fontaine stood. "My late husband's family hasmade wine here since 1763. I'd rather see our vineyard join this alliance than sell to outsiders. I'm in."
Jean-Marc rose next. "My cooperage could offer preferential rates to alliance members. Count me in."
One by one, others stood—the Pelletier sisters, three other small vineyard owners, the local equipment mechanic. Not everyone, but enough to make it real. Enough to turn our hastily invented fiction into something we'd now have to actually create.
"This is all very emotional," Rousseau's voice had hardened slightly, "but emotion doesn't solve structural problems. VitaVine offers concrete solutions, not vague promises of cooperation."
"Sometimes emotion is exactly what's needed," I replied. "The determination to find another way. The courage to work together instead of selling out."
Mayor Beaumont cleared his throat. "It seems we have two competing visions for Saint-Émilion's future. I suggest everyone take time to consider both proposals carefully. We'll reconvene in two weeks for further discussion."
Rousseau's face remained composed, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. He'd expected to leave with commitments, not competition.
As the meeting disbanded, villagers clustered around us, asking questions, offering suggestions, expressing concerns. For the first time since returning, I felt not like an outsider but like a member of this community—not just Henri's grandson, but Alexandre Moreau, vigneron of Saint-Émilion.
"Well played," Madame Fontaine murmured, patting my arm. "Henri would be proud." She glanced between Hugo and me. "Both of them would be."
