Page 6 of The Vines Between Us
"Staff?"
"Let go, one by one, as funds dwindled. The last worker left six months ago."
I leaned back, the reality crushing down on me. "So I have ninety days to either pay off a massive debt or lose everything my grandfather spent his entire life building."
"Essentially, yes." Bertrand hesitated. "There is anotheroption. Several buyers have expressed interest in the property. The land alone—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended.
"Alexandre, be reasonable. You have a life in Paris. The vineyard requires expertise, dedication—"
"I grew up in those vineyards. I know viticulture."
"Knowledge from childhood summers is hardly sufficient for—"
"What would the property sell for?" I interrupted.
Bertrand named a figure that made my breath catch. Substantially more than the debt, enough to walk away with a comfortable sum.
"And if I wanted to save it? What would it take?"
He sighed, reaching for another folder. "Beyond clearing the debt? Complete renovation of the winery equipment. Rehabilitation of the vines—those that can be saved. Hiring staff. Operating costs until you could produce sellable wine." He slid over a roughly calculated budget. "At minimum, this much. And that's assuming you do much of the work yourself."
The total was staggering. Far beyond my means, even if I liquidated every asset I owned.
"I need to think," I said, gathering the papers.
"Of course." Bertrand's voice gentled. "But Alexandre, think practically. Sometimes letting go is the wisest choice. Henri wouldn't have wanted you to be burdened with this."
Outside, I paused on the narrow street, papers clutched to my chest, mind racing. Selling was the obvious solution. The rational choice. I could clear Henri's debts, pocket a substantial sum, return to my life in Paris, and never look back.
When I left Paris I'd intended to sell the property, to go back to my neat and ordered life. Yet now after hearing the words from Bertrand's mouth, I couldn't help but feel the visceral reaction within me at the mere thought. So why did the thought feel like betrayal?
I walked through Saint-Émilion, barely seeing the ancientstreets, the stone buildings, the tourists photographing the medieval church. My feet carried me to a small café tucked away from the main square—a place where Henri and I used to stop for coffee after market days.
"Un café, s'il vous plaît," I told the server, claiming a table in the corner.
I spread the papers before me, forcing myself to look at the numbers dispassionately. As if this were any other business decision. As if my heart weren't tangled in every figure.
The coffee arrived, and I sipped it mechanically while staring at Bertrand's projections. Even if I somehow managed to clear the debt, the cost of rehabilitation was prohibitive. I'd need investors, partners, a capital infusion, and all in such a short period of time that I would have said it was impossible if asked.
Chapter Three
HUGO
The pruning shears bit into the tangled cane with a satisfying snick. I wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm, careful to keep the rusty blades away from my face. Six months since Grand-père died, and I still reached for his pruning shears instead of my own. His were ancient, the wooden handles worn smooth from decades of use, fitting my hand like they belonged there.
"One more row, old man," I murmured to the empty vineyard. "Then I'll call it a day."
The early June sun beat down mercilessly on my back as I moved down the row of Merlot. These vines were the healthiest on Domaine Tremblay—twelve hectares of struggling potential that had been my inheritance, my burden, and my salvation.
I'd promised Claude I'd keep it going. Some days, like today, that promise felt impossible to keep.
I paused, letting my fingers trace the rough bark of a vine that had been producing fruit since before I was born. Claude had taught me to feel the life in these plants, to understand them as living beings with histories as complex as our own.
"This one survived the frost of '87," he'd told me once, kneeling beside me when I was barely tall enough to reach the lowest branches. "Just like you're surviving, petit. Sometimes the harshest winters produce the sweetest fruit."
He'd been talking about my parents then, though I hadn't fully understood at five years old. The car accident that took them remained a blur of fragmented memories: flashing lights, a policewoman with kind eyes, Claude's trembling hands as he signed papers to become my guardian. My father had been Claude's nephew—his only living relative—and Claude had never hesitated to take me in.
