Page 71 of The Vines Between Us
The setting sun cast long shadows across the rows, highlighting the healthy green leaves and the clusters of grapes swelling toward ripeness.
"Our grandfathers faced worse than this," I continued. "Think about what they endured—hiding their love for nearly fifty years, fighting to keep these vineyards alive through impossible circumstances."
I pulled Henri's journal from my pocket—I'd taken to carrying it with me—and opened to an entry from 1992, the year of the great drought.
"'Everything is lost,'" I read aloud. "'The vines are withering, the bank threatens foreclosure, and still Claude refuses to give up. His faith shames me. Perhaps he is right—perhaps faith itself is the miracle.'"
I turned to the next page. "'October 12, 1992. A miracle indeed. The late rains saved just enough of the crop, and Claude'sexperimental pruning method preserved the critical fruit. We will survive another year. Together, always together, we find a way.'"
Alexandre's breathing had slowed, his eyes fixed on the journal.
"They never gave up," I said. "Not on the vines, not on each other."
"But they had time," he whispered. "We have five days."
I took his face in my hands. "Then we'll make our own miracle."
Something shifted in his eyes—the panic receding, replaced by a flicker of determination.
"What do you propose?" he asked.
"We go all-in on the harvest," I said. "We pick early—not the whole crop, just the ripest sections. We press immediately, start fermentation, and use the first run as proof of concept."
"For what?"
"A futures offering," I explained. "We pre-sell the entire vintage at a discount to select buyers. With our combined history, the Moreau-Tremblay name, and samples of the first pressing, we might raise enough to satisfy the bank until full harvest."
"That's incredibly risky," Alexandre said. "If the weather turns, if the quality isn't there—"
"It's our only chance," I interrupted. "We risk everything on this harvest, or we lose everything to VitaVine."
The last light of day caught in Alexandre's eyes as he looked from me to the vineyards. I could see him weighing options, calculating odds—the businessman he'd become wrestling with the vineyard boy he'd been.
Finally, he nodded. "All-in, then."
I pulled him close, relief flooding through me. "Together," I whispered against his ear. "Like our grandfathers."
"Together," he echoed, his arms tightening around me.
As darkness fell over the vines, I felt something I hadn't experienced in months—hope. Not certainty, not even confidence, but hope. It wouldhave to be enough.
We stayed by the wall until the stars emerged, planning our desperate gamble. We'd need to contact every connection we had—Alexandre's former business associates, my agricultural school classmates now working at prestigious châteaux, even Henri and Claude's old friends in the industry.
"We should check the secret room again," Alexandre suggested. "There might be more of their correspondence with buyers, connections we could leverage."
I nodded. "And we'll need to talk to Marcel and Madame Fontaine first thing tomorrow. If they're still with us, we'll need their earliest ripening grapes too."
"They'll stay," Alexandre said with surprising conviction. "Madame Fontaine is too stubborn to give in, and Marcel has hated VitaVine since they forced his brother out of business in Burgundy."
We walked back to the house hand in hand, our shadows merging into one long silhouette against the moonlit gravel. The challenges ahead were immense, perhaps insurmountable, but we'd face them together.
Inside, Alexandre pulled out maps of both vineyards and began marking sections where the grapes might be ready for early picking. I made calls to equipment rental companies, searching for a press and tanks we could afford.
"What if we fail?" Alexandre asked suddenly, looking up from his maps.
I met his gaze steadily. "Then we fail together. And we start again somewhere else."
He seemed to absorb this, testing the idea against his deepest fears. Then he smiled—a real smile, without reservation.
