Page 78 of The Vines Between Us
At the crest of the hill where our properties met, I paused. The eastern sky was lightening, streaks of pink and gold pushing back the night. From this vantage point, I could see all eight vineyards that now formed the Alliance—a patchwork of land that represented not just livelihoods but a community's determination to preserve something precious.
"Thought I might find you here."
I turned to find Hugo approaching, two steaming mugs in hand. He passed one to me, the warmth welcome against the morning chill.
"Sorry if I woke you," I said.
He shook his head. "Marcel called. The new press arrived at Domaine Lefèvre. They need help setting it up before the team from Domaine Cloutier arrives with the first batch for processing."
I nodded, checking my watch. "I'll head over after breakfast. The inspection team is coming to check our bottling equipment at ten."
"Already on the calendar." Hugo smiled. "Madame Fontaine called yesterday. The tourism office wants final details for the festival brochure by noon."
"I'll stop by on my way back from Marcel's."
We stood in comfortable silence, drinking our coffee and watching the sunrise illuminate our vines. The easy coordination of our days still amazed me—how quickly we'd fallen into partnership, both personal and professional.
"What are you thinking about?" Hugo asked, nudging my shoulder with his.
"How different this is from my life in Paris. There, I scheduled fifteen-minute increments, spent my days in climate-controlled offices, and went weeks without feeling the sun on myface." I gestured toward the vineyards. "Here, every day is different. Every decision matters in a way I can see and touch."
"Having regrets?"
I turned to him, surprised. "None. Not a single one." I set my mug on the stone wall and took his hands. "I keep waiting for the moment when I miss my old life, when I start craving the city or the corporate ladder or even just reliable internet. But it hasn't happened."
Hugo's smile was soft in the morning light. "Because you're home, Alexandre."
The simple truth of it struck me with unexpected force. I was home—not just in the physical sense of occupying Henri's house, but in the deeper sense of belonging. In the three months since I'd returned to Saint-Émilion, something fundamental had shifted inside me. The restlessness that had driven me for years had quieted.
"I am," I agreed, my voice rough with emotion. "I really am."
Hugo leaned in and kissed me, tasting of coffee and morning. When we parted, he squeezed my hands once before releasing them. "Come on. We've got a full day ahead, and Marcel will never let us hear the end of it if we're late."
By mid-afternoon, I'd visited three vineyards, finalized festival details with Madame Fontaine, and was elbow-deep in Domaine Moreau's ledgers when Jean-Marc arrived with a case of bottles.
"Fresh from the printer," he announced, setting the box on my desk with a flourish. "What do you think?"
I lifted one of the bottles, admiring the elegant label. "Alliance des Vignerons Indépendants" arched across the top, with "Cuvée Héritage" prominently displayed beneath it. The vintage date—this year—was followed by "Saint-Émilion Grand Cru" and a stylized image of our hillside vineyards.
"They're perfect," I said, turning the bottle to examine it from all angles. "The embossing on the vineyard names is a nice touch."
Jean-Marc beamed. "Each participating vineyard gets equal billing, just as we agreed. Wait until you see how they look filled with our wine."
Our wine. The phrase still gave me a thrill. The Alliance's first joint vintage—a blend using grapes from all eight vineyards, created with Henri and Claude's experimental varieties at its heart. We'd produced only a limited quantity this first year, focusing on quality over volume, but early tastings suggested we had something exceptional.
"How's the festival setup coming along?" I asked, carefully returning the bottle to its case.
Jean-Marc dropped into the chair across from me. "On schedule. The tents arrive tomorrow. Madame Cloutier has organized twenty local food vendors. The tourism office reports accommodation bookings up eighty percent from last year."
"And security?"
"All arranged. Extra patrols, as requested. Though there's been no sign of Rousseau or any VitaVine representatives for weeks."
I frowned. "That's what worries me. They didn't invest all that time and money just to disappear without a fight."
"Actually," Jean-Marc leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I heard something interesting from my cousin who works for a wine distributor in Bordeaux. Apparently, Rousseau was effectively fired—or as they put it, 'reassigned to corporate development strategies in Siberia.' The board wasn't pleased with his failure to secure our vineyards, especially after all the negative publicity."
"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "That's... unexpected."
