I couldn't forget the flash of vulnerability I'd seen when he'd asked about Henri's final days. The way his fingers had traced the vine leaves with unexpected tenderness. The moment our eyes had met, and fourteen years had compressed into a heartbeat.
"You're being a fool," I told myself, pushing away from the table. "Again."
I'd been that fool before—the summer after our final year together. I'd waited all season for a letter, a call, any word from Alexandre. Nothing came. When September arrived with no signof him, I'd finally accepted the truth: our summer romance had meant everything to me and nothing to him.
I'd built a life without him. Learned to breathe around the Alexandre-shaped hole in my chest. Found purpose in the vines, in Claude's teachings, in the steady rhythm of seasons that demanded attention regardless of heartbreak.
And now he was back, sleeping in the house across the valley, probably planning his escape even as I sat here contemplating whether to see him again.
"This isn't about him," I reminded myself. "It's about Henri. About Claude. About what they built."
I moved to the kitchen window, staring across at Domaine Moreau. The light was still on in what had been Henri's study. Was Alexandre going through Henri's papers? Discovering the same financial disaster I'd found in Claude's records? Sitting alone in a house full of ghosts?
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Jean-Marc:Is it true he's staying at the domaine?
I ignored it again. The village gossip machine was working overtime, no doubt. By morning, there would be a dozen different theories about why Alexandre Moreau had returned after fourteen years of absence.
I knew why he was back. Death brought even the most reluctant heirs home eventually. The question was what he would do now that he was here.
The kitchen felt suddenly claustrophobic. I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside, breathing in the night air heavy with the scent of the vines. A faint drizzle had started, misting my face as I looked up at the clouded sky.
The practical thing would be to leave Alexandre alone. Let him make his decisions without the complication of our history. Focus on my own problems—God knew I had enough of them.
But I'd never been particularly practical when it came to Alexandre Moreau.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I headed back inside andto the refrigerator. The ratatouille I'd made yesterday would reheat well. I added it to a basket along with half a baguette, some cheese, and a bottle of Domaine Tremblay's 2018 Merlot—not our best, but drinkable.
"This is neighbourly," I told myself as I covered the basket with a cloth. "What Claude would have done for Henri."
The lie was transparent even to my own ears, but I ignored the voice of reason as I grabbed my keys and headed out into the drizzling night.
The walk between our properties took less than ten minutes, though the muddy road made for slow going.
I hesitated, basket in hand, suddenly aware of how this might look. A pathetic gesture from a man who couldn't let go of the past. But I'd come this far.
I knocked before I could change my mind.
Chapter Six
ALEXANDRE
Ispent the evening arranging my grandfather's kitchen, placing the market purchases in cupboards that felt both familiar and foreign. The house creaked and settled around me, its emptiness a physical presence. After a simple meal, I found myself drawn back to Henri's study, determined to search for anything that might help save the vineyard.
The study remained as I'd left it that morning—Henri's unfinished letter still on the desk, books lining the walls, and decades of vineyard history contained within filing cabinets and leather-bound ledgers. I needed financial documents, loan agreements, anything that might give me a clearer picture of what I was facing.
I pulled open the top drawer of Henri's desk. Pens, paperclips, and a half-empty pack of mints—the mundane detritus of a life. The second drawer held current invoices, neatly organized but revealing nothing I didn't already know from Bertrand's assessment. The third drawer stuck slightly, and when I yanked it open, I found folders of correspondence labeled by year.
My fingers trailed over the tabs until Ireached the most recent. Inside were letters, mostly business-related, organized chronologically. Several were from Claude Tremblay, Hugo's grandfather. I hesitated before opening the first one, feeling like an intruder, but reminded myself this was necessary research.
The letter was typed on Domaine Tremblay letterhead, dated fourteen months ago.
Henri,
The group order of Cabernet Franc rootstock has arrived. I've inspected it personally and can confirm it's the quality we'd hoped for. The grafting can proceed as planned for the south-facing slope on both of our properties.
Regarding the oak barrels, I've spoken with Tonnellerie Darnajou. They can deliver by August, which gives us ample time before harvest. The medium toast you prefer will complement both our productions this year.
The sunset from your eastern terrace last evening was particularly magnificent. The light on the limestone reminds me why we chose this land all those years ago.