Page 18 of The Vines Between Us
Our eyes met, and for the first time since I'd returned, I felt something crack in the careful wall I'd built between us. Not just colleagues assessing a vineyard. Not just former lovers avoiding the past. Two grandsons trying to understand the men who'd raised us.
"How did it happen?" I asked, the question I should have asked yesterday. "Claude's death."
Hugo leaned against the counter, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Pancreatic cancer. Six months from diagnosis to the end. It was... brutal." He swallowed hard. "Your grandfather visited every day. Brought wine sometimes—the good bottles they'd been saving. Said there was no point waiting anymore."
A tightness formed in my throat. "I didn't know."
"How could you?" Hugo's voice held no accusation, just simple truth. "You weren't here."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with fourteen years of absence.
"I've been trying to keep Claude's vineyard going," Hugo continued, his voice softening. "The bills nearly bankrupted us. I had to let all the workers go. It's just me now." He glanced toward the window, toward his property beyond. "Some days I think I should just sell, but then I remember how much it meant to him."
The parallel to my own situation wasn't lost on me. Two grandsons, two vineyards, two impossible tasks.
"I found Henri's cellar notebook," I said, nodding toward the stairs. "He kept records of everything, but there's... more in there. Personal things."
Hugo's expression shifted. "Would you show me?"
I hesitated only briefly before nodding. Something about sharing this burden felt right.
We descended to the cellar together, our footsteps echoing on the stone steps. The cool air wrapped around us as I retrieved the leather-bound book from the desk.
"Here," I said, opening to an entry from the summer Claude had fallen ill. "He wrote about bringing the '82 Bordeaux to Claude's bedside. Said it was 'their vintage'—the year everything changed."
Hugo's fingers brushed mine as he took the notebook, sending an unexpected current up my arm. He read silently, his expression softening.
"Claude talked about that bottle," he said quietly. "Said it was the best wine he'd ever tasted, but I always thought he meant the wine itself." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "Now I wonder if he meant the company."
I moved to the rack of bottles, running my fingers over the dusty labels. "All these years, they kept their cellars like mirrors of each other. Same vintages, same producers."
"Same experiments," Hugo added, moving to stand beside me. "Claude was always trying some new technique he'd discussed with Henri. They'd split the risk—each trying half the idea so they could compare results."
I pulled out a bottle, its label faded but still legible. "Domaine Moreau-Tremblay, 2006."
Hugo's eyes widened. "I've never seen that label."
"Neither have I." I turned the bottle carefully. "It's not one they sold. Look at the handwriting—'For our twenty-fifth.'"
"Twenty-fifth what?" Hugo wondered aloud.
I thought of the entries I'd read. "The first mention of Claude in the notebook was from 1981. If this was 2006..."
"Twenty-five years," Hugo finished. "Of friendship? Partnership?"
"It must be," I said quietly.
Hugo's gaze met mine, a thoughtful expression crossing hisface. "Claude used to mention Henri all the time. I never realized how much of his life revolved around their friendship."
"Henri too," I said, turning the notebook in my hands. "There are so many entries here about their time together. Vineyard decisions they made jointly, harvests they celebrated..."
We stood in silence among the bottles, surrounded by the evidence of a relationship that had spanned decades—documented meticulously in vineyard notes and business correspondence.
"They were closer than I realized," Hugo said finally. "All those summers we spent here, and I never understood how important they were to each other."
"It was a different generation," I offered. "Men of their era didn't talk much about friendships, I suppose. Henri always seemed most comfortable discussing the vineyard or the wine."
"And yet he spent every evening with Claude," Hugo pointed out. "Remember how they'd sit on the terrace between our properties? Sharing wine, talking until sunset?"
