Page 17 of The Vines Between Us
À bientôt,
Claude
I frowned, re-reading the final paragraph. It seemed oddly personal for a business letter. I pulled out another from Claude, this one from two years prior.
Henri,
The soil analysis confirms what we suspected. The clay content is higher than ideal for the Merlot. I suggest we meet to discuss amendments before spring planting.
I've set aside the bottles from '85 you requested. Forty years in bottle has been kind to them. Perhaps we should compare notes on how forty years has treated other things as well.
The book you lent me waits on my nightstand. I find myself reading the passages you marked and wondering about the man who found them significant.
Yours,
Claude
My heart beat faster as I pulled out more letters. Each contained the same pattern—vineyard business followed by personal notes that hinted at something deeper than neighbouring vignerons. I found myself searching for Henri's responses, but there were none filed here.
A reference in one of Claude's letters mentioned "the cellar inventory we discussed" and I suddenly remembered the wine cellar—Henri's sanctuary. If there were answers, they might be there.
The cellar door creaked as I descended the stone steps, the temperature dropping noticeably with each step. I flicked on the lights, illuminating rows of bottles, barrels, and the small desk where Henri had kept his wine records.
The desk drawer contained a leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with Henri's precise handwriting. But these weren't just wine notes. Between vintage descriptions and tasting notes were entries that read like personal reflections.
October 1982 - C says the '69 Bordeaux blend is finally showing its potential. We opened a bottle on the limestone outcropping. So many years of friendship and yet I still value these moments more than anything.
June 1985 - Margot asked why Claude and I spend so many evenings "discussing business." I hate disappointing her with my absences. C says our work benefits both families. Sometimes I wonder if that justifies everything.
August 1999 - The millennium approaches. Eighteen years of our partnership. C suggests we could travel together to visit vineyards abroad, somewhere to study new techniques. But how could I leave Margot? How could I leave Alexandre, who needs this place as his sanctuary?
My hands trembled as I turned the pages, decades of my grandfather's private thoughts unfolding before me. The man I thought I knew had carried these complicated feelings his entire adult life. Henri and Claude's relationship clearly ran deeper than just neighbouring vineyard owners—there was an intimacy tothese writings I couldn't quite define.
I closed the notebook, feeling breathless. The wine bottles surrounding me suddenly seemed like silent witnesses to a story I'd never been told. The vineyard partnership, the shared equipment, the adjacent properties—all of it suggested a connection more profound than business.
In the stillness of the cellar, surrounded by vintages that marked the years of their relationship, I felt both closer to my grandfather and further from understanding him. He'd experienced something meaningful with Claude, something he'd kept separate from the rest of his life.
And he'd never told me about any of it.
I set the notebook down on Henri's desk, my mind reeling. All these years, I'd thought I knew my grandfather. Now I wondered if I'd known him at all. The familiar cellar suddenly felt foreign, filled with the evidence of a life I hadn't been privy to.
The crunch of gravel outside pulled me from my thoughts. I climbed the cellar stairs and reached the kitchen just as a knock sounded at the back door.
Hugo stood on the threshold, a covered dish and a bottle of wine in his hands, the evening light catching in his auburn hair. For a moment, I saw him as he'd been at seventeen—same warm eyes, same hesitant smile.
"I thought you might be hungry," he said, eyes hopeful yet guarded.
"Come in," I managed, stepping aside. "I was just..."
Hugo's gaze traveled to the letters I'd left scattered on the kitchen table. His expression shifted, something like recognition crossing his features.
"Going through Henri's papers?" he asked, setting the ratatouille on the counter.
I nodded, unsure how much to say. "I found some correspondence between our grandfathers."
Hugo's fingers lingered on the edge of the casserole dish. "I found similar letters at Claude's after he died. Business matters mostly, but..."
"But something else too," I finished.
