Page 2 of The Vines Between Us
Those summers had saved me. Each June, my mother would put me on the train in Lyon, and for three blessed months, I'd escape my father's drunken rages. At the vineyard, no one shouted. No one broke things. No one called me useless, worthless, nothing.
Henri taught me everything. How to test soil between my fingers. How to prune vines with precise, loving cuts. How to taste wine—really taste it—letting it tell its story on my tongue.
"Wine is truth in a bottle, Alexandre," he'd say. "The vine cannot lie about the soil it grew in, the sun it felt, the rain it drank. Remember that."
I'd remembered. And then I'd left and never returned. Not for holidays. Not for harvest. Not even when my mother called to say Henri was ill. Only for his funeral, a brief appearance at the graveside before rushing back to Paris for a meeting I'd insisted couldn't be rescheduled.
The train announcement jolted me from memory. "Bordeaux Saint-Jean, arrivée dans dix minutes."
Ten minutes to Bordeaux. Then a regional train toSaint-Émilion. Then a long walk to the vineyard. To whatever "complications" awaited me.
My phone vibrated. The CEO's name, Philippe, flashed on the screen.
"Alexandre, what the hell is this about you taking emergency leave?" His voice was tight with controlled fury.
"Family emergency. I explained to Claudette—"
"We're in the middle of the Thibault acquisition. You're lead on this, you can't just up and leave whenever you feel like it."
"I'm aware. I'll be back in Paris next Monday. One week."
"This is exactly why you weren't made senior partner last round, Moreau. Serious commitment issues."
The call ended. I stared at the darkened screen, seeing my reflection—a successful man in an expensive suit with a hollow look in his eyes. Thirty-two years old with nothing to show for it but a title on a business card and an empty apartment. The familiar weight settled in my chest. The never-enough feeling. The perpetual falling short.
The train slowed as Bordeaux appeared. The station's arched glass ceiling filtered sunlight onto the platform where people waited—families, couples, solitary travellers. Lives intersecting briefly before continuing on their separate tracks.
I gathered my things methodically, tucked my phone away, straightened my jacket. Put on the face that had carried me through board meetings and client dinners and empty nights.
But as I stepped onto the platform, the air hit me differently than Paris air. Softer. Warmer. Carrying hints of things I'd forced myself to forget—river water, limestone, distant vineyards ripening under the sun.
I was back. And something in my chest—something I'd kept carefully numb for fourteen years—began to ache.
The regional train to Saint-Émilion crawled through the countryside, lacking the sleek efficiency of the TGV. Each kilometer brought memories closer to the surface, unwelcome as rain during harvest.
I stared at my reflection in the window, superimposed over rolling vineyards. At thirty-two, I barely resembled the boy who'd left at eighteen. My face had hardened into something purposeful, a mask crafted for boardrooms. The green eyes—my mother's eyes—remained the same, though I'd learned to guard what they revealed.
My phone buzzed with another email. I welcomed the distraction, diving into projections and analyses that required no emotional investment. Numbers were safe. Predictable. Unlike the vineyard. Unlike Hugo.
Hugo.
The name alone sent a physical shock through my system. Fourteen years of careful compartmentalisation threatened to collapse. I'd built walls between then and now, between who I'd been and who I'd become. Yet here I was, watching those walls crumble with each passing vineyard.
That last summer. The air heavy with heat and knowing.
"You're really leaving tomorrow?" Hugo asked, his voice carefully steady as we lay hidden between rows of Merlot vines, the evening sun casting long shadows across his face.
I couldn't look at him directly. "Early train. Seven-fifteen."
"And Paris is..."
"Four hours away," I finished. "Not so far."
We both recognized the lie. Paris might as well have been another planet—one where I'd remake myself into someone my father couldn't touch, someone who controlled his own fate rather than being controlled.
Hugo's fingers traced patterns on my wrist, following veins. "We could make it work. Weekends. Holidays. I could come see you, if that's what you want."
I said nothing. We'd had this conversation a dozen times thatsummer. Each time, I'd let him believe it was possible. Each time, the weight of unspoken truth pressed harder against my chest.
