Page 31 of The Vines Between Us
"These Merlot vines are actually in decent shape," Hugo said, running his fingers along a woody stem. "They need serious pruning, but the root systems should be healthy."
I crouched beside him, examining the base of the vine. "Henri always said these north-facing slopes produced the most complex fruit."
"Claude said the same thing about his eastern slopes," Hugo replied. "They argued about it every harvest."
We shared a smile, the weight of last night's discoveries hovering unspoken between us.
By midday, we'd covered about a third of Domaine Moreau. The sun beat down mercilessly as we paused under an ancient oaktree at the property line. I passed Hugo my water bottle, watching as he tilted his head back to drink.
"Your grandfather's irrigation system is outdated but salvageable," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mine needs complete replacement."
"What if we connected them?" I suggested. "One system serving both properties."
Hugo's eyebrows rose. "That would require significant restructuring."
"But in the long run, it would be more efficient. We could share maintenance costs."
"You're thinking long-term then?" Hugo asked, his eyes searching mine.
I looked away, focusing on the vineyards stretching before us. "For the properties, yes."
We crossed onto Domaine Tremblay after lunch. Hugo's vines were in better condition than mine, though still suffering from neglect. He'd clearly been working himself to exhaustion trying to maintain them alone.
"You've done remarkable work here," I said, genuinely impressed.
Hugo shrugged. "Not enough. I should have hired help, but after Claude's debts..."
"We'll figure it out," I said, surprising myself with the "we."
As the afternoon wore on, we moved deeper into Hugo's property, documenting, discussing, planning. Working together felt unnervingly natural, as if fourteen years hadn't passed at all. We anticipated each other's thoughts, finished each other's sentences. When I stumbled on a rocky outcropping, Hugo's hand shot out to steady me, lingering perhaps a moment too long on my arm.
We were climbing a steep section when Hugo's shirt caught on a broken trellis wire. The sound of tearing fabric made us both turn.
"Damn it," he muttered, examining the long rip that hadopened across his shoulder and down his back, exposing a swath of sun-bronzed skin.
"Here, let me see," I said, moving closer to check the damage. My fingers brushed against the warm skin revealed by the tear, and I felt him tense beneath my touch. The contact sent an electric current up my arm, awakening memories I'd spent fourteen years trying to forget.
Through the torn fabric, I could see the lean muscles of his shoulder blade, more defined than they had been in our youth but unmistakably familiar. A fine sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the afternoon sun, and I found myself transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
"It's nothing," he said, but his voice had dropped to a lower register that made something twist deep in my abdomen. When he turned to face me, I caught the flash of heat in his eyes before he masked it.
I stepped back quickly, suddenly aware of how close we were standing, of the scent of him—earth and sweat and something uniquely Hugo that had haunted my dreams for years. "We should continue," I managed, my mouth unexpectedly dry. "There's still the southwestern section."
As he turned away, I allowed myself one more glance at the torn shirt clinging to the contours of his back, and swallowed hard against the surge of desire that threatened to overwhelm my carefully constructed defences.
By the time we reached the far boundary of Domaine Tremblay, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. We'd been walking for nearly twelve hours, stopping only to make notes or examine particular vines. My hands were stained with soil and grape juice, my muscles aching pleasantly from the exertion.
We paused at the crest of a small hill that overlooked both properties. From this vantage point, the two domaines appeared as one continuous vineyard, the arbitrary property line invisible in the patchwork of vines.
"Our grandfathers stood here often," Hugo said quietly. "Claude used to tell me they'd come up here to plan the harvest together. I think it was just so Henri could get away from your grandmother, Margot."
We both laughed, the tension of the day dissolving into something warmer. Hugo sat down on a large flat stone, patting the space beside him. I hesitated only briefly before joining him.
"What do you think?" he asked, gesturing to the vineyards below us. "Can they be saved?"
I considered the question carefully. "It won't be easy. Or cheap. But yes, I think so."
"Together," Hugo said, not quite a question.
