Page 34 of The Vines Between Us
"Perhaps we were too caught up in our own story to notice theirs," Hugo said, closing the journal. He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears and sudden determination. "There must be more. If Henri kept a journal..."
"Claude might have too," I finished, understanding immediately.
Hugo nodded. "I've never gone through his personal things. After he died, I just... closed the door to his bedroom. Couldn't face it."
"Like I did with Henri's room," I said softly.
Our eyes met across the table, a new understanding forming between us.
"We should look," Hugo said, rising from his chair. "Together. Claude's room is just upstairs."
I hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Yes. I think we need to know the whole story."
Hugo led the way toward the stairs, Henri's journal still clutched in his hand. "Fair warning—I haven't been in there since the day he died. Six months of dust."
As we climbed the stairs, I felt a strange sense of anticipation. Whatever we found in Claude's bedroom would change our understanding of the past—and perhaps our vision of the future as well.
Chapter Thirteen
ALEXANDRE
Claude's bedroom was like stepping into a time capsule. Heavy burgundy curtains were drawn across the windows, casting the room in shadow. Hugo moved to open them, releasing a cloud of dust that danced in the sudden shafts of morning light.
"Sorry," he murmured, coughing slightly. "I told you it's been untouched."
The space was both familiar and foreign—the same honey-coloured furniture I remembered from childhood visits, but now frozen in Claude's final days. A water glass still sat on the bedside table. Reading glasses rested atop a dog-eared novel. A dressing gown hung from a hook on the bathroom door.
"It's like he might walk in any moment," I said quietly.
Hugo nodded, his fingers trailing along the edge of Claude's dresser. "That's why I couldn't bear to come in here. Too many ghosts."
I understood completely. Henri's room had affected me the same way. The physical remnants of absence could be more painful than the absence itself.
"Where should we start?" I asked, feeling suddenly like an intruder.
"The desk, perhaps." Hugo gestured toward an elegant escritoire tucked into the corner by the window. "If Claude kept journals or letters, they'd be there."
The desk was organized meticulously—fountain pens lined up by size, notepads stacked precisely, a leather blotter centered perfectly. I watched as Hugo's hands hovered over the surface, hesitant to disturb this final arrangement.
"You do it," he said finally. "I don't think I can."
I nodded, understanding his reluctance. The desk had three drawers on each side. I started with the top right, sliding it open carefully.
Inside were business papers—tax forms, vineyard yield reports, receipts. Nothing personal. The drawer below contained office supplies—spare ink cartridges, paperclips, stamps. The bottom drawer held vineyard maps, soil analysis reports, and weather journals.
"Nothing here," I said, moving to the left side.
The top left drawer contained Claude's cheque book and bank statements. The middle drawer held stationery and greeting cards. But when I pulled open the bottom drawer, I paused.
"Hugo," I said softly. "Look at this."
The drawer was filled with envelopes—dozens, perhaps hundreds of them—yellowed with age, tied in bundles with faded ribbon. Each bundle was labeled with a year, spanning back to 1981.
Hugo knelt beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine as he reached in and lifted the first bundle. The ribbon came untied in his hands, and the envelopes spilled across the desk surface. Each one bore Henri's distinctive handwriting.
"My God," Hugo whispered. "Letters from Henri. For nearly fifty years."
My fingers trembled as I picked up one of the envelopes. It was postmarked 1989, addressed simply to "C.T." with no returnaddress. The flap was slit open, the letter inside read many times over judging by the creases.
