Page 35 of The Vines Between Us
"Should we?" I asked, uncertain of our right to these private communications.
Hugo met my eyes, his own conflicted. "They're gone now. And... I think they'd want us to understand."
I nodded, carefully extracting the letter. The paper was delicate, the ink faded but still legible. Henri's handwriting was so familiar it made my chest ache.
Mon cher Claude,
I've just returned home from our "business meeting" in Bordeaux. Margot asked about the conference, and I told her the usual half-truths that taste like ashes in my mouth. Those three days with you were paradise. The way the morning light fell across your sleeping face—I've committed it to memory to sustain me through the weeks until I can see you again.
The 1988 blend we created is developing beautifully in the barrel. Like us, it improves with age and patience. Sometimes I imagine a world where we could openly put our names together on the label, where I could acknowledge what you mean to me without fear.
Until then, I remain as always,
Yours completely,
H.
I looked up to find Hugo reading another letter, his eyes glistening. "2011," he said. "Listen to this:
My darling,
Thirty years since our first kiss among the vines, and still my heart races at the thought of seeing you tomorrow. The "partnership agreement" meeting gives us three precious hours. I count the minutes until I can hold you again.
Our grandsons have become inseparable this summer. Alexandre follows Hugo everywhere, looking at him the way I look at you. Perhaps the next generation will be braver than we were.
Forever yours,
H."
My breath caught. "So they knew about us. I always suspected but Henri never said anything."
"They saw what we couldn't see about them," Hugo replied, setting down the letter with gentle reverence.
We continued reading, moving chronologically through the decades. The early letters burned with passion and regret—Henri torn between his marriage vows and his love for Claude. Later correspondence showed a settled rhythm to their relationship, no less passionate but tempered by time and circumstance.
A letter from 2001 caught my attention:
Mon amour,
I watched you with Hugo today, teaching him to test the grapes for ripeness. The patience in your hands, the gentleness in your instruction—I fell in love with you all over again. What a father you would have been. What a husband, had I the courage to choose differently.
Alexandre asks why I smile when we visit your vineyard. How can I explain that my heart lives next door? That the best part of me exists in the moments we steal together?
Perhaps one day, when they are older, we might tell them the truth. Until then, I remain,
Yours in secret and in truth,
Henri
I set the letter down, my vision blurring. "They wanted to tell us. Someday."
Hugo's hand found mine across the scattered letters. "But they ran out of time."
We continued reading, moving into the most recent decade. The passion remained, but a new note entered the correspondence—fear of separation, of illness, of death.
A letter from just last year, when Claude's cancer diagnosis had come:
My dearest heart,
