Page 41 of The Vines Between Us
I'd spent fourteen years wondering what happened, why Alexandre had disappeared without a word after that final summer. Fourteen years of second-guessing every moment, every touch, every whispered promise. Fourteen years imagining scenarios where he returned, explained everything, and we picked up where we'd left off.
And now he was back, and the pattern repeated itself. Draw close, then run. Always running.
I carried my coffee to the terrace and sat heavily in Claude's old chair. The morning mist still clung to the vines, the sun not yet strong enough to burn it away. From here, I could see the path Alexandre had taken back to Domaine Moreau. He was long gone now.
What had I expected? That finding our grandfathers' letters would somehow heal whatever was broken in Alexandre? That one night together would erase fourteen years of silence?
I took a sip of coffee, too hot and bitter on my tongue. Claude's voice came to me, clear as if he were sitting beside me: "You can't fix people, mon petit. They have to want to fix themselves."
Alexandre didn't want fixing. He wanted escape routes, exits, ways to avoid facing whatever demons drove him.
But there was something else there, something Alexandre wasn't telling me. I'd seen it in his eyes this morning—not just the usual panic, but real fear. Something about his father, perhaps. I remembered how Alexandre would flinch at certain movements, how he never wanted to talk about his home in Lyon. How he'dshow up some summers with bruises he'd explain away as clumsiness.
The memory of one particular afternoon surfaced—Alexandre, sixteen, with a split lip and bruised cheek, claiming he'd fallen down stairs. The way his eyes had darted away when I'd asked questions. How tightly he'd held onto me afterward, like I was a lifeline.
There was more to Alexandre's story than he was telling me. But that wasn't my problem to solve anymore.
I'd spent half my life waiting for Alexandre Moreau. I wouldn't spend the other half doing the same.
The sun broke fully through the clouds, warming my face. I drained my coffee and stood. There was work to do—vines to tend, irrigation to check, the constant battle against time and nature that was a vintner's life. I wouldn't waste another minute thinking about Alexandre.
Three hours later, covered in dirt and sweat from repairing a section of trellis, my resolve wavered. From my position, I could see the manor house of Domaine Moreau. A figure moved in the upstairs window—Alexandre, pacing back and forth.
"Stop it," I muttered to myself. "Just stop."
I turned my back on the view and focused on the task at hand. The trellis wouldn't fix itself, and neither would Alexandre.
By noon, the heat had become oppressive. I retreated to the cool of the equipment shed, checking inventory for the upcoming harvest. The list of repairs and replacements needed was growing longer by the day. Without the partnership with Domaine Moreau, I'd be hard-pressed to afford even half of what was required.
That thought stopped me cold. The partnership. Our plans against VitaVine. All of it depended on Alexandre and me working together.
"Merde," I whispered, dropping my clipboard onto the workbench.
I couldn't avoid him forever, not with our vineyards literallyside by side. Not with our grandfathers' legacy entangled in a half-century love affair. Not with VitaVine circling like vultures.
But I wouldn't make it easy for him this time. If Alexandre wanted to save his vineyard—our vineyards—he would have to do the work. He would have to face whatever he was running from. I wouldn't chase him, wouldn't beg, wouldn't make excuses for his behavior.
If Alexandre wanted me, he would have to prove it. And if he couldn't, then at least I'd know I'd stopped letting him break my heart.
I picked up my phone and typed a message: "Irrigation parts arrived for your eastern field. Will drop at your equipment shed tomorrow morning." Professional. Distant. No hint of the night we'd shared or the harsh words this morning.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then turned back to my inventory list. The work wouldn't wait, even if my heart felt like it was being torn in two.
That evening, as the sun set over the vines, I sat at Claude's desk, a glass of our '89 Saint-Émilion beside me. I opened the bottom drawer where I'd placed Henri's journal after Alexandre had left it with me. I hadn't been able to bring myself to read it yet.
The leather cover was worn smooth with age and handling. I traced my fingers over Henri's initials, embossed in gold on the front. Then I opened it to the first page, dated June 1981.
"Claude smiled at me across the boundary stone today. I've never seen eyes that shade of brown before—like amber in sunlight..."
I read for hours, following the story of Henri and Claude's love through decades of secrecy and stolen moments. Their struggles, their joy, their fears. How they'd created a sanctuary for themselves in a world that wouldn't accept them.
And through it all, one theme emerged: their regret at not fighting harder, at accepting the limitations society placed on them. At living half-lives when they could have had everything.
"We thought we had time," Henri wrote in an entry from 2011. "Always more time. But time is the one thing no vineyard can produce, no matter how rich the soil or perfect the climate."
I closed the journal, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling. Our grandfathers had loved each other for nearly half a century, but never fully claimed that love. Never lived it openly. Always in shadows, in secret rooms, in coded letters.
Whatever was holding Alexandre back—his father, his past, his fears—it was powerful enough to make him repeat the same pattern, generation after generation. To choose safety over love, just as Henri and Claude had done.
