Page 43 of The Vines Between Us
"Nothing happened."
"Don't lie to an old woman who's known you since you were in short pants." She grabbed my arm with surprising strength. "Come. Coffee. Now."
At Café de la Place, she ordered for both of us, then fixed me with a stare that made me feel eight years old again.
"Hugo looks like someone killed his dog," she said bluntly. "And you look worse. What foolishness have you done?"
"It's complicated."
"It's not." She stirred sugar into her coffee. "You're in love with him. You always have been. And you're terrified of it."
I stiffened. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly. I watched Henri and Claude dance around each other for nearly fifty years. All that wasted time. And yes, I knew about it." She leaned forward. "Your father was wrong about you. About everything."
My coffee cup froze halfway to my lips. "What do you know about my father?"
"Enough. Henri told me things. That man poisoned your mind, made you believe you weren't worthy of love." She reached across the table, her weathered hand covering mine. "He was wrong."
Something cracked inside me. "It doesn't matter now. I've ruined everything with Hugo."
"So fix it."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?" She shook her head. "Your grandfather would be disappointed."
That stung. "Henri never said anything about Hugo and me. I’m not even certain he knew—“
"Of course he knew! The entire village knew." She sighed. "Alexandre, don't repeat your grandfather's mistakes. He andClaude wasted decades hiding, stealing moments, pretending. Is that what you want?"
I stared into my coffee, throat tight. "What I want doesn't matter. The vineyard—"
"The vineyard!" She threw up her hands. "You think you can save it alone? VitaVine is circling like vultures. Hugo came in yesterday. That Rousseau man offered him more money."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"Trying to turn him against you, I think." She watched me carefully. "It won't work. That silly boy's been waiting fourteen years for you to come to your senses."
"He deserves better than me."
"Probably." She stood, patting my shoulder. "But he wants you. Question is, are you brave enough to want him back?"
I remained at the table long after she left, her words echoing in my mind, pressure building in my chest until I could barely breathe.
The phone rang as I felt myself spiralling, still trying to take in what Madame Fontaine had said. I welcomed the interruption, grateful for anything that might pull me away from the relentless thoughts of Hugo that had been plaguing me since our time together.
My mother's number. I answered eagerly—we spoke so rarely since I'd left home.
"Alexandre?" But it wasn't my mother's voice. It was him.
"Papa." My blood turned to ice. "Where's Maman?"
"Right here. Crying, actually. Seems she's been worrying about you." His voice carried that particular slur that meant he'd been drinking since early morning.
"Worried her little boy might not come home for Christmas again."
"I'll be there. Just like always."
