Page 45 of The Vines Between Us
He waved his hand dismissively. "We retain what's valuable. The rest is... optimized for profit and efficiency. Migrant labour is more affordable than the locals."
I thought of the ancient Merlot vines Henri had nurtured for decades, the equipment shed where he'd taught me to repair the tractor, the cellar where I'd first kissed Hugo. All of it erased, "optimized" into corporate efficiency.
"I'm not interested."
Rousseau's smile tightened. "You haven't even reviewed the full offer."
"I don't need to."
"Perhaps you should consider your position more carefully." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "The deadline for your grandfather's loan payment is approaching. Seventy-nine days, to be precise."
My stomach clenched. How did he know the exact timeline?
"The community has been supportive so far," he continued, "but sentiment can shift quickly. Equipment breaks down. Deliveries get delayed. Workers find otheropportunities."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm describing realities." He closed his portfolio. "This region thrives on cooperation. Those who work with the natural flow of progress tend to fare better than those who resist it."
"The natural flow of progress," I repeated. "Is that what you call buying up family vineyards and turning them into corporate assets?"
"I call it survival." His eyes hardened. "The romantic notion of the family vineyard is charming but outdated. The market demands scale, consistency, marketing. Things that you cannot provide alone."
"We'll see about that."
"We? Ah yes, your partnership with Monsieur Tremblay." Rousseau smiled thinly. "I had a productive conversation with him yesterday. He seemed quite receptive to our offer for Domaine Tremblay. Particularly after learning about your... history of abandonment."
A cold wave washed through me. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing that wasn't true. Your corporate career in Paris. Your pattern of walking away when things get difficult." He stood, straightening his already perfect suit. "I simply suggested that history tends to repeat itself."
I rose to face him, hands clenched at my sides. "Stay away from Hugo."
"Business is business, Monsieur Moreau. Nothing personal." He extended a business card. "My offer remains open for seventy-two hours. After that, the premium drops to ten percent. Then five. Then market value only."
I didn't take the card.
"Think of your future," he said, placing it on the table. "Paris suits you. This—" he gestured vaguely at the village around us "—this is your past. Don't let nostalgia cloud your judgement."
I watched Rousseau's Bentley disappear around the corner, his business card still lying untouched on the café table. The village seemed different now, shadowed by his threats. I left a few euros for my untouched coffee and walked quickly through the square, desperate to escape the curious glances from locals who'd witnessed our conversation.
My feet carried me back toward Domaine Moreau without conscious thought. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, matching the heat of my anger. How dare Rousseau approach Hugo? What lies had he told? The thought of him poisoning Hugo against me—using my own past mistakes as ammunition—made my chest tight with panic.
I could call Hugo, explain myself... but what would I say? That I was sorry for running away? That I wouldn't do it again? Empty promises from a man with a history of abandonment.
The vineyard gate creaked as I pushed it open. Henri's house stood silent and waiting, its stone walls holding centuries of secrets. Inside, I paced the kitchen, too agitated to settle. Rousseau's detailed knowledge of our financial situation troubled me deeply. He'd known things even I hadn't discovered yet.
I needed distraction. Purpose. Something to quiet the chaos in my mind.
The letters from Claude to Henri were still scattered across the study where I had left them. I gathered them carefully, reading fragments as I worked. Their coded language made more sense now that I understood the nature of their relationship.
The Merlot harvest looks promising this year. I look forward to our usual tasting session on Thursday evening.
The new oak barrels arrived. Perhaps you might inspect them this weekend while Margot visits her sister?
Twenty-five years of friendship deserves special recognition. I've set aside something for the occasion.
I paused at this last note, dated 2006. Twenty-five years. The same year as the special bottle we'd found in the cellar. But there was something else—a postscript I hadn't noticed before.
