Page 50 of The Vines Between Us
Mayor Beaumont called the meeting to order, his round face flushed with importance. "Citizens of Saint-Émilion, we've gathered to hear a presentation from VitaVine Corporation regarding their proposed investment in our community. Monsieur Rousseau, the floor is yours."
Rousseau moved to the front with practiced ease, his tailored suit and polished shoes marking him as an outsider in this room of weathered hands and practical clothing. His assistantsdistributed glossy brochures while he connected his laptop to the projector.
"Friends," he began, though we were anything but, "I'm delighted to share VitaVine's vision for the future of Saint-Émilion viticulture."
The lights dimmed, and his first slide appeared—an aerial view of our village, but altered. The patchwork of small vineyards had been consolidated into uniform blocks. New buildings dotted the landscape—a large processing facility, modern visitor centers, parking lots.
"For centuries, this region has produced extraordinary wines," Rousseau continued. "But the world is changing. Markets are more competitive. Climate challenges are increasing. Small producers are struggling to keep up."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. He wasn't wrong about the struggles, and he knew it.
"VitaVine proposes a comprehensive development plan that preserves the heritage of Saint-Émilion while bringing much-needed modernization and economic security."
The next slides showcased state-of-the-art equipment, sleek tasting rooms, and graphs projecting increased tourism and revenue. The presentation was polished, professional—and utterly soulless.
"Our investment will create at least forty new jobs," Rousseau continued, "with competitive salaries and benefits. We'll implement sustainable farming practices at scale. And most importantly, we'll ensure Saint-Émilion wines maintain their global prominence for generations to come."
I felt Hugo tense beside me. His knuckles had gone white where he gripped his knees.
"We understand change can be concerning," Rousseau's voice softened with practiced empathy. "That's why we're committed to honouring the names and legacies of the domaines we acquire. Bottles will still bear your family names, your stories will featurein our marketing materials, and former owners will receive generous consultation fees."
The final slide showed a smiling family—clearly models—standing in a vineyard with the VitaVine logo superimposed over a sunset. "The choice is simple: struggle alone against mounting challenges, or join forces with VitaVine for a prosperous future."
Applause scattered through the room—tentative from some, enthusiastic from others. I noticed the younger Benoit, whose family vineyard had been struggling since his father's death, nodding along. Even Jean-Marc looked thoughtful.
"Questions?" Mayor Beaumont asked.
Several hands shot up. Rousseau fielded them smoothly, his answers rehearsed but effective. Yes, they would prioritize hiring locally. Yes, they would maintain AOC standards. No, they wouldn't dramatically change grape varieties. Each response calmed another concern, built another bridge of trust.
"What about traditional methods?" Madame Pelletier asked, her voice quavering with age. "My great-grandfather taught my grandfather who taught my father who taught me. Will all that knowledge just disappear?"
Rousseau smiled indulgently. "We value traditional knowledge, Madame. But we must also embrace modern efficiency. Perhaps we could record your techniques for our corporate archives?"
The dismissiveness beneath his polite words made my jaw clench. I raised my hand.
"Ah, Monsieur Moreau," Rousseau acknowledged me with a thin smile. "A question from our most... resistant vineyard owner."
"Not a question. A rebuttal." I stood, feeling every eye in the room turn to me. Public speaking had never been my strength, but anger gave me focus. "VitaVine doesn't want to preserve Saint-Émilion's heritage. They want to package and sell a sanitized version of it."
Rousseau's smile didn't waver. "Strong words from someone who abandoned his family vineyard for fourteen years."
The barb hit its mark. I faltered, shame heating my face.
Then Hugo stood beside me. "I didn't abandon mine. And I agree with Alexandre."
His shoulder brushed against mine—a small gesture of solidarity that steadied me.
"VitaVine isn't offering partnership," I continued. "They're offering assimilation. Once they own our land, our names become nothing but marketing tools. Our methods become quaint stories for tourists while machines do the real work."
Rousseau sighed theatrically. "Romantic notions won't pay your debts, Moreau. Or yours, Tremblay."
"Maybe not," Hugo replied. "But we have an alternative vision to present. May we, Mayor Beaumont?"
The mayor hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes."
Alternative vision? I shot Hugo a questioning glance, but he was already turning to address the crowd. I had no choice but to follow his lead, though I had no idea what "vision" he was referring to.
Hugo turned to the crowd. "We all know the challenges facing small vineyards. Rising costs. Changing climate. Competitive markets. VitaVine's solution is consolidation—one corporation controlling everything."
