Page 55 of The Vines Between Us
Night fell over Domaine Moreau. I sat alone on the terrace, the contract still before me, pen in hand. The decision deadline loomed—noon tomorrow. By this time tomorrow, I could be on the TGV back to Paris, my bank account overflowing, all debts cleared.
My phone buzzed with a message from Philippe.
Board meeting tomorrow. Javier presenting his restructuring plan. Your position at risk. Need you back ASAP if you want to salvage your career.
Perfect timing. Another sign pointing toward Paris, toward the life I'd built there. I should have felt relief at the clarity.
Instead, I felt hollow.
I poured another cognac and looked out over the darkened vineyard. The waxing moon cast silver light across the rows of vines, transforming them into something ancient and mysterious. How many Moreaus had sat here before me, contemplating these same vines under this same moon? How many had faced crises, droughts, wars, phylloxera, economic collapse?
None had sold.
But none had faced the globalized wine industry, corporate consolidation, climate change. None had inherited a vineyard already on the brink of collapse.
None except Henri, who'd taken over after the war when everything was in ruins.
I pulled out my grandfather's journal, turning to entries from 1979.
Everything is destroyed. Equipment gone, half the vines dead, cellar looted. The banker suggested selling what's left. Said it would be easier to start fresh elsewhere. Perhaps he's right. But then I look at the eastern slope where the old Merlot still stands, somehow surviving despite everything, and I know I cannot leave. This land is in my blood.
I flipped forward afew pages.
Claude helped me clear the south field today. His touch on my arm as he passed the water jug nearly undid me. I must be more careful. These feelings cannot be acted upon. But oh, how they persist, growing stronger each day we work side by side.
And then, many years later:
Another harvest finished. Thirty-five years with Claude nearby, yet always apart. Sometimes I wonder what life might have been if we'd been born in a different time, a different place. If I'd had the courage to choose differently. The vineyard has been my excuse, my justification for the safe path. My reason for staying married, for maintaining appearances. My shelter from having to risk everything on love.
I wonder if, at the end, I will regret the safety more than I would have regretted the risk.
I closed the journal, Henri's words burning into me. My phone buzzed again—Philippe, demanding a response.
The Paris apartment waited. My corporate office with its view of La Défense. The safe, structured life I'd built, where vulnerability was a weakness to be eliminated, where success was measured in acquisitions and promotions.
I could return to that life, wealthy beyond imagination. I could buy a better apartment, take luxury vacations, never worry about money again.
Or I could stay. Fight for Domaine Moreau. For the alliance. For the village.
For Hugo.
I could risk everything—financial security, professional identity, emotional safety—on something uncertain, something that might fail despite my best efforts.
Something that might succeed beyond my wildest dreams.
Henri's voice seemed to whisper from the pages of his journal:I wonder if, at the end, I will regret the safety more than I would have regretted the risk.
I knew the answer. Henri had regretted the safety. He'dregretted the compromises, the appearances, the half-life he'd lived while watching Claude from across a property line.
And I was about to make the same mistake.
I stood, decision crystallizing with sudden clarity. The contract sat on the table, the obscene figure glowing in the moonlight. I picked it up, feeling its weight—the weight of temptation, of easy escape.
Then I tore it in half. And again. And again, until Rousseau's offer lay in confetti across the terrace stones.
I texted Philippe:Not returning. Handle the board meeting without me. Resignation letter to follow.
Then I called Rousseau, my heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
