Page 5 of The Vines Between Us
I looked at the letter again.There are truths I should have spoken to you in life that now must be entrusted to paper.What truths? What had Henri needed to tell me? About the vineyard? About anything?
I folded the glasses carefully and slipped them into my pocket. Then I gathered the letter and moved to the window. Outside, the last light caught the tangled vines, turning them golden. Even in their neglect, they held a wild beauty—a stubborn persistence.
Ninety days until foreclosure, Bertrand had said later in the email he'd sent in the evening. Ninety days to decide the fate of generations of Moreau history. Ninety days to unravel whatever mysteries Henri had left behind.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass, a decision crystallizing within me. I couldn't save Henri. I couldn't reclaim the fourteen lost years. But perhaps I could save this—his legacy, his land, his final truths.
"Je vais rester," I said aloud, making the promise to Henri, to the house, to myself. I will stay.
Ninety days. It wasn't much time to resurrect a dying vineyard, to uncover family secrets, to face whatever—whoever—waited in Saint-Émilion.
It would have to be enough.
The notary's office sat above the village bakery, and the scent of fresh bread drifted through the open window, a cruel reminder of life continuing while mine seemed suspended in uncertainty. Bertrand Dupuis shuffled papers on his desk, his expression grave. He'd aged since I'd last seen him—the same man who had handled my grandfather's affairs for decades, now with more wrinkles and less hair, but the same penetrating gaze.
"I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Alexandre." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit."
I perched on the edge of the seat, briefcase balanced on my knees. I'd dressed in my Paris uniform—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, understated tie. Armor against whatever was coming.
"I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
"For Henri's grandson? Always." Bertrand's smile was warm but fleeting. "Though I must say, I've been trying to reach you since the funeral. You left in such a hurry, we didn’t get a chance to speak.”
The gentle rebuke stung more than outright accusation would have. "I've been... preoccupied with my work.”
"Yes, Henri mentioned your important position in Paris." His tone made "important" sound like "frivolous." "He was very proud of your success."
I swallowed hard. "Let's discuss the vineyard's situation."
Bertrand nodded, reaching for a thick folder. "I'll be direct, Alexandre. As you are already aware, the financial situation is dire."
He spread documents across the desk—bank notices, tax assessments, loan agreements. Red stamps and urgent warnings decorated most of them.
"Henri took out a substantial loan three years ago to modernize the winery equipment. Then came two consecutive poor harvests due to late frosts. He fell behind on payments."
"Why didn't he tell me?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Bertrand's eyebrows rose. "Did you ask? You knew Henri, he was proud."
I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. No, I hadn't asked. Our brief phone conversations had been surface-level exchanges—weather reports, perfunctory birthday wishes, hollow promises to visit.
"The bank has been patient out of respect for Henri and the Moreau name," Bertrand continued. "But with his passing, they've called in the loan. You have exactly ninety days before they foreclose or you come to new terms with them or another lender."
"How much are we talking about?"
Bertrand slid a paper toward me. I stared at the figure, certain I'd misread it.
"That can't be right."
"I'm afraid it is. There's the original loan, plus interest, plus property taxes in arrears, plus estate transfer fees, plus—"
"I get it." I ran a hand through my hair, mental calculations spinning. The sum represented more than my entire life's savings. "What about the wine? Surely the inventory—"
"Minimal. Henri sold most of the reserve stock to keep operations going these past two years. What remains would cover perhaps a tenth of what's owed."
"And this year's harvest?"
Bertrand's expression softened with pity. "Alexandre, have you seen the vineyard? There will be no substantial harvest this year. The vines have been neglected for months. Even before Henri fell ill, he couldn't manage the work alone."
