Page 72 of The Vines Between Us
"I never thought I'd say this," he admitted, "but that doesn't sound so terrible."
I leaned across the table and kissed him, tasting the promise in his words. Whatever happened with the vineyards, he wouldn't run this time. We'd found something our grandfathers had soughtfor fifty years—the courage to face the future together, come what may.
"Now," I said, pulling back to the urgent present, "let's figure out how to save these vineyards."
We worked through the night, planning our desperate harvest gamble. The odds were against us, the timeline impossible, the financial gap enormous. But as dawn broke over our vines once more, even as I lay down to get what little rest I could, I found myself believing in miracles.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ALEXANDRE
Iwoke three hours later, my body aching from yesterday's frantic planning. The weight of our situation pressed against my chest—now just three days to raise €1,200,000 or lose everything. I slipped from bed, careful not to wake Hugo, and stood at the window watching the first pale light touch the vines.
Our vines. Not just Henri's anymore, not just an inheritance or obligation. Mine and Hugo's, together.
I dressed quickly and headed to the kitchen, startled to find Madame Fontaine already there, measuring coffee into the press.
"You didn't think I'd let you boys do this alone, did you?" She pushed a mug toward me. "Marcel's gathering the picking crew. We start in an hour."
I blinked, overwhelmed by this unexpected support. "How did you—"
"Hugo called last night after you fell asleep. We may be down to four vineyards in the Alliance, but we're the stubborn ones." She patted my cheek. "Drink your coffee. You look terrible."
An hour later, I stood at the edge of our ripest Merlot section,watching a small army descend on the vines. Marcel had rallied fifteen pickers—retired vignerons, their grown children, even a few teenagers who should have been in school. Hugo moved among them, demonstrating the careful selection process we needed—only the most perfectly ripened clusters, nothing that wasn't ready.
"We'll get maybe thirty percent of a normal harvest," Hugo explained to the group. "But it must be perfect. Every grape matters."
I joined a row beside an elderly woman who worked with practiced efficiency. My fingers remembered the motion from childhood summers—the gentle twist to free the cluster without damaging the vine. My corporate life in Paris seemed impossibly distant, as though it had happened to someone else.
"You cut like your grandfather," the woman said, nodding approvingly. "Henri was always gentle with the vines."
Pride warmed my chest. "Did you know him well?"
"Fifty years I picked for Domaine Moreau. Henri and Claude, they treated us like family." She selected another perfect cluster. "They would be proud, seeing you two boys fighting for this place."
By midday, sweat soaked my shirt and my back screamed in protest, but the satisfaction of filling basket after basket kept me going. Hugo appeared beside me, his auburn hair tied back, face flushed with exertion.
"We're ahead of schedule," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "The fruit looks good—better than I hoped."
"What about the press?" I asked. "Have you found one we can rent?"
His smile faltered. "That's the problem. Nothing available within 200 kilometers. Rousseau's work, I suspect."
"Then we use the old basket press in the cellar," I said. "It's slower, but Henri kept it in perfect condition."
Hugo's eyes widened. "That would take days to process this volume."
"Then we work in shifts." I straightened, ignoring the pain in my lower back. "We've come this far. We'll find a way."
As the sun began its descent, we transported the first day's harvest to the cellar. The old basket press—a massive oak contraption Henri had maintained out of respect for tradition—stood ready. While Hugo organized the pressing operation, I retreated to Henri's study to make calls to potential buyers.
Three hours and seventeen calls later, I had nothing but polite rejections. Without finished wine to taste, no one would commit to futures at the prices we needed. My head throbbed with exhaustion and desperation.
Hugo found me there, staring blankly at the list of crossed-out names.
"No luck?" he asked softly.
I shook my head. "They need samples. We won't have anything to show them for weeks, and by then—"
