Page 9 of The Vines Between Us
Standing at the boundary between our properties, I stared at Domaine Moreau's main house. Was he in there now? The prodigal grandson returned after fourteen years? I'd heard rumours, whispers in the village, but hadn't caught a glimpse of him yet.
I turned back toward Domaine Tremblay, my mind made up. I needed supplies anyway—might as well walk into the village. And if I happened to run into Alexandre Moreau while I was there... well, that would be mere coincidence.
By mid-morning, I had showered and changed into my least-stained shirt. "You're being ridiculous," I muttered to my reflection as I tied back my hair. "He probably won't even recognize you."
The walk into Saint-Émilion gave me enough time to rehearse a dozen different scenarios. Casual indifference:Oh, you're back? I hadn't noticed.Cold fury:Fourteen years without a word, Alexandre.Manufactured nonchalance:How's Paris treating you these days?
None of them felt right.
I entered the market square, my heart hammering against my ribs. The village was busy with its usual Tuesday rhythm—locals shopping, a few early-season tourists wandering the cobblestone streets. I made a show of examining produce at Marcel's stall while scanning the square from behind my sunglasses.
"Looking for someone?" Marcel asked with a knowing smile.
"Just checking what's fresh," I lied, selecting a bundle of herbs I didn't need.
"If you're looking for Henri's grandson, he was at Madame Fontaine's café earlier."
My cheeks warmed. "I wasn't—"
"Of course not," Marcel winked.
I paid for the herbs, my embarrassment complete. Was I that transparent? Apparently so.
With my canvas bag slung over my shoulder, I meandered through the market, pretending to shop while acutely aware I was hunting for a glimpse of Alexandre. This was pathetic. I was thirty-two years old, not the lovesick teenager who'd waited by the stone wall every day of summer, counting the hours until Alexandre would appear.
I had nearly given up when Madame Fontaine waved me over to her café.
"Hugo! I was just telling Alexandre about you," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
My stomach dropped. "Alexandre is here?"
"Just left, dear. Headed back towards the domaine with his groceries." She leaned closer. "He asked about you, you know. In that careful way people ask when they're trying not to seem interested."
Hope fluttered in my chest before I ruthlessly crushed it. "Did he."
"You might catch him if you hurry," she suggested, not even attempting subtlety. "He was walking, and with those heavy bags..."
I hesitated only a moment before nodding my thanks. My feet carried me swiftly through the village, toward the road that led to our vineyards. I slowed as I spotted a figure ahead—broad shoulders, dark hair, expensive clothes that marked him as an outsider despite his local roots.
Alexandre.
Chapter Four
ALEXANDRE
Ifinished my coffee, staring at the numbers until they blurred together. The café had filled with locals, their curious glances burning into my back. I could almost hear their whispers: Henri's grandson has returned. The prodigal grandson who abandoned the vineyard for fourteen years. The boy who barely even came back for his own grandfather's funeral.
I paid and gathered the papers, desperate to escape the weight of their judgement. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the cobblestones. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since the train. More pressingly, I realized there would be no food at Domaine Moreau. Henri's kitchen would be as empty as the bare wine cellars.
The village market sprawled along the narrow street, stalls overflowing with local produce. I grabbed a basket and moved mechanically through the displays, selecting bread, cheese, some cured meats. Enough to get by for a few days. The vendors' faces registered recognition as I approached, their expressions shifting from polite customer service to something more complicated.
"Moreau?" A weathered man selling vegetables squinted at me. "You're Henri's girl's son, aren't you?"
"Yes, Alexandre Moreau."
His face softened. "Your grandfather was a good man. We all miss him."
I nodded, throat suddenly tight. "Thank you."
