Page 10 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Seven

ALEXANDRE

T he morning sun had barely cleared the church spire when I pushed open the door to Café de la Place.

The familiar bell tinkled overhead, announcing my entrance to the handful of early patrons scattered throughout the small space.

Several heads turned, conversation pausing momentarily before resuming at a slightly lower volume.

I'd forgotten how it felt to be the subject of village scrutiny. In Paris, anonymity was a luxury I took for granted. Here, my presence carried the weight of history—both Henri's legacy and my own abandonment of it.

Madame Fontaine spotted me from behind the counter, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in the same practical bun she'd worn for decades.

"Alexandre! Back again so soon?" She gestured to an empty table by the window. "The usual?"

I nodded, though I doubted she truly remembered my coffee preference from fourteen years ago. The table offered a clear view of the village square, where the Wednesday market was just beginning to set up. Farmers unloaded produce from weathered trucks, arranging displays with practiced efficiency.

"One café crème," Madame Fontaine said, placing the steaming cup before me. "Still take it with two sugars?"

She did remember. Something tightened in my chest.

"Merci," I murmured, stirring the coffee slowly. "The village looks much the same."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Looks can deceive. Much has changed, especially this past year."

Before I could ask what she meant, the bell chimed again.

Two men entered—one in his sixties with a weather-beaten face, the other younger but with the same stooped shoulders that spoke of decades in the vineyards.

They nodded in my direction—a courtesy rather than a greeting—before taking seats at the counter.

"Any word from Mathieu?" the older man asked Madame Fontaine.

She shook her head. "Signed the papers yesterday, from what I hear."

"Fourth one this year," the younger man muttered. "Bastards don't even wait for the bodies to cool."

"Marcel," Madame Fontaine cautioned, glancing in my direction.

I pretended to focus on my coffee, but kept my ears open. The name Mathieu sounded familiar—perhaps one of the smaller vineyards on the eastern slope?

"VitaVine's already changed the signage," Marcel continued, lowering his voice. "No more Domaine Lefèvre. Just another 'VitaVine Property' now."

The older man spat a curse. "Five generations, gone like that. And for what? So some corporation can make bulk box swill for export?"

I nearly choked on my coffee. Lefèvre had been one of the oldest family vineyards in the region—smaller than Moreau, but respected for their exceptional Cabernet Franc. The idea of it becoming corporate property sent a chill through me.

"Mathieu held out as long as he could," Madame Fontaine said. "After Marie's death and his boy's financial misfortunes... what choice did he have?"

"There's always a choice," the older man grumbled.

"Is there, though?" Marcel countered. "Look at poor Tremblay. That boy Hugo's working himself to death, and for what? Another bad season and VitaVine will be knocking on his door too."

My fingers tightened around my cup. Hugo hadn't mentioned that it was this bad yesterday. Then again, why would he share all of his financial troubles with me, of all people?

"They're circling Domaine Moreau as well," the older man said. "Henri barely in the ground, and already the vultures are watching."

"Enough, both of you," Madame Fontaine hissed, nodding meaningfully in my direction.

Too late. I'd heard enough to understand exactly what was happening. I pushed back my chair and approached the counter, ignoring the uncomfortable silence that fell.

"Who or what is VitaVine?" I asked directly.

The men exchanged glances. Madame Fontaine sighed.

"VitaVine Corporation," she explained. "They began buying properties about three years ago. Small holdings at first, then larger estates as they gained a foothold."

"Corporate wine," Marcel added with disgust. "Mass production methods, mechanized harvesting, chemical shortcuts—everything that Saint-émilion winemaking is not."

"And they're targeting struggling vineyards?" I pressed.

The older man—whose name I now recalled was Alain Bonnet—gave me a hard look.

"They're targeting everyone. But yes, they start with those in financial trouble.

Offer just enough to cover debts, but far less than market value.

When desperation sets in, people sell. They're predators, preying on the weak. "

"Like Mathieu," I murmured.

"Like Mathieu," Madame Fontaine confirmed. "Like the Rousseaus before him. Like the Pelletiers last autumn."

"And now they've set their sights on Moreau?" The thought made my blood boil. Henri would rather have burned the vines himself than see them fall into corporate hands.

"They've approached every vineyard in the appellation," Alain said. "Some of us told them where to shove their offers."

"But it gets harder each year," Marcel added. "Bad harvests, rising costs, changing climate. Meanwhile, VitaVine keeps buying up supply chains, equipment services, even controlling water access in some areas."

"They create the pressure, then offer the solution," Madame Fontaine said quietly. "Quite clever, in a rather despicable way."

I felt a rush of anger unlike anything I'd experienced in years. The corporate world I'd inhabited in Paris was cutthroat, certainly, but this was different. This was personal—an attack on not just livelihoods but heritage, identity, generations of knowledge and tradition.

"What's being done about it?" I demanded. "Surely the appellation authorities—"

"Talk," Alain interrupted. "Meetings. Committees. Inquiries. Meanwhile, VitaVine buys another property every few months."

"We need action, not talk," Marcel added. "But what can small producers do against a multinational conglomerate like VitaVine?"

Madame Fontaine refilled my cup without asking. "Perhaps you could tell us, Alexandre. You come from the corporate world now, don't you? Isn't this the sort of thing you understand?"

There was no malice in her question, only a directness that was typically French. Still, it stung. Was that how they saw me now? Not as Henri's grandson, but as one of them—the corporate vultures?

"I understand it," I admitted. "But I don't condone it. "

"Well," she said, her eyes softening slightly, "that's something, at least."

The bell above the door chimed again. More villagers entered, and the morning routine of the café continued around us. But something had shifted in the air between us—a tentative solidarity formed in shared concern.

"I'll need to know more," I said finally. "Everything you can tell me about VitaVine's operations here."

Alain raised an eyebrow. "Planning to fight them, are you?"

I thought of Henri's neglected vines, of Hugo working alone to save his grandfather's legacy, of generations of tradition at risk of disappearing.

"Perhaps," I replied.

The conversation with the vignerons continued for another hour, each sharing stories of VitaVine's tactics—water access mysteriously restricted during critical growing periods, equipment repairs delayed until desperate vineyard owners accepted lowball offers, distributors suddenly dropping small producers after VitaVine acquisitions.

I scribbled notes in my pocket notebook, my corporate strategy background helping me see the pattern. This wasn't opportunistic vulture capitalism; it was a coordinated campaign to systematically dismantle family vineyards one by one.

"They've hired local faces to make the offers seem friendlier," Marcel explained. "But make no mistake, there's nothing local about—"

The café fell silent mid-sentence. Through the window, a gleaming black Bentley rolled to a stop in the village square, looking absurdly out of place among the weathered Peugeots and Citroens. The door opened, and a tall silver-haired man in a tailored navy suit emerged.

"Speak of the devil," étienne muttered .

The man paused to survey the village square with the casual ownership of someone who believed everything had its price.

His gaze swept across the ancient stone buildings, lingering on the café window where we sat watching.

A practiced smile appeared on his face as he straightened his cuffs and strode toward the café door.

The bell chimed, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

"Bonjour, mes amis," he called, his voice carrying a polished warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

No one responded. Madame Fontaine busied herself wiping an already clean counter. Marcel suddenly found his coffee fascinating.

The newcomer seemed untroubled by the frosty reception. His gaze landed on me—the only unfamiliar face in the room—and his smile widened.

"Ah, you must be Alexandre Moreau," he said, approaching my table with his hand extended. "I'd hoped to catch you. étienne Rousseau, VitaVine's regional acquisition and market director."

I stood slowly, acutely aware of every eye in the café watching us. His handshake was firm, his palm dry and cool.

"How did you know who I am?" I asked.

"Saint-émilion is a small community. News travels." He gestured to the empty chair across from me. "May I?"

Before I could respond, he'd already taken the seat, unbuttoning his jacket with practiced elegance.

"I understand you've inherited quite a challenge," he continued, voice pitched low as if sharing a confidence between colleagues. "Your grandfather's property has significant potential, but the rehabilitation costs would be... prohibitive for an individual."

"I'm managing," I replied.

Rousseau's smile never faltered. "Of course. You strike me as a capable man. But vineyard restoration isn't like corporate finance, is it? The timelines are dictated by nature, not spreadsheets."