Page 13 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Nine

ALEXANDRE

I followed Hugo's battered green truck along the narrow road that separated our properties, watching dust kick up behind his wheels in the golden evening light.

The storm had passed hours ago, leaving behind that peculiar freshness that follows summer rain—the scent of wet earth and renewed growth hanging in the air.

After our near-kiss in the cellar, we'd spent the afternoon in careful distance, focusing on practical matters: checking drainage systems, securing loose equipment, taking inventory of salvageable tools.

The tension between us remained unacknowledged but palpable, like an overripe fruit ready to burst at the slightest touch.

When Hugo had invited me for dinner at his place—"Nothing fancy, just simple food and decent wine"—I'd hesitated only briefly before accepting.

The prospect of returning to Henri's empty house, with its dust-covered memories and half-finished letter, held little appeal compared to Hugo's company, even with the tension between us.

His truck turned onto a gravel driveway flanked by wild rosemary and lavender, and I followed, parking beside him in front of Claude's villa.

Unlike Henri's austere stone manor, Claude's home was a riot of color—terra cotta walls with bright blue shutters, climbing jasmine framing the doorway, ceramic pots overflowing with geraniums lining the front steps.

"It's exactly as I remember it," I said as I stepped out of Henri’s old beat up Citroen 2CV.

Hugo smiled, unlocking the front door. "Claude believed a house should reflect its owner's soul."

"Henri would have said that's frivolous."

"And Claude would have said Henri needed to loosen his cravat." Hugo's laugh was warm as he pushed open the door and gestured me inside.

The interior hit me with a wave of nostalgia.

Where Henri's home was all dark wood and traditional furnishings, Claude's villa exploded with color and texture—walls painted in warm ochre and deep azure, mismatched furniture arranged for conversation rather than formality, bookshelves overflowing with novels and art books instead of leather-bound classics and financial ledgers.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hugo said, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll open some wine."

I wandered through the living room, taking in the eclectic collection of objects that spoke of Claude's life—a hand-carved chess set from Morocco, a collection of vintage film posters, shelves of vinyl records, and everywhere, photographs.

Claude smiling from mountain peaks, Claude surrounded by friends at village festivals, Claude with his arm around a teenage Hugo.

"He never threw anything away," Hugo called from the kitchen. "Said memories were too precious to discard."

I moved to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame as I watched Hugo navigate the space with practiced ease. He pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, chopped vegetables with swift, confident strokes, adjusted burners on the ancient stove.

"Can I help?" I offered.

"You can open this." He handed me a corkscrew and a dusty bottle. "From Claude's private collection. A 1989 Saint-émilion Grand Cru. He was saving it for a special occasion."

I examined the label, recognizing the vineyard—one of the region's finest. "This is too valuable to waste on a simple dinner."

Hugo paused his chopping to look at me directly. "Sharing it with you isn't a waste."

Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I busied myself with the cork, working it free with a satisfying pop. Hugo placed two glasses on the counter, and I poured the ruby liquid, watching it catch the light.

"To our grandfathers," Hugo said, raising his glass.

"To Henri and Claude," I echoed, touching my glass to his.

The wine was magnificent—complex, velvety, with notes of black cherry and cedar. We sipped in appreciative silence as Hugo returned to his cooking, slicing mushrooms and mincing garlic with the confidence of someone who'd prepared countless meals.

"When did you learn to cook? I don't remember you making meals like this when I was last here," I asked, leaning against the counter beside him.

"Claude taught me. Said no self-respecting Frenchman should rely on restaurants." He smiled at the memory. "He was hopeless with business but brilliant with food and wine."

"Henri was the opposite. Perfect with accounts, terrible with anything requiring creativity."

"They balanced each other," Hugo said, his voice softening. "Like puzzle pieces."

I watched him work, the easy domesticity of his movements hypnotic. He'd rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms corded with muscle from vineyard work. A lock of auburn hair fell across his forehead as he bent to check something in the oven, and I fought the sudden urge to brush it back.

"Dinner's ready," he announced, transferring a perfectly roasted chicken to a serving platter. "Nothing elaborate—just poulet r?ti with herbs from the garden, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread from the village. "

"It looks incredible," I said honestly.

We carried everything to the small table on Claude's terrace, where Hugo had lit candles against the gathering dusk. Cicadas chirped in the vineyard beyond, and the setting sun painted the sky in shades of pink and gold.

"This is incredible," I said, taking my first bite of the perfectly roasted chicken.

"Like I said, Claude taught me well. This kitchen actually feels like a home."

"Unlike Henri's house?" I asked, thinking of the austere manor I'd inherited.

Hugo nodded. "Henri was... formal. Even in private. Everything had its proper place."

"Including me?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

"What do you mean?" Hugo asked, his expression curious.

I took a sip of wine, buying time. "I always felt like I was walking on eggshells around him. Like I was afraid of disappointing him."

"Were you?"

"Yes," I admitted, the confession coming easier than expected. "Henri represented everything good in my life. This place, these summers... I couldn't bear the thought of losing them."

"By being yourself?" Hugo's question was gentle but direct.

I focused on cutting a piece of chicken. "By being too much trouble. Too... complicated."

Hugo was quiet for a moment. "You know, Claude always said Henri was proudest when he talked about you. Not about your grades or achievements. Just about having you here."

Something tightened in my throat. "I wish I'd known that then."

"Maybe he didn't know how to show it. Our grandfathers' generation wasn't big on emotional expression."

I thought about the unfinished letter in Henri's study, the hints of hidden depths to my grandfather I'd never known. "No, they weren't."

The food was simple but perfect—the chicken juicy and fragrant with rosemary and thyme, the vegetables caramelized to sweetness, the bread crusty and still warm. We ate with the appetite that comes from physical work, letting conversation flow easily between us.

Hugo told me about his struggles after Claude's death, about learning to manage the vineyard alone. I found myself sharing stories from Paris—not the polished professional version, but the lonelier truth of it.

"Do you miss it?" Hugo asked as we finished our first glass of wine. "The city?"

"I miss the certainty of it," I said slowly. "Knowing my role, my place. Here, I feel like I'm constantly off-balance."

"Maybe that's not entirely bad."

"What do you mean?"

Hugo smiled, the expression soft in the fading light. "Maybe being off-balance means you're learning something new."

With each glass, the careful distance we'd maintained began to dissolve. I found myself laughing at Hugo's stories about Claude's eccentricities—his superstitious refusal to harvest on Tuesdays, his habit of playing opera to the fermenting wine because he believed Mozart improved the bouquet.

"Remember when he caught us stealing that bottle of Sauternes?" Hugo asked, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"God, yes. We were what—sixteen? Seventeen? He made us write an essay on the proper appreciation of dessert wines instead of punishing us, before handing us the bottle of Cabernet."

"And then reminded us how to taste properly," Hugo added. "Said if we were going to drink his wine, we'd better do it with respect."

"Henri would have locked the cellar and lectured us about property rights."

"But he never did catch us, did he?" Hugo's smile turned mischievous. "Not even that time in the north vineyard when you—"

"Don't," I interrupted, feeling heat rise to my face that had nothing to do with the wine.

Hugo's expression softened. "I've thought about that summer every day for fourteen years," he said quietly. "Wondering if you ever thought about it too."

The directness of his statement caught me off guard. In Paris, I'd cultivated relationships characterized by their simplicity—physical without emotional entanglement, ending before they could become complicated. Hugo had never been simple.

"I thought about it," I admitted, my voice rough. "I tried not to, but I did."

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" The question hung between us, unavoidable now.

I stared into my wine glass. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of how much it hurt to leave you." The truth spilled out, loosened by wine and twilight. "I thought a clean break would be easier."

"Was it?"

"No," I whispered. "It wasn't easier at all."

Hugo reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "I waited for you to come back. Every summer, I thought, 'This will be the year.'"

The naked honesty in his voice undid me. "I'm sorry," I said, turning my hand to grasp his. "I was a coward."

"You're here now," he said simply.

After dinner, we moved to Claude's living room with the remainder of the wine.

The formal distance between us had dissolved, replaced by the easy physical proximity of our youth—Hugo's shoulder against mine as he reached for a leather-bound album from the bookshelf, our knees touching as we sat side by side on the sofa .

"Claude kept everything," Hugo explained, opening the album. "Every photograph, every memory."

The pages were filled with images of village life—harvests and festivals, birthdays and celebrations. Claude appeared in many, his exuberant smile unchanged across decades. I recognized younger versions of the villagers I'd seen at the café, their faces less lined, their postures more vigorous.

"There's Henri," I said, pointing to a photograph of my grandfather judging wines at a village competition, his expression serious even in celebration.

"He always looked so stern in public," Hugo observed. "Like he was carrying the weight of the world."

We turned the pages, watching the years pass in images. I noticed something curious—in almost every group photograph, Henri and Claude stood together. Sometimes at opposite ends of a gathering, sometimes in the centre, but always in the same frame.

"They were fixtures in the village," Hugo murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "Everyone respected them both."

He turned another page, and we both froze.

The photograph showed a village festival from perhaps twenty-five years ago. Coloured lights strung between plane trees, trestle tables laden with food, villagers dancing to what I imagined was accordion music. In the foreground stood Henri and Claude, captured in a moment of unguarded joy.

They stood closer than mere neighbours would—Claude's shoulder pressed against Henri's, Henri's hand resting on Claude's back in a gesture of casual intimacy.

But it was their expressions that stopped my breath.

They were looking at each other, not the camera, Henri's usual reserve completely dissolved, his face transformed by a smile of such tenderness it made my chest ache.

Claude was mid-laugh, his head tilted toward Henri as if sharing a private joke.

"They spent so much time together," Hugo said softly, studying the photograph .

"Yes," I agreed, leaning closer to see the image. Our shoulders brushed, sending an unexpected warmth through me. "They certainly were close."

"Claude used to get this look on his face whenever Henri's name came up," Hugo said, his voice low. "I never thought much about it then."

I was acutely aware of Hugo beside me, the scent of vineyard soil and something distinctly him filling my senses. "Henri kept all these letters, all these photographs. They must have meant a great deal to each other."

I thought about Henri's unfinished letter in the study, his need to explain something important before the end. What had he wanted to tell me about his life? Was it about his friendship with Claude?

"They had business dealings together for—"

"Fifty years, at least," Hugo finished. "Since before we were born."

We fell silent, shoulders still touching as we looked through the album. The quiet between us grew charged, filled with something unspoken. I could feel Hugo's warmth beside me, the slight movement of his breath.

"It explains why Henri declined so quickly after Claude died," I said, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "He wasn't just losing a business partner. He was losing his closest friend."

Hugo closed the album gently, but didn't move away. "All those years, sharing everything but keeping parts of themselves private. I wonder if they ever regretted that."

"They found a way to be together," I said, the word 'together' hanging between us. "Even if it wasn't perfect."

"Is that enough? A partial connection?" Hugo turned to face me fully, his eyes intense in the lamplight. "Could you live that way?"

The question wasn't just about our grandfathers anymore. Hugo's face was inches from mine, his eyes searching mine for answers I wasn't ready to give. I could feel the pull between us, magnetic and familiar, urging me to close the distance.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I leaned forward slightly. Hugo's breath caught, his lips parting. For one suspended moment, I thought I might actually kiss him—let myself fall back into something I'd spent fourteen years running from.

Then panic flooded through me. Images flashed in my mind: my father's rage, my mother's tears, the corporate life I'd built as a fortress against vulnerability. I jerked back abruptly, nearly knocking over the wine bottle.

"I should check on that equipment order," I said, my voice too loud in the quiet room. "Early start tomorrow."

Confusion and hurt flickered across Hugo's face before he masked it with a polite nod. "Of course."

As I fled the room, I could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing down on me, heavier than the summer air. I'd come back to save the vineyard, not to resurrect ghosts of the past—especially not the ones that still had the power to undo me completely.