Page 17 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Thirteen

ALEXANDRE

C laude's bedroom was like stepping into a time capsule. Heavy burgundy curtains were drawn across the windows, casting the room in shadow. Hugo moved to open them, releasing a cloud of dust that danced in the sudden shafts of morning light.

"Sorry," he murmured, coughing slightly. "I told you it's been untouched."

The space was both familiar and foreign—the same honey-coloured furniture I remembered from childhood visits, but now frozen in Claude's final days. A water glass still sat on the bedside table. Reading glasses rested atop a dog-eared novel. A dressing gown hung from a hook on the bathroom door.

"It's like he might walk in any moment," I said quietly.

Hugo nodded, his fingers trailing along the edge of Claude's dresser. "That's why I couldn't bear to come in here. Too many ghosts."

I understood completely. Henri's room had affected me the same way. The physical remnants of absence could be more painful than the absence itself .

"Where should we start?" I asked, feeling suddenly like an intruder.

"The desk, perhaps." Hugo gestured toward an elegant escritoire tucked into the corner by the window. "If Claude kept journals or letters, they'd be there."

The desk was organized meticulously—fountain pens lined up by size, notepads stacked precisely, a leather blotter centered perfectly. I watched as Hugo's hands hovered over the surface, hesitant to disturb this final arrangement.

"You do it," he said finally. "I don't think I can."

I nodded, understanding his reluctance. The desk had three drawers on each side. I started with the top right, sliding it open carefully.

Inside were business papers—tax forms, vineyard yield reports, receipts. Nothing personal. The drawer below contained office supplies—spare ink cartridges, paperclips, stamps. The bottom drawer held vineyard maps, soil analysis reports, and weather journals.

"Nothing here," I said, moving to the left side.

The top left drawer contained Claude's cheque book and bank statements. The middle drawer held stationery and greeting cards. But when I pulled open the bottom drawer, I paused.

"Hugo," I said softly. "Look at this."

The drawer was filled with envelopes—dozens, perhaps hundreds of them—yellowed with age, tied in bundles with faded ribbon. Each bundle was labeled with a year, spanning back to 1981.

Hugo knelt beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine as he reached in and lifted the first bundle. The ribbon came untied in his hands, and the envelopes spilled across the desk surface. Each one bore Henri's distinctive handwriting.

"My God," Hugo whispered. "Letters from Henri. For nearly fifty years."

My fingers trembled as I picked up one of the envelopes. It was postmarked 1989, addressed simply to "C.T." with no return address. The flap was slit open, the letter inside read many times over judging by the creases.

"Should we?" I asked, uncertain of our right to these private communications.

Hugo met my eyes, his own conflicted. "They're gone now. And... I think they'd want us to understand."

I nodded, carefully extracting the letter. The paper was delicate, the ink faded but still legible. Henri's handwriting was so familiar it made my chest ache.

Mon cher Claude,

I've just returned home from our "business meeting" in Bordeaux.

Margot asked about the conference, and I told her the usual half-truths that taste like ashes in my mouth.

Those three days with you were paradise.

The way the morning light fell across your sleeping face—I've committed it to memory to sustain me through the weeks until I can see you again.

The 1988 blend we created is developing beautifully in the barrel. Like us, it improves with age and patience. Sometimes I imagine a world where we could openly put our names together on the label, where I could acknowledge what you mean to me without fear.

Until then, I remain as always,

Yours completely,

H.

I looked up to find Hugo reading another letter, his eyes glistening. "2011," he said. "Listen to this:

My darling,

Thirty years since our first kiss among the vines, and still my heart races at the thought of seeing you tomorrow. The "partnership agreement" meeting gives us three precious hours. I count the minutes until I can hold you again.

Our grandsons have become inseparable this summer. Alexandre follows Hugo everywhere, looking at him the way I look at you. Perhaps the next generation will be braver than we were.

Forever yours ,

H. "

My breath caught. "So they knew about us. I always suspected but Henri never said anything."

"They saw what we couldn't see about them," Hugo replied, setting down the letter with gentle reverence.

We continued reading, moving chronologically through the decades.

The early letters burned with passion and regret—Henri torn between his marriage vows and his love for Claude.

Later correspondence showed a settled rhythm to their relationship, no less passionate but tempered by time and circumstance.

A letter from 2001 caught my attention:

Mon amour,

I watched you with Hugo today, teaching him to test the grapes for ripeness. The patience in your hands, the gentleness in your instruction—I fell in love with you all over again. What a father you would have been. What a husband, had I the courage to choose differently.

Alexandre asks why I smile when we visit your vineyard. How can I explain that my heart lives next door? That the best part of me exists in the moments we steal together?

Perhaps one day, when they are older, we might tell them the truth. Until then, I remain,

Yours in secret and in truth,

Henri

I set the letter down, my vision blurring. "They wanted to tell us. Someday."

Hugo's hand found mine across the scattered letters. "But they ran out of time."

We continued reading, moving into the most recent decade. The passion remained, but a new note entered the correspondence—fear of separation, of illness, of death.

A letter from just last year, when Claude's cancer diagnosis had come:

My dearest heart,

The news from your doctor has shattered me. Six months? How can they reduce our remaining time to such a cruel number? After almost fifty years, it seems impossible that we should be parted.

I cannot imagine this world without you in it. You have been my north star, my true home, the love that defined my life even as I failed to acknowledge it publicly.

I should have been braver. We should have claimed our happiness openly. What was I protecting? A reputation? Social standing? None of it matters without you.

I will be by your side through every treatment, every moment of pain. The world may see a concerned friend and business partner, but we will know the truth.

I love you beyond reason, beyond breath.

Henri

I couldn't continue. Something broke open inside me—a dam I'd built against feeling too deeply, against the vulnerability that had terrified me since childhood. Tears came in a flood I couldn't control.

"Alexandre," Hugo said softly, moving to kneel before me.

"All those years," I managed between sobs. "They loved each other so completely, and yet they had to hide. My grandfather lived a double life for half a century, loving Claude while married to my grandmother."

Hugo's hands found my shoulders, steadying me. "And still, they chose to love. Despite everything."

"Henri's final journal entry," I said, wiping at my eyes. "He wrote that he couldn't bear the world without Claude in it. That a life half-lived is no life at all."

"That explains why he followed Claude so quickly," Hugo said. "Three months after."

"He wrote that when love presents itself, you should grasp it with both hands and never let go." My voice broke on the words. "But I've spent my entire adult life doing the opposite—running from connection, from vulnerability. From you."

Hugo's hands tightened on my shoulders. "Alexandre—"

"If Henri could love that deeply, despite everything, maybe..." I couldn't finish, overcome again by tears that felt like they'd been waiting fourteen years to fall.

Hugo pulled me against him, holding me through the storm as he gently guided me away from Claude's bedroom.

His shirt grew damp beneath my cheek, but he didn't pull away.

His hands moved in soothing circles on my back, his breath warm against my hair.

We paused at the end of the corridor, where he pushed open a familiar door.

The room beyond faced the western vineyards, walls painted a warm terracotta that caught the fading light.

This was Hugo's sanctuary—where we'd spent countless hours as teenagers, reading comics sprawled across the floor, sharing secrets in whispered voices.

I recognized the painting above his bed—his work from our final summer together—the vineyard at sunset captured in bold, passionate strokes.

As he set me down on the edge of his bed, the sheets smelled of lavender and sunshine, a scent so distinctly Hugo that it tugged at forgotten memories.

This space breathed with his present life while still holding echoes of our shared past. There was comfort in the familiar creak of the floorboards, in the way the light slanted through the half-drawn curtains—just as it had when we were teenagers and desperate for each other, terrified of being caught but unable to stay apart.

"It's okay," he murmured. "Let it out."

When the tears finally subsided, I remained in his embrace, unwilling to break the connection. The morning light had shifted, casting golden patterns across the scattered letters—physical evidence of a love that had survived despite every obstacle.

"They were so brave," I whispered against Hugo's shoulder. "In their own way."

"Yes," Hugo agreed. "And so careful. All those years we spent here as teenagers, and we never suspected."

I pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "Do you think they were happy? Despite the secrecy?"