Page 21 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Sixteen

ALEXANDRE

T he next three days passed in a blur of isolation. I threw myself into work at Domaine Moreau, attacking the vines with secateurs like they'd personally offended me. My hands blistered, then calloused. Good. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in my chest.

I called Bertrand on the third day, desperate for a financial miracle. The numbers didn't add up. Even liquidating everything I owned wouldn't cover the debts.

"I need to speak with my CEO," I muttered, staring at the spreadsheets scattered across Henri's desk.

When Philippe answered, his voice carried that particular coolness reserved for disappointments.

"Another week? Alexandre, the board meeting is Tuesday."

I gripped the phone tighter. "I understand the timing is—"

"Catastrophic. The Thibault acquisition hinges on your presentation."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken threats.

"I can prepare remotely," I offered, knowing it was inadequate.

"Fine." The word fell like a stone. "But understand this changes things. Javier has expressed interest in your coveted director position."

My stomach clenched. Five years of sixty-hour weeks, sacrificing everything for that promotion.

"I appreciate your flexibility," I managed.

"Don't thank me yet. Take your time with your... vineyard situation. Just know there are long-term consequences."

After he hung up, I stared at the darkening window. Outside, the vines stood silhouetted against the dusk, unmoved by my career suicide. What was I doing here? And why did walking away feel impossible?

I avoided the village, ordering supplies by phone and arranging delivery rather than face the locals. But by the fourth day, I needed parts for the tractor that couldn't wait, forcing me into Saint-émilion.

The moment I stepped into the hardware store, conversations quieted. Marcel, behind the counter, gave me a curt nod instead of his usual friendly greeting. I grabbed what I needed and approached the register.

"Haven't seen Hugo around your place lately," Marcel said, scanning my items with deliberate slowness.

"We're focusing on our own properties for now," I replied, keeping my voice neutral.

Marcel's eyebrows rose. "Funny. Before, you two were inseparable. Thought you were finally sorting things between you."

I handed over my credit card. "We're sorting the vineyards. That's all that matters."

"If you say so." He returned my card with a look that said he didn't believe me for a second.

Outside, I nearly collided with Madame Fontaine.

"Alexandre Moreau," she said, hands on her hips. "I was beginning to think you'd left town again without saying goodbye."

"Just busy with the vineyard. "

"Too busy to come for coffee? Too busy to work with Hugo?" Her eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Don't lie to an old woman who's known you since you were in short pants." She grabbed my arm with surprising strength. "Come. Coffee. Now."

At Café de la Place, she ordered for both of us, then fixed me with a stare that made me feel eight years old again.

"Hugo looks like someone killed his dog," she said bluntly. "And you look worse. What foolishness have you done?"

"It's complicated."

"It's not." She stirred sugar into her coffee. "You're in love with him. You always have been. And you're terrified of it."

I stiffened. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. I watched Henri and Claude dance around each other for nearly fifty years. All that wasted time. And yes, I knew about it." She leaned forward. "Your father was wrong about you. About everything."

My coffee cup froze halfway to my lips. "What do you know about my father?"

"Enough. Henri told me things. That man poisoned your mind, made you believe you weren't worthy of love." She reached across the table, her weathered hand covering mine. "He was wrong."

Something cracked inside me. "It doesn't matter now. I've ruined everything with Hugo."

"So fix it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?" She shook her head. "Your grandfather would be disappointed."

That stung. "Henri never said anything about Hugo and me. I’m not even certain he knew—“

"Of course he knew! The entire village knew." She sighed. "Alexandre, don't repeat your grandfather's mistakes. He and Claude wasted decades hiding, stealing moments, pretending. Is that what you want?"

I stared into my coffee, throat tight. "What I want doesn't matter. The vineyard—"

"The vineyard!" She threw up her hands. "You think you can save it alone? VitaVine is circling like vultures. Hugo came in yesterday. That Rousseau man offered him more money."

My head snapped up. "What?"

"Trying to turn him against you, I think." She watched me carefully. "It won't work. That silly boy's been waiting fourteen years for you to come to your senses."

"He deserves better than me."

"Probably." She stood, patting my shoulder. "But he wants you. Question is, are you brave enough to want him back?"

I remained at the table long after she left, her words echoing in my mind, pressure building in my chest until I could barely breathe.

The phone rang as I felt myself spiralling, still trying to take in what Madame Fontaine had said. I welcomed the interruption, grateful for anything that might pull me away from the relentless thoughts of Hugo that had been plaguing me since our time together.

My mother's number. I answered eagerly—we spoke so rarely since I'd left home.

"Alexandre?" But it wasn't my mother's voice. It was him.

"Papa." My blood turned to ice. "Where's Maman?"

"Right here. Crying, actually. Seems she's been worrying about you." His voice carried that particular slur that meant he'd been drinking since early morning.

"Worried her little boy might not come home for Christmas again."

"I'll be there. Just like always. "

"With a girlfriend, I hope. Not that faggot from the neighbouring vineyard."

My grip tightened on the phone. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie to me, Alexandre. The village talks. Madame Fontaine mentioned seeing you two working together. Getting... close." The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

"It would break your mother's heart to know what you really are. Might break more than her heart, if you understand me."

I understood perfectly. The last time he'd "disciplined" my mother for my perceived failures, she'd worn long sleeves and hadn't ventured out of the house for weeks.

"There's nothing between Hugo and me."

"Good. Because if I hear otherwise, if I even suspect you're embarrassing this family with your perversions, your mother will pay the price. And you'll never see her again. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Papa."

The line went dead. My hands shook as I set down the phone.

I remained at the café long after the call ended, staring into my cold coffee. My phone buzzed with a text from Hugo—a single line about irrigation parts he'd ordered for Domaine Moreau that would arrive tomorrow. Professional. Distant. Nothing like the man who'd held me three nights ago.

I typed and deleted five different responses before settling on a simple "Thank you."

The bell above the café door jingled. I didn't look up until a shadow fell across my table and the scent of expensive cologne filled my nostrils.

"Monsieur Moreau." étienne Rousseau stood there in his impeccable suit, not a hair out of place despite the afternoon heat. "What a fortunate coincidence. "

I doubted there was anything coincidental about it. "Monsieur Rousseau."

"May I join you?" He didn't wait for an answer, sliding into the chair Madame Fontaine had vacated. He placed a leather portfolio on the table between us. "I was hoping we might continue our conversation."

"I believe we finished our conversation." I moved to stand.

"Before you go—" He opened the portfolio, revealing a stack of papers. "I've taken the liberty of preparing some documents I think you'll find illuminating."

Against my better judgment, I sank back into my chair.

"These are the current projections for Domaine Moreau's debt situation.

" He slid a spreadsheet across the table.

"As you can see, even with aggressive cost-cutting and assuming perfect weather conditions, you're looking at five years minimum before breaking even.

That's assuming the bank doesn't call in the loans sooner. "

The numbers swam before my eyes—interest calculations, maintenance costs, projected yields all carefully documented. The red figures at the bottom of each column grew larger with each passing month.

"And this—" he produced another document "—is the official notice from Crédit Agricole regarding your grandfather's outstanding loans. They've been quite patient, but patience has limits."

I recognized the bank's letterhead, the formal language requesting immediate attention to the "urgent matter" of Henri's delinquent payments.

"How did you get this?" I asked, my mouth dry.

Rousseau's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I have excellent relationships with the financial institutions in this region. They understand the realities of the wine business better than most."

He laid out more papers—equipment maintenance reports, soil analyses, yield projections—each more damning than the last. The comprehensive nature of the information was unsettling. He'd compiled a more thorough assessment of Domaine Moreau's situation than I had managed in two weeks.

"I've also taken the liberty of updating our offer." He presented a contract with VitaVine's logo emblazoned across the top. "Twenty percent above market value, plus immediate debt clearance. That's five percent more than my previous offer."

I glanced at the figure. It was substantial—enough to clear Henri's debts and leave me with a comfortable sum. Enough to return to Paris without financial worry, to start fresh somewhere else.

"And what happens to Domaine Moreau afterward?"