Page 22 of The Vines Between Us

"We would incorporate it into our Saint-émilion holdings. Modernize the production facilities, update the branding. The Moreau name would continue, of course, as a premium label in our portfolio."

"And the local workers my grandfather employed? The vines?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "We retain what's valuable. The rest is... optimized for profit and efficiency. Migrant labour is more affordable than the locals."

I thought of the ancient Merlot vines Henri had nurtured for decades, the equipment shed where he'd taught me to repair the tractor, the cellar where I'd first kissed Hugo. All of it erased, "optimized" into corporate efficiency.

"I'm not interested."

Rousseau's smile tightened. "You haven't even reviewed the full offer."

"I don't need to."

"Perhaps you should consider your position more carefully." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "The deadline for your grandfather's loan payment is approaching. Seventy-nine days, to be precise."

My stomach clenched. How did he know the exact timeline?

"The community has been supportive so far," he continued, "but sentiment can shift quickly. Equipment breaks down. Deliveries get delayed. Workers find other opportunities."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm describing realities." He closed his portfolio. "This region thrives on cooperation. Those who work with the natural flow of progress tend to fare better than those who resist it."

"The natural flow of progress," I repeated. "Is that what you call buying up family vineyards and turning them into corporate assets?"

"I call it survival." His eyes hardened. "The romantic notion of the family vineyard is charming but outdated. The market demands scale, consistency, marketing. Things that you cannot provide alone."

"We'll see about that."

"We? Ah yes, your partnership with Monsieur Tremblay." Rousseau smiled thinly. "I had a productive conversation with him yesterday. He seemed quite receptive to our offer for Domaine Tremblay. Particularly after learning about your... history of abandonment."

A cold wave washed through me. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing that wasn't true. Your corporate career in Paris. Your pattern of walking away when things get difficult." He stood, straightening his already perfect suit. "I simply suggested that history tends to repeat itself."

I rose to face him, hands clenched at my sides. "Stay away from Hugo."

"Business is business, Monsieur Moreau. Nothing personal." He extended a business card. "My offer remains open for seventy-two hours. After that, the premium drops to ten percent. Then five. Then market value only."

I didn't take the card.

"Think of your future," he said, placing it on the table. "Paris suits you. This—" he gestured vaguely at the village around us "—this is your past. Don't let nostalgia cloud your judgement."

I watched Rousseau's Bentley disappear around the corner, his business card still lying untouched on the café table.

The village seemed different now, shadowed by his threats.

I left a few euros for my untouched coffee and walked quickly through the square, desperate to escape the curious glances from locals who'd witnessed our conversation.

My feet carried me back toward Domaine Moreau without conscious thought.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, matching the heat of my anger.

How dare Rousseau approach Hugo? What lies had he told?

The thought of him poisoning Hugo against me—using my own past mistakes as ammunition—made my chest tight with panic.

I could call Hugo, explain myself... but what would I say? That I was sorry for running away? That I wouldn't do it again? Empty promises from a man with a history of abandonment.

The vineyard gate creaked as I pushed it open.

Henri's house stood silent and waiting, its stone walls holding centuries of secrets.

Inside, I paced the kitchen, too agitated to settle.

Rousseau's detailed knowledge of our financial situation troubled me deeply.

He'd known things even I hadn't discovered yet.

I needed distraction. Purpose. Something to quiet the chaos in my mind.

The letters from Claude to Henri were still scattered across the study where I had left them. I gathered them carefully, reading fragments as I worked. Their coded language made more sense now that I understood the nature of their relationship.

The Merlot harvest looks promising this year. I look forward to our usual tasting session on Thursday evening.

The new oak barrels arrived. Perhaps you might inspect them this weekend while Margot visits her sister?

Twenty-five years of friendship deserves special recognition. I've set aside something for the occasion.

I paused at this last note, dated 2006. Twenty-five years. The same year as the special bottle we'd found in the cellar. But there was something else—a postscript I hadn't noticed before .

The key remains in its usual place. I've made some improvements to our sanctuary.

Key? Sanctuary? I shuffled through more letters, finding similar references scattered throughout the decades.

Left something special in our place. The key is waiting.

Moved the '61 Latour to the sanctuary. For our anniversary.

The cellar. They must have had a private space somewhere in the vineyard. I hurried down the worn stone steps, lantern in hand. The main cellar was familiar territory—I'd explored every corner with Hugo when we were teenagers. But Henri and Claude had kept something hidden even from us.

I examined the walls carefully, running my fingers along the rough stone. Nothing seemed unusual. No hidden doors or secret passages. Just row after row of dusty bottles.

What had Claude meant about the key being in its usual place?

I returned to the study and spread the letters across Henri's desk. The earliest ones might hold the answer. I found a yellowed envelope from 1991, the paper fragile with age.

My dearest friend,

I've secured a space for our private tastings. The entrance is behind the third rack in the eastern corner. The key will always be waiting in Margot's rose garden, beneath the stone cherub.

Margot's rose garden. The overgrown beds I'd noticed upon my return.

I grabbed a flashlight and hurried outside, fighting through thorny branches to reach the weathered stone statue.

The small cherub stood guard over what had once been Henri's tribute to his wife—a garden of her favourite flowers, meticulously maintained during her lifetime.

I knelt in the dirt and felt around the base of the statue. My fingers brushed something metal. A small box, tarnished and dirt-encrusted, but intact. Inside lay an old iron key, heavy and ornate.

Back in the cellar, I counted the racks along the eastern wall. The third one was filled with dusty bottles of ordinary table wine—the kind no one would bother to steal or sample. I pushed against the rack, feeling foolish until it moved slightly, revealing a narrow gap behind.

The key fit perfectly into a lock concealed in the stone wall. The door swung open silently, revealing a narrow passage cut into the bedrock. I ducked my head and entered, my flashlight beam illuminating rough stone walls that opened into a larger chamber beyond.

"Mon Dieu," I whispered as the light revealed what lay inside.

The space was perhaps five meters square, carved from the limestone that formed the foundation of Saint-émilion. But unlike the utilitarian cellar outside, this room had been transformed into something intimate and personal.

Two comfortable leather armchairs faced each other beside a small wooden table.

A vintage record player sat on a shelf with dozens of vinyl albums stacked neatly beside it.

A cabinet built into the wall held what must have been their most treasured wines—bottles with handwritten labels denoting special years and occasions.

On the walls hung framed photographs, their edges yellowed with age.

Henri and Claude standing proudly beside their first joint harvest. The two men raising glasses on some unnamed hillside.

Their hands, weathered and work-worn, captured mid-gesture during what appeared to be an animated discussion about wine.

This was their sanctuary. The one place they could truly be themselves.

I moved deeper into the room, my flashlight catching on something tucked into the wine cabinet. A leather-bound album, different from the journal we'd found earlier. I pulled it free and settled into one of the armchairs, the leather cool and smooth beneath me.

The first photograph took my breath away. Henri and Claude, younger than I'd ever known them, standing close together in what appeared to be this very room. Claude's arm wrapped around Henri's waist, their faces turned toward each other with expressions of undisguised love.

I turned the page. The two men kissing beside a vineyard row, vines heavy with ripened grapes surrounding them. Another showed them dancing together in this secret room, the record player visible in the background. Henri laughing as Claude whispered something in his ear.

Page after page documented their relationship across five decades. Secret picnics in remote corners of their vineyards. Christmas celebrations held days before or after the actual holiday. Birthday cakes with candles glowing in the dim light of their underground haven.

They'd created a parallel life together, carved from stolen hours and private moments. Two men who loved each other during a time when such love was forbidden, yet who refused to abandon what they'd found together.

A photograph from the late 1990s showed them sitting side by side, grey beginning to streak their hair, hands clasped together on the table between them.

The intimacy in that simple gesture—hands that had spent decades working the same soil, tending the same vines, now intertwined in quiet companionship—brought tears to my eyes.

Henri had lived a double life, not from weakness but from a desperate attempt to protect everyone he loved—Margot, Claude, his daughter, me. And Claude had waited, patient and steadfast, for whatever moments Henri could give him.

The final pages showed them in their seventies, faces lined with age but eyes still bright when looking at each other.

Their last photograph together must have been taken shortly before Claude's illness—both men standing in the doorway of this secret room, arms around each other's shoulders, wine glasses raised in a toast to the camera.

I closed the album and sat in the silence, surrounded by evidence of a love that had endured despite every obstacle. They'd found happiness in moments stolen from time, creating their own private world beneath the vineyard they both cherished.

My grandfather hadn't been perfect. He'd lived a life of necessary deception. But what courage it must have taken to pursue this love across nearly fifty years, knowing discovery would mean losing everything—his reputation, his vineyard, perhaps even me.

And Claude had waited, decade after decade, for whatever moments Henri could spare. Never demanding more, never walking away despite the limitations of their relationship.

Their love had been real. Deep. Worth everything they'd sacrificed to protect it.

I thought of Hugo, of the hurt in his eyes when I'd walked away. Of Rousseau's smug certainty that I would abandon everything and return to Paris.

"Not this time," I whispered to the ghosts of Henri and Claude who seemed to linger in this sacred space. "I won't run away again."