Page 24 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Eighteen

ALEXANDRE

T he Saint-émilion village meeting hall hadn't changed since my childhood—the same worn wooden floors, the same dusty chandeliers, the same faded mural of grape harvesters along the back wall.

The only difference was the sleek digital projector now mounted to the ceiling, an incongruous bit of modernity in a room otherwise frozen in time.

I stood near the back, watching villagers file in.

Marcel from the hardware store nodded curtly as he passed.

The Pelletier sisters, both well into their eighties, clutched each other's arms as they shuffled to seats in the front row.

Jean-Marc, whose family had been making barrels for five generations, took a spot by the window.

"Quite the turnout," Hugo murmured, appearing at my elbow.

I startled slightly. We'd spent the past three days working side by side on our vineyards, but his sudden proximity still unsettled me. "Everyone's curious about VitaVine's plans."

"Or worried." Hugo's gaze swept the room. "Did you see the posters they put up? 'Saint-émilion's Exciting Future.' As if our past and present aren't worth preserving."

Before I could respond, Madame Fontaine bustled over, her grey curls bouncing with each determined step. "You two. Front row. Now."

"We're fine here," I protested.

She fixed me with a look that had probably cowed schoolchildren for decades.

"This isn't about where you're comfortable, Alexandre.

It's about what this village sees when VitaVine presents their so-called vision.

They need to see the faces of real vignerons who've tended these soils for generations. "

"My grandfather did. I've been gone—"

"You're here now," she cut me off. "And you're Henri's grandson. That matters." Her expression softened fractionally. "Besides, you've been working those vines like a man possessed these past two weeks. Everyone's noticed."

Hugo nodded. "She's right. We should sit where people can see us."

I reluctantly followed them to the front row. As we settled in, étienne Rousseau strode through the main doors, flanked by two assistants carrying presentation materials. He spotted us immediately, his smooth smile faltering for just a moment before recovering.

"Moreau. Tremblay." He nodded as if we were all old friends. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Hugo replied, his voice deceptively pleasant.

Mayor Beaumont called the meeting to order, his round face flushed with importance. "Citizens of Saint-émilion, we've gathered to hear a presentation from VitaVine Corporation regarding their proposed investment in our community. Monsieur Rousseau, the floor is yours."

Rousseau moved to the front with practiced ease, his tailored suit and polished shoes marking him as an outsider in this room of weathered hands and practical clothing. His assistants distributed glossy brochures while he connected his laptop to the projector.

"Friends," he began, though we were anything but, "I'm delighted to share VitaVine's vision for the future of Saint-émilion viticulture."

The lights dimmed, and his first slide appeared—an aerial view of our village, but altered. The patchwork of small vineyards had been consolidated into uniform blocks. New buildings dotted the landscape—a large processing facility, modern visitor centers, parking lots.

"For centuries, this region has produced extraordinary wines," Rousseau continued. "But the world is changing. Markets are more competitive. Climate challenges are increasing. Small producers are struggling to keep up."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. He wasn't wrong about the struggles, and he knew it.

"VitaVine proposes a comprehensive development plan that preserves the heritage of Saint-émilion while bringing much-needed modernization and economic security."

The next slides showcased state-of-the-art equipment, sleek tasting rooms, and graphs projecting increased tourism and revenue. The presentation was polished, professional—and utterly soulless.

"Our investment will create at least forty new jobs," Rousseau continued, "with competitive salaries and benefits. We'll implement sustainable farming practices at scale. And most importantly, we'll ensure Saint-émilion wines maintain their global prominence for generations to come."

I felt Hugo tense beside me. His knuckles had gone white where he gripped his knees.

"We understand change can be concerning," Rousseau's voice softened with practiced empathy.

"That's why we're committed to honouring the names and legacies of the domaines we acquire.

Bottles will still bear your family names, your stories will feature in our marketing materials, and former owners will receive generous consultation fees. "

The final slide showed a smiling family—clearly models—standing in a vineyard with the VitaVine logo superimposed over a sunset. "The choice is simple: struggle alone against mounting challenges, or join forces with VitaVine for a prosperous future."

Applause scattered through the room—tentative from some, enthusiastic from others. I noticed the younger Benoit, whose family vineyard had been struggling since his father's death, nodding along. Even Jean-Marc looked thoughtful.

"Questions?" Mayor Beaumont asked.

Several hands shot up. Rousseau fielded them smoothly, his answers rehearsed but effective. Yes, they would prioritize hiring locally. Yes, they would maintain AOC standards. No, they wouldn't dramatically change grape varieties. Each response calmed another concern, built another bridge of trust.

"What about traditional methods?" Madame Pelletier asked, her voice quavering with age. "My great-grandfather taught my grandfather who taught my father who taught me. Will all that knowledge just disappear?"

Rousseau smiled indulgently. "We value traditional knowledge, Madame. But we must also embrace modern efficiency. Perhaps we could record your techniques for our corporate archives?"

The dismissiveness beneath his polite words made my jaw clench. I raised my hand.

"Ah, Monsieur Moreau," Rousseau acknowledged me with a thin smile. "A question from our most... resistant vineyard owner."

"Not a question. A rebuttal." I stood, feeling every eye in the room turn to me. Public speaking had never been my strength, but anger gave me focus. "VitaVine doesn't want to preserve Saint-émilion's heritage. They want to package and sell a sanitized version of it. "

Rousseau's smile didn't waver. "Strong words from someone who abandoned his family vineyard for fourteen years."

The barb hit its mark. I faltered, shame heating my face.

Then Hugo stood beside me. "I didn't abandon mine. And I agree with Alexandre."

His shoulder brushed against mine—a small gesture of solidarity that steadied me.

"VitaVine isn't offering partnership," I continued. "They're offering assimilation. Once they own our land, our names become nothing but marketing tools. Our methods become quaint stories for tourists while machines do the real work."

Rousseau sighed theatrically. "Romantic notions won't pay your debts, Moreau. Or yours, Tremblay."

"Maybe not," Hugo replied. "But we have an alternative vision to present. May we, Mayor Beaumont?"

The mayor hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes."

Alternative vision? I shot Hugo a questioning glance, but he was already turning to address the crowd. I had no choice but to follow his lead, though I had no idea what "vision" he was referring to.

Hugo turned to the crowd. "We all know the challenges facing small vineyards. Rising costs. Changing climate. Competitive markets. VitaVine's solution is consolidation—one corporation controlling everything."

I suddenly understood what Hugo was doing—creating opposition without an actual plan. Years of corporate presentations and thinking on my feet kicked in. If there was one thing business school had prepared me for, it was spinning compelling narratives from thin air.

"Our solution," I added, stepping forward with newfound confidence, "is cooperation. Not corporate takeover."

I hadn't planned to speak, had no slides or brochures. But standing beside Hugo, facing our neighbours, words came naturally—the kind of business-school rhetoric I'd used in countless presentations .

"Domaine Moreau and Domaine Tremblay are combining resources while maintaining separate identities. Shared equipment. Coordinated harvest schedules. Joint marketing."

I caught Hugo's momentary surprised glance before he smoothly picked up the thread.

"But that's just the beginning," he continued, as if we'd rehearsed this.

"We're proposing a Saint-émilion Small Producers Alliance.

A formal cooperative that preserves individual ownership while creating collective strength. "

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—interest, skepticism, curiosity. Hugo and I exchanged a quick look, a silent agreement to keep building this vision we were creating on the spot.

"Imagine," I said, drawing on every business model I'd ever studied, "shared access to equipment too expensive for any single vineyard. Collective bargaining with suppliers. A unified marketing presence that still celebrates each domaine's unique character."

"Pooled knowledge," Hugo added without missing a beat. "The Pelletier sisters' traditional pruning techniques preserved and shared. Marcel's father's old method for handling early frosts. My grandfather Claude's approach to sustainable pest management."

I noticed Madame Pelletier nodding vigorously, her sister clutching her arm in excitement.

"Our grandfathers understood this," I continued, thinking of Henri and Claude's hidden partnership. "They helped each other through hard times while maintaining their individual legacies. We can formalize what they did informally."

Rousseau cleared his throat. "A charming fantasy. But without significant capital investment—"