Page 3 of The Vines Between Us

"Yes, Henri mentioned your important position in Paris." His tone made "important" sound like "frivolous." "He was very proud of your success."

I swallowed hard. "Let's discuss the vineyard's situation."

Bertrand nodded, reaching for a thick folder. "I'll be direct, Alexandre. As you are already aware, the financial situation is dire."

He spread documents across the desk—bank notices, tax assessments, loan agreements. Red stamps and urgent warnings decorated most of them.

"Henri took out a substantial loan three years ago to modernize the winery equipment. Then came two consecutive poor harvests due to late frosts. He fell behind on payments."

"Why didn't he tell me?" The question escaped before I could stop it .

Bertrand's eyebrows rose. "Did you ask? You knew Henri, he was proud."

I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. No, I hadn't asked. Our brief phone conversations had been surface-level exchanges—weather reports, perfunctory birthday wishes, hollow promises to visit.

"The bank has been patient out of respect for Henri and the Moreau name," Bertrand continued. "But with his passing, they've called in the loan. You have exactly ninety days before they foreclose or you come to new terms with them or another lender."

"How much are we talking about?"

Bertrand slid a paper toward me. I stared at the figure, certain I'd misread it.

"That can't be right."

"I'm afraid it is. There's the original loan, plus interest, plus property taxes in arrears, plus estate transfer fees, plus—"

"I get it." I ran a hand through my hair, mental calculations spinning. The sum represented more than my entire life's savings. "What about the wine? Surely the inventory—"

"Minimal. Henri sold most of the reserve stock to keep operations going these past two years. What remains would cover perhaps a tenth of what's owed."

"And this year's harvest?"

Bertrand's expression softened with pity. "Alexandre, have you seen the vineyard? There will be no substantial harvest this year. The vines have been neglected for months. Even before Henri fell ill, he couldn't manage the work alone."

"Staff?"

"Let go, one by one, as funds dwindled. The last worker left six months ago."

I leaned back, the reality crushing down on me. "So I have ninety days to either pay off a massive debt or lose everything my grandfather spent his entire life building."

"Essentially, yes." Bertrand hesitated. "There is another option. Several buyers have expressed interest in the property. The land alone—"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended.

"Alexandre, be reasonable. You have a life in Paris. The vineyard requires expertise, dedication—"

"I grew up in those vineyards. I know viticulture."

"Knowledge from childhood summers is hardly sufficient for—"

"What would the property sell for?" I interrupted.

Bertrand named a figure that made my breath catch. Substantially more than the debt, enough to walk away with a comfortable sum.

"And if I wanted to save it? What would it take?"

He sighed, reaching for another folder. "Beyond clearing the debt?

Complete renovation of the winery equipment.

Rehabilitation of the vines—those that can be saved.

Hiring staff. Operating costs until you could produce sellable wine.

" He slid over a roughly calculated budget.

"At minimum, this much. And that's assuming you do much of the work yourself. "

The total was staggering. Far beyond my means, even if I liquidated every asset I owned.

"I need to think," I said, gathering the papers.

"Of course." Bertrand's voice gentled. "But Alexandre, think practically. Sometimes letting go is the wisest choice. Henri wouldn't have wanted you to be burdened with this."

Outside, I paused on the narrow street, papers clutched to my chest, mind racing. Selling was the obvious solution. The rational choice. I could clear Henri's debts, pocket a substantial sum, return to my life in Paris, and never look back.

When I left Paris I'd intended to sell the property, to go back to my neat and ordered life. Yet now after hearing the words from Bertrand's mouth, I couldn't help but feel the visceral reaction within me at the mere thought. So why did the thought feel like betrayal?

I walked through Saint-émilion, barely seeing the ancient streets, the stone buildings, the tourists photographing the medieval church. My feet carried me to a small café tucked away from the main square—a place where Henri and I used to stop for coffee after market days.

"Un café, s'il vous pla?t," I told the server, claiming a table in the corner.

I spread the papers before me, forcing myself to look at the numbers dispassionately. As if this were any other business decision. As if my heart weren't tangled in every figure.

The coffee arrived, and I sipped it mechanically while staring at Bertrand's projections.

Even if I somehow managed to clear the debt, the cost of rehabilitation was prohibitive.

I'd need investors, partners, a capital infusion, and all in such a short period of time that I would have said it was impossible if asked.