Page 30 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Twenty-Two

ALEXANDRE

T he day after returning from Lyon, I led Hugo through the vineyard toward the eastern cellar entrance. Morning light spilled across the vines, catching in his auburn hair, now tied back in a loose knot at his neck.

"Are you finally going to tell me where we're going?" Hugo asked, following close behind me.

"Patience," I replied, pulling out the ornate key I now kept on my person at all times. "I promised to show you the secret room, remember?"

His eyes lit up with understanding as we descended the cool stone steps into the main cellar, where oak barrels lined the walls, some dating back to Henri's early days.

"This way." I guided him toward the hidden panel that concealed Henri and Claude's sanctuary. Since discovering it, I'd cleaned the space, replaced the old lamp bulbs, and prepared something special for today—a testament to love that persisted despite everything.

Inside, I'd set up a small table with two special bottles and crystal glasses .

"What's this about?" Hugo asked, running his fingers along the spines of the record albums stacked beside the vintage player.

"I found something in Henri's private collection." I lifted the first bottle. "1983 Domaine Moreau, the year they created their first joint vintage." Then the second. "And 1983 Domaine Tremblay, from the same harvest."

Hugo's eyes widened. "I thought they only made one blend."

"So did I. But it seems they made their individual wines first, then created the blend as something special." I carefully uncorked the first bottle, letting it breathe. "I thought we might taste them side by side, then create our own blend. A new Moreau-Tremblay vintage."

"Alexandre..." Hugo's voice caught. He moved closer, taking the bottle from my hands and setting it down. "This is perfect."

I pulled him close, breathing in the scent of vineyard soil and the lavender soap he favoured. "I want to honour what they built while creating something of our own."

We poured small measures of each wine, examining the color against the soft light. The Moreau was deeper, with hints of tobacco and black currant. The Tremblay was slightly lighter, more aromatic with notes of violet and plum.

"They're both beautiful," Hugo murmured, "but different."

"Like Claude and Henri." I swirled the wine in my glass. "Like us."

We experimented with different proportions, carefully blending small amounts, tasting and discussing. It became a dance of flavours, of memories, of possibilities.

"This one," Hugo said finally, after our fifth attempt. "Sixty percent Moreau, forty percent Tremblay. It's balanced."

I tasted it again, letting the complex flavours linger on my tongue. "Perfect."

We sat in the comfortable chairs where our grandfathers had once sat, sipping our creation. The room felt alive with history, with secrets whispered between lovers across decades.

"I've been thinking," I said, breaking the comfortable silence. " What if we created a new label? Not just for us, but for the Alliance. A special cuvée using the best grapes from all seven vineyards."

Hugo considered this. "A true community wine. Claude would have loved that idea."

"Henri too." I set my glass down. "VitaVine can't compete with what we're building here. Corporate efficiency will never match passion and heritage, the consumer prefers that always when given a choice."

Hugo's expression darkened slightly. "Speaking of VitaVine, Marcel mentioned something strange yesterday. The delivery truck with our new irrigation parts supposedly got lost. Ended up in Pomerol somehow."

"That's the third 'accident' this week." I frowned. "Jean-Marc's tractor battery mysteriously died, and Sophie's order of bottles was suddenly backordered."

"Rousseau's getting desperate." Hugo's hand found mine. "We're actually succeeding, and he can't stand it."

"Let him try." I squeezed his fingers. "We're stronger together."

Hugo set his glass down and moved to the record player, selecting an album and carefully placing the needle. The scratchy opening notes of Edith Piaf filled the small room. He turned to me, hand extended.

"Dance with me."

I took his hand, pulling him close as we swayed in the limited space. My grandfather had danced here with Claude, finding moments of joy in their hidden sanctuary. But we didn't need to hide.

"I love you," I whispered against his ear. "I think I've loved you since we were boys working these vines together, before I even knew what to call this feeling."

We danced for what felt like hours, losing ourselves in the music and each other's arms, before reluctantly agreeing we needed to return to work. We had a vineyard to save—two vineyards, in fact—and an alliance to build.

Back in Henri's study—now my study—I watched Hugo hunched over the massive oak table, reviewing the bylaws I'd drafted for the Alliance. Afternoon light now replaced the morning's glow, still catching in his hair as he worked.

"Stop staring and bring those financial projections over," Hugo said without looking up. "Jean-Marc wants the final version before noon tomorrow."

I laughed. "How did you know I was here?"

"I always know when you're near." He finally looked up, eyes crinkling. "It's like the air changes."

I crossed the room and laid the folder beside him. "Five signatures. Marcel, Gérard, Sophie, Jean-Marc, and Madame Fontaine. Plus us, that makes seven vineyards officially committed."

Hugo flipped through the document, running his finger along the carefully crafted legal language I'd spent three days perfecting.

"You've really done it." He shook his head in disbelief. "This actually looks legitimate."

"It is legitimate. Bertrand says it's legally binding. VitaVine can't touch us if we stick together."

The Small Producers Alliance had gone from desperate improvisation to reality faster than either of us had expected.

After that first meeting, word had spread through the village.

Vineyard owners who'd been approached by VitaVine began calling, asking if they could join.

Within two weeks, we'd drafted real bylaws, established a rotating equipment schedule, and created a communal fund for repairs and emergency assistance.

"The tractor should be back this afternoon," Hugo said, making a note on his schedule. "Marcel's nephew finished the repairs yesterday."

That ancient Massey Ferguson had been the first test of our alliance. When it broke down three days after we'd officially formed, we'd pooled resources to repair it instead of each vineyard struggling alone.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Marcel would let someone else drive his tractor," I said, pouring coffee into two cups from the thermos I'd brought. "Much less lend it to Sophie."

"People surprise you when given the chance." Hugo accepted the cup, his fingers brushing mine. "Some people, anyway."

He turned back to the financial projections I'd prepared, brow furrowing as he studied the spreadsheets.

"Wait," Hugo said, studying my financial projections. "If we structure the alliance as a cooperative rather than a corporation, the tax implications are completely different?"

I looked up, surprised. "You've been researching business structures?"

"Jean-Marc lent me some books. And I've been talking to Marie at the credit union—she knows more about agricultural finance than I gave her credit for." Hugo pointed to a line on my spreadsheet. "But this depreciation schedule doesn't account for vine age and productivity curves."

He was right. I'd been thinking in terms of corporate assets, not agricultural realities.

"Teach me," I said.

We spent the next three hours combining his agricultural expertise with my business knowledge, creating something neither of us could have built alone.

Hugo explained how vines produced differently as they aged—how a twenty-year-old vine yielded less but more concentrated fruit than a ten-year-old one, how to calculate the real value of a hectare beyond simple market rates.

I showed him how to structure financing to protect the members, how to leverage collective bargaining for better prices on supplies, how legal entities could shield individual vineyards from liability.

"This is brilliant," I said, looking at our revised model. "A cooperative structure means we qualify for agricultural subsidies that corporations can't access. "

Hugo nodded, leaning back in his chair. "And the rotating equipment schedule you designed saves each vineyard nearly thirty percent on maintenance costs."

The warmth in his eyes made my chest tighten.

With my father's funeral behind us, it felt as though the last barrier between us had finally crumbled.

I felt truly free for the first time—free to work beside Hugo during the day, to share meals without looking over my shoulder, to retreat to his cottage or mine each night without fear.

The alliance had given us purpose, but it was more than that.

We were building something together, something that honored Henri and Claude while creating our own legacy.

"We make a good team," I said softly.

"We always did." Hugo reached across the table to take my hand. "We just needed time to remember."

That evening, we walked through the connected vineyards that now felt like one continuous property. The stone wall still stood, but we'd cleared a proper path between the gaps, making it easier to move between domaines.

"Your Merlot is looking stronger," Hugo observed as we passed through a section we'd aggressively pruned. "The new shoots are healthy."

"Our Merlot," I corrected. Though we maintained separate ownership on paper, in practice, we'd begun to think of both vineyards as shared.