Page 36 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Twenty-Six

HUGO

I stood at the edge of the northeast corner of Domaine Tremblay, watching as Professor Renaud and his team from the Agricultural Institute of Montpellier carefully examined the experimental vines.

The morning sun caught in the dew-laden leaves, turning them into a thousand glittering prisms. For thirty years, these vines had grown here, patiently waiting to be discovered.

For thirty years, I had walked past them, never knowing their significance.

"Remarkable," Professor Renaud murmured, his magnifying glass hovering over a cluster of small, tight berries. "The resistance to mildew is evident even to the naked eye. And you say they've never been treated with fungicides?"

"Not according to the records," I replied, handing him Claude and Henri's meticulous documentation. "They wanted to develop varieties that could withstand changing climate conditions without chemical intervention."

"Visionaries," the professor said, shaking his head in admiration. "Absolute visionaries. They were thinking about climate adaptation decades before it became fashionable in viticulture. "

Alexandre approached from the direction of the manor house, his long strides eating up the distance between us.

Even after these weeks together, my heart still quickened at the sight of him.

He carried a tray with coffee and pastries, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms tanned from our recent work in the vineyards.

"The journalist from Decanter just arrived," he announced, setting the tray on a weathered stone table near the vines. "That makes three this week."

"And the EU heritage committee?" I asked, accepting a cup of coffee from him, our fingers brushing in a way that still felt electric.

"Scheduled for tomorrow. Madame Fontaine is arranging accommodations for them at the inn." Alexandre smiled at Professor Renaud. "Any preliminary findings to share?"

The professor straightened, adjusting his glasses with soil-stained fingers.

"These vines represent a significant advancement in sustainable viticulture.

The cross-breeding techniques your grandfathers employed were decades ahead of their time.

I believe they've created something that could revolutionize wine production in regions struggling with climate volatility. "

One of his assistants called him over to examine another section, and Alexandre took the opportunity to step closer to me, his shoulder pressing against mine.

"It's really happening," he said quietly. "Everything's changing so fast."

I nodded, still trying to process the whirlwind of the past week.

After the appraisers had confirmed the value of the wine collection, we'd approached the bank with our findings.

The manager's expression had shifted from skeptical to astonished as he reviewed the documentation.

By the following day, our loans had been restructured, with more favourable terms based on the newly discovered assets.

But it was the experimental vines that had truly captured people's attention.

Once word leaked about Henri and Claude's decades-long viticultural research project, the quiet village of Saint-émilion had suddenly found itself hosting a parade of wine journalists, agricultural researchers, and heritage preservation specialists.

"I keep expecting to wake up," I admitted, watching the researchers move methodically through the vines. "A month ago, we were facing foreclosure. Now we're fielding calls from Jancis Robinson and the EU Agricultural Commission."

Alexandre laughed, the sound warming me more than the coffee. "Claude and Henri certainly knew how to make an entrance, even from beyond the grave."

A familiar truck rumbled up the dirt road toward us, and I recognized Jean-Marc's faded blue Peugeot pickup. He parked beside the researchers' vehicles and climbed out, his expression a mixture of sheepishness and determination.

"Bonjour," he called, approaching with a crate of bottles in his arms. "I brought some of my father's older vintages for the tasting this afternoon."

Alexandre and I exchanged glances. Jean-Marc had been among the first to waver when VitaVine increased their offers, citing his daughter's medical needs. He'd formally withdrawn from the Alliance just days before our discovery, though he hadn't yet signed with VitaVine.

"Merci," I said, accepting the crate. "We're setting up in the main cellar at Domaine Moreau."

Jean-Marc shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted to speak with you both, actually. About rejoining the Alliance."

Alexandre's expression remained neutral. "I thought you'd decided VitaVine offered better security for your family."

"I was wrong," Jean-Marc said simply. "When I heard what you'd discovered—not just the wine collection, but what Claude and Henri were trying to create here—I realized I was about to throw away something irreplaceable.

" He looked down at his weathered hands.

"My grandfather would never have forgiven me. "

I felt Alexandre tense beside me, but when he spoke, his voice was measured. "The Alliance was created to preserve our independence and our traditions. If that's what you want too, the door remains open."

Jean-Marc's relief was palpable. "The Cloutiers are reconsidering as well. And Marcel says three others who'd accepted VitaVine's preliminary offers are looking for ways to back out."

"The tide is turning," I murmured, more to Alexandre than to Jean-Marc.

"VitaVine miscalculated," Alexandre replied. "They thought we were just small producers struggling to survive. They didn't understand we're custodians of something much larger than ourselves."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity.

While the researchers continued their examination of the vines, Alexandre and I shuttled between meetings with journalists, bank representatives, and Alliance members.

By late afternoon, we'd convened in the grand cellar of Domaine Moreau for a tasting that included wines from both our estates as well as contributions from other local vignerons.

The cellar hummed with conversation as people moved between tables, sampling wines and exchanging stories.

I stood near the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed by the scene.

Just weeks ago, this space had been empty and neglected, a symbol of Henri's decline and Alexandre's absence.

Now it pulsed with life and possibility.

"Quite the transformation," said a voice beside me, and I turned to find Madame Fontaine, elegant as always in her tailored jacket.

"In more ways than one," I agreed.

She nodded toward Alexandre, who was deep in conversation with a journalist from Wine Spectator, gesturing animatedly as he explained the specifics of the experimental varietals. "He's found his place at last. As have you."

"We both have," I said, unable to keep the contentment from my voice.

"Claude and Henri would be proud." She patted my arm. "Though not surprised, I think. They always believed in the two of you, even when you couldn't see the way forward yourselves."

Before I could respond, there was a commotion at the cellar entrance. étienne Rousseau stood framed in the doorway, his expensive suit incongruous among the casual attire of the vignerons and researchers. The conversations around us dimmed as people noticed his arrival.

Alexandre excused himself from the journalist and made his way to my side, his posture straight and confident as he faced Rousseau.

"This is a private event," Alexandre said coolly.

Rousseau affected an expression of hurt surprise. "And here I thought the Saint-émilion wine community prided itself on hospitality. I merely came to offer my congratulations on your... fortuitous discovery."

"Your congratulations aren't necessary," I replied. "Neither is your presence."

Rousseau's smile tightened. "I understand several of our potential partners are reconsidering their options. I thought it might be helpful to remind everyone that VitaVine's offers remain on the table—though perhaps not indefinitely."

"Your threats don't work here anymore," Alexandre said, his voice carrying in the now-silent cellar. "We know what we have, and we know what we're worth."

"What you have," Rousseau countered, "is a collection of old wine and untested grape varieties. VitaVine offers certainty in an uncertain market."

"What we have," I said, stepping forward, "is five centuries of winemaking tradition, a community that stands together, and innovations that will carry us into the next century. What exactly are you offering that compares?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled vignerons. Jean-Marc moved to stand beside us, followed by Marcel and several others. Even the researchers had paused their discussions to watch the confrontation.

Rousseau glanced around the room, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. His confident demeanor faltered slightly.

"VitaVine has resources you can't match," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Perhaps," Alexandre acknowledged. "But we have something you can't buy: a connection to this land that goes back generations. Our grandfathers understood that some things are worth more than money—they're worth protecting for the future."

"Sentiment won't save you in a global market," Rousseau scoffed.

Professor Renaud cleared his throat. "Actually, Monsieur Rousseau, you're quite mistaken.

The preliminary data on these experimental varieties suggests they may represent a significant advancement in climate-resistant viticulture.

The EU Agricultural Commission is already expressing interest in funding further research and implementation across the region. "

"And the historical significance of the discovery has fast-tracked our application for heritage protection status," Madame Fontaine added. "The entire appellation stands to benefit."

I watched Rousseau's face as he calculated this new information, reassessing his position. VitaVine had based its strategy on our vulnerability—our debts, our isolation, our lack of resources. Now, with the Alliance strengthening and external support pouring in, that vulnerability had vanished.

"VitaVine always seeks productive partnerships," he said smoothly, attempting to salvage the situation. "Perhaps we could discuss a collaborative approach—"

"I think we've had enough of your boxed wine kind of collaboration," Alexandre interrupted. "The door is behind you."

For a moment, I thought Rousseau might argue further, but a glance around the room seemed to convince him of the futility. With a stiff nod, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing on the stone stairs.

A collective exhale seemed to pass through the cellar, followed by a resumption of conversation, louder and more animated than before. Alexandre turned to me, his eyes bright with triumph and something deeper.

"We did it," he said quietly.

"We're doing it," I corrected, unable to stop myself from reaching for his hand, public setting be damned.

Later that evening, after the last guests had departed and we'd cleaned up the tasting area, Alexandre and I sat on the terrace of Domaine Moreau, watching the sunset paint the vineyards in gold and amber. A bottle of our experimental blend—half Moreau, half Tremblay—sat between us, nearly empty.

"The EU heritage committee arrives tomorrow," Alexandre mused, swirling the last of his wine. "And the agricultural grant specialists the day after. We should prepare a formal presentation about the vines."

"Already working on it," I replied. "Professor Renaud is helping with the technical aspects."

Alexandre nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Jean-Marc mentioned that three more vineyards want to join the Alliance now. We'll need to revise the bylaws to accommodate growth."

"And establish clear criteria for membership," I added. "Quality standards, sustainability commitments."

We continued like this, trading ideas and plans, finishing each other's thoughts with an ease that still amazed me.

Working alongside Alexandre these past weeks had revealed a synchronicity between us that went beyond our personal connection.

We complemented each other perfectly—his strategic vision balancing my practical focus, my patience tempering his intensity.

"We should get some rest," Alexandre said eventually, as the last light faded from the sky. "Tomorrow will be another long day. "

But neither of us moved. The night was too perfect, the moment too precious to end.

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn't come back?" I asked suddenly.

Alexandre was quiet for a long moment. "I try not to," he admitted finally. "The thought of never finding what was waiting here—the secret room, the wines, the vines." He reached across the table and took my hand. "You."

"Claude used to say that some vines need to be stressed to produce their best fruit," I said. "That too much comfort makes for mediocre wine."

Alexandre laughed softly. "Are you saying our fourteen years apart were just the right amount of stress?"

"I'm saying that maybe we needed that time to become who we are now. To be ready for this." I gestured broadly, encompassing not just the vineyards spread before us, but everything we'd built and discovered together.

"Well, I've had enough stress to last a lifetime," Alexandre declared. "I'm ready for a different kind of challenge now."

"Such as?"

He smiled, his face softened by the gathering darkness. "Learning how to be happy. Learning how to stay."

The simple declaration moved me more than any grand romantic gesture could have. From Alexandre, who had spent his life running from vulnerability, these words represented a profound transformation.

"I think you're getting the hang of it already," I said, my voice a little unsteady.

We sat in companionable silence as stars appeared overhead, each lost in our own thoughts yet perfectly attuned to each other's presence.

Tomorrow would bring more activity, more decisions, more steps toward securing the future of our vineyards and our community.

But tonight, in this peaceful moment between what had been and what would be, there was only gratitude.

For Henri and Claude, who had loved each other enough to plan decades ahead. For the twist of fate that had brought Alexandre back to Saint-émilion. For second chances, and third ones. For the knowledge that some things, once properly rooted, can withstand any storm.

And for the certainty that whatever challenges awaited us, we would face them as they had—together, drawing strength from each other, creating something that would outlast us both.