Page 5 of The Vines Between Us

I spent the evening in Claude's study, reviewing the dismal financial records. The bank had given me nine months after Claude's death before they'd start foreclosure proceedings—a courtesy extended because of the Tremblay name and history in the region. That grace period was nearly up.

I closed the ledger and leaned back in Claude's chair, surrounded by the books and mementos of his life.

His collection of antique corkscrews. The framed photograph of him holding me as a child, both of us grinning at the camera.

The shelf of journals where he'd recorded decades of vineyard observations.

On the wall hung the only photograph I had of my parents—their wedding day, my father in a dark suit, my mother radiant in white. Unlike the grief I felt for Claude—raw and overwhelming—my parents' absence was a different kind of ache, the phantom pain of something I couldn't fully remember having.

"What would you do, Claude?" I asked the empty room.

The phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. An unfamiliar number.

"All??"

"Hugo Tremblay?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional.

"Yes?"

"This is Camille Laurent from Crédit Agricole. I'm calling about your loan application."

My grip tightened on the phone. The expansion loan I'd applied for weeks ago—my last desperate attempt to secure enough capital to modernize the irrigation system and maybe, just maybe, keep the vineyard afloat.

"Yes, of course."

"I'm afraid the committee has reviewed your application and decided not to proceed at this time. Given the current financial situation of Domaine Tremblay and the outstanding debts, we don't feel—"

"I understand." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Thank you for letting me know."

I set the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter like my hopes. That was it, then. The last avenue closed. Unless a miracle appeared in the next few months, I would lose everything Claude had built.

Sleep eluded me that night. I tossed in the bed that had been mine since childhood, mind racing between financial calculations and unwanted memories of Alexandre. Around three in the morning, I gave up and wandered onto the terrace with a glass of Claude's prized 2010 Merlot.

In the moonlight, I could just make out the silhouette of Domaine Moreau's main house. A light burned in what I knew to be Henri's study. Alexandre, awake at this hour too. What was he thinking about? The inheritance he'd never wanted? The years he'd spent away? Me?

"Doesn't matter," I told myself firmly. "He made his choice long ago."

I understood abandonment intimately—first by death, then by choice when Alexandre left. What I couldn't fathom was choosing to stay away from someone you loved. My parents hadn't chosen to leave me. And Claude had chosen me every day until cancer took him away.

Yet as dawn broke over the vineyards, painting the landscape in gold and rose, I found myself walking the boundary road, pruning shears in hand as if I had legitimate business near Domaine Moreau. Just a neighbour checking his fence line. Nothing more.

I hadn't intended to cross onto Henri's property, but my feet carried me there anyway. The vines were in terrible condition—worse than I'd realized from a distance. Unpruned, undernourished, desperately in need of attention. Henri had truly given up in his final months.

Standing at the boundary between our properties, I stared at Domaine Moreau's main house. Was he in there now? The prodigal grandson returned after fourteen years? I'd heard rumours, whispers in the village, but hadn't caught a glimpse of him yet.

I turned back toward Domaine Tremblay, my mind made up. I needed supplies anyway—might as well walk into the village. And if I happened to run into Alexandre Moreau while I was there... well, that would be mere coincidence.

By mid-morning, I had showered and changed into my least-stained shirt. "You're being ridiculous," I muttered to my reflection as I tied back my hair. "He probably won't even recognize you."

The walk into Saint-émilion gave me enough time to rehearse a dozen different scenarios. Casual indifference: Oh, you're back? I hadn't noticed. Cold fury: Fourteen years without a word, Alexandre. Manufactured nonchalance: How's Paris treating you these days?

None of them felt right.

I entered the market square, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The village was busy with its usual Tuesday rhythm—locals shopping, a few early-season tourists wandering the cobblestone streets.

I made a show of examining produce at Marcel's stall while scanning the square from behind my sunglasses.

"Looking for someone?" Marcel asked with a knowing smile.

"Just checking what's fresh," I lied, selecting a bundle of herbs I didn't need .

"If you're looking for Henri's grandson, he was at Madame Fontaine's café earlier."

My cheeks warmed. "I wasn't—"

"Of course not," Marcel winked.

I paid for the herbs, my embarrassment complete. Was I that transparent? Apparently so.

With my canvas bag slung over my shoulder, I meandered through the market, pretending to shop while acutely aware I was hunting for a glimpse of Alexandre.

This was pathetic. I was thirty-two years old, not the lovesick teenager who'd waited by the stone wall every day of summer, counting the hours until Alexandre would appear.

I had nearly given up when Madame Fontaine waved me over to her café.

"Hugo! I was just telling Alexandre about you," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

My stomach dropped. "Alexandre is here?"

"Just left, dear. Headed back towards the domaine with his groceries." She leaned closer. "He asked about you, you know. In that careful way people ask when they're trying not to seem interested."

Hope fluttered in my chest before I ruthlessly crushed it. "Did he."

"You might catch him if you hurry," she suggested, not even attempting subtlety. "He was walking, and with those heavy bags..."

I hesitated only a moment before nodding my thanks. My feet carried me swiftly through the village, toward the road that led to our vineyards. I slowed as I spotted a figure ahead—broad shoulders, dark hair, expensive clothes that marked him as an outsider despite his local roots.

Alexandre.