Page 6 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Four

ALEXANDRE

I finished my coffee, staring at the numbers until they blurred together.

The café had filled with locals, their curious glances burning into my back.

I could almost hear their whispers: Henri's grandson has returned.

The prodigal grandson who abandoned the vineyard for fourteen years.

The boy who barely even came back for his own grandfather's funeral.

I paid and gathered the papers, desperate to escape the weight of their judgement.

Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the cobblestones.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since the train.

More pressingly, I realized there would be no food at Domaine Moreau.

Henri's kitchen would be as empty as the bare wine cellars.

The village market sprawled along the narrow street, stalls overflowing with local produce.

I grabbed a basket and moved mechanically through the displays, selecting bread, cheese, some cured meats.

Enough to get by for a few days. The vendors' faces registered recognition as I approached, their expressions shifting from polite customer service to something more complicated .

"Moreau?" A weathered man selling vegetables squinted at me. "You're Henri's girl's son, aren't you?"

"Yes, Alexandre Moreau."

His face softened. "Your grandfather was a good man. We all miss him."

I nodded, throat suddenly tight. "Thank you."

"Take these." He added a bundle of herbs to my purchase. "On the house. Henri always said rosemary was the secret to a proper coq au vin."

At the cheese stall, a similar exchange. At the butcher's. At the wine merchant's, where I purchased two bottles of local red that weren't Moreau vintages—a small betrayal that stung more than it should have.

"Alexandre Moreau!"

I turned to find Madame Fontaine, the café owner, hurrying toward me. She'd aged since I'd last seen her—her dark hair now streaked with silver, new lines around her eyes—but her smile remained the same.

"Madame Fontaine." I managed a smile as she clasped my hands in hers.

"We've all been wondering when you'd come. Such a tragedy about Henri." Her eyes welled. "He spoke of you often, you know. So proud of your success in Paris."

The guilt twisted deeper. "I should have visited more."

"Life gets complicated, Henri knew as much." She squeezed my hands. "You're here now. That's what matters."

I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just here to settle the estate."

"Of course, of course." Her eyes held mine a moment too long. "Have you seen Hugo yet?"

The name hit like a physical blow. "No."

"Poor boy. He's been struggling alone these past months.

First his grandfather Claude's death, then Henri's.

The vineyard next door is practically in ruins.

" She lowered her voice. "They say he might lose it.

Been trying to manage the property—impossible task for one person, especially with Claude's debts. "

My chest tightened. "Hugo's grandfather died too?"

"Six months ago. Henri took it hard—they were such dear friends." She tilted her head. "You didn't know?"

I shook my head, another failure to add to my growing list. I hadn't known Claude had died. Hadn't known Hugo was struggling. Hadn't known anything about the lives of people who had once meant everything to me.

"Hugo's at the edge of ruin, just like you," she continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. "Such a shame to see both vineyards failing after generations of success. The two finest winemaking families in the region..."

I mumbled something noncommittal, desperate to end the conversation before she mentioned more memories I couldn't bear to face.

"Well, I won't keep you." She patted my arm. "Come by the café anytime. I still make those almond pastries you loved as a boy."

I thanked her and escaped, going back to the safety of the market. The weight of the village's expectations pressed down on me with each step. They all remembered me as Henri's grandson, the summer boy who knew every corner of the vineyard. None of them saw the stranger I'd become.

And Hugo. Hugo was here, just next door, separated from me by a stone wall and fourteen years of silence.

The thought of seeing him again—those eyes that had once looked at me with such trust, such love—made my steps falter.

What would I even say? Sorry I disappeared?

Sorry I never wrote? Sorry I built a life that had no place for you in it?

I clutched my market basket tighter, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of everything I didn't know. Fourteen years of village history, fourteen years of Henri's life, fourteen years of Hugo's struggles—all lost to me because I'd been too afraid to come back .

"Alexandre?"

The voice behind me froze me in place. That voice—deeper now, but with the same melodic quality that had whispered my name in the darkness of summer nights so long ago.

I turned slowly, and fourteen years evaporated like morning dew.

Hugo stood before me, a canvas bag of produce hanging from one shoulder.

His auburn hair was pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to frame his face.

The boyish softness had given way to more defined features, but those eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold catching the afternoon light—were exactly as I remembered them.

"I heard you were back," he said.

Simple words that carried the weight of our entire history. Not angry, not accusatory, just a statement of fact. I'd returned, and he knew.

"Hugo." My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "I... yes. For the estate."

He nodded, shifting his weight slightly. The movement was so familiar—the same way he'd always stood when uncertain, one hip cocked, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh.

"I'm sorry about Henri," he said.

"And I'm sorry about Claude. I just heard."

A shadow crossed his face. "Six months ago. It was... difficult."

We stood in awkward silence, surrounded by the bustle of the market. Fourteen years of unspoken words hung between us, too numerous to even begin addressing in this public square.

"You look well," he offered, his eyes taking me in. I felt suddenly self-conscious in my expensive city clothes, so out of place among the casual village attire.

"So do you." It was more than politeness. Despite the obvious fatigue around his eyes, Hugo looked... right. Connected to this place in a way I'd never managed to be.

He gestured to my overflowing basket. "That's a lot to carry back to the domaine."

"I'll manage."

"I'm headed that way." He shrugged with the same easy grace I remembered. "Our properties still share the same road, last I checked."

Hugo's gaze held mine, searching for something I'd buried years ago.

Did he remember that summer day when my father had arrived unannounced, how I'd pulled away from Hugo mid-sentence, my body instinctively tensing?

How I'd introduced him as "my friend from the neighbouring vineyard" while my father's cold eyes assessed him?

Hugo had noticed—he always noticed everything about me—but he never knew why I suddenly became a different person whenever my father appeared.

I wanted to refuse. Needed to refuse. Walking alone with Hugo was dangerous territory—too many memories, too much unresolved between us. But refusing would acknowledge the power he still held, so I nodded instead.

"If you're going that way anyway."

The walk from the village square to the vineyard road stretched longer than I remembered. We moved in uncomfortable silence at first, the space between us carefully maintained.

"Henri kept your room exactly the same," Hugo said finally, breaking the tension. "All those books you left behind. That map of Bordeaux wine regions you pinned to the wall."

I swallowed hard. "I should have come back sooner."

"Yes," he agreed simply. No absolution offered, just quiet acknowledgment of my failure.

We turned onto the dirt road that separated our properties, the one I'd walked countless times as a teenager, heart pounding with anticipation of seeing him. Now my heart pounded for different reasons—anxiety, guilt, and something else I refused to name.

"The vines look terrible," I said, desperate to change the subject.

Hugo sighed. "They've been neglected. Henri's health declined quickly this past year. He couldn't manage the physical work, and couldn't afford to hire enough help."

"And your vineyard?"

His mouth tightened. "Not much better. Even with the state insurance plan, Claude's medical bills..." He trailed off, then squared his shoulders. "But I'm making progress. Focusing on the best parcels, letting the rest go for now."

We approached the stone wall that marked the boundary between our properties. A gap in the wall had served as our meeting place all those summers ago. I deliberately looked away from it.

"I could show you what you're dealing with," Hugo offered as we neared the domaine. "Give you an assessment of the vineyard's condition."

Every instinct told me to refuse. To thank him politely and retreat to the safety of the domaine's walls. But the practical part of me—the businessman—knew I needed that information.

"That would be helpful," I conceded.

Hugo set down his market bag on the domaine's front steps. "We should start with the south-facing slopes. They'll be your best chance for salvaging anything this season."

I placed my groceries beside his. "Lead the way."

We walked in silence through overgrown rows of vines.

I watched Hugo's movements—the way he stopped occasionally to examine a vine, gently turning a leaf or inspecting a cluster of immature grapes.

His hands moved with practiced precision, the same hands that had once traced patterns on my skin under starlight.

"You've been doing this alone for how long?" I asked Hugo, trying to break up the tense silence between us.