Page 8 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Five

HUGO

I didn't look back as I walked away from Alexandre.

My boots knew the path well enough—every dip and rise in the dirt road between our properties had been worn smooth by my feet over the years.

Only when I reached the stone wall marking the boundary did I allow myself a single glance over my shoulder.

He was still standing there, grocery bag in hand, looking lost in a way that made my chest ache. Then he turned and disappeared into the house.

"Idiot," I muttered, unsure if I meant him or myself.

The evening air carried the scent of coming rain as I trudged up the hill toward my cottage.

Claude's cottage. Six months, and I still thought of it as his.

The irrigation system needed checking before the weather turned, and there were invoices waiting on the kitchen table that I'd been avoiding all week.

Inside, I kicked off my boots and headed straight for the sink, washing dirt from my hands with mechanical precision. The small kitchen window framed a perfect view of Domaine Moreau across the valley. Lights flickered on in the manor house as dusk settled .

So he was staying, at least for tonight.

I pulled a bottle from the rack—a modest Merlot from three harvests ago, before Claude got sick, before everything fell apart. Not our best vintage, but drinkable. I didn't bother with a glass.

The first sip burned, then mellowed. The second tasted of summer evenings and stolen moments between vine rows. The third made my eyes sting.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years since Alexandre had walked away with barely a word.

Fourteen years of wondering what I'd done wrong, what I could have said differently to have him come back to me the following summer.

Fourteen years of building a life without him, convincing myself I was better off, even as my heart ached for its first love.

And now he was back, looking at me with those vulnerable green eyes that still showed every emotion he tried to hide.

I took another pull from the bottle and dropped into Claude's old chair, the leather creaking in familiar protest. The financial statements on the side table caught my eye—another reminder of the mess I was in.

VitaVine's latest offer sat on top, the corporate letterhead gleaming white against the worn wood. Their regional director, Rousseau, had increased the amount twice now. Each time, the figure grew more tempting, each time harder to refuse.

"What would you do?" I asked the empty room, imagining Claude's weathered face, his quiet wisdom.

The cottage remained silent. Claude had always said the vines were in our blood, that the land was part of us.

He'd fought to keep Domaine Tremblay independent even as larger operations swallowed up neighbouring properties.

But he'd never faced debts like these, never watched the irrigation system fail row by row while the bank refused additional credit.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jean-Marc, the son of another local vintner, asking if the rumors were true—was Alexandre Moreau really back? I ignored it. The whole village would know soon anyway.

I stared at the VitaVine offer for a long time, Claude's voice echoing in my head. The vines are in our blood, Hugo. But blood couldn't pay bills, couldn't fix irrigation systems, couldn't save a dying vineyard.

I pushed the paper away and took another swig from the bottle. The wine was beginning to taste like regret—both for the past and the future I might lose.

Should I go see him again? The question burned in my chest.

Alexandre hadn't exactly welcomed me today.

His surprise had been evident, his guardedness immediate.

Those green eyes still betrayed every emotion—wariness, guilt, and something else I wasn't ready to name.

He'd been polite but distant, accepting my assessment of his vines with the detached interest of someone considering a business proposition.

"He'll be gone in a week," I muttered to the empty room. "Once he realizes what a mess Henri left, he'll sell to the highest bidder and disappear for another fourteen years."

The logical part of my brain knew this. Alexandre had a life in Paris—successful, from what I'd gathered.

Designer clothes, manicured nails, that air of confidence that came from moving through the world without having to struggle.

Why would he stay? Why would he even consider trying to save a failing vineyard when he could cash out and return to his real life?

And yet...

I couldn't forget the flash of vulnerability I'd seen when he'd asked about Henri's final days. The way his fingers had traced the vine leaves with unexpected tenderness. The moment our eyes had met, and fourteen years had compressed into a heartbeat.

"You're being a fool," I told myself, pushing away from the table. "Again."

I'd been that fool before—the summer after our final year together. I'd waited all season for a letter, a call, any word from Alexandre. Nothing came. When September arrived with no sign of him, I'd finally accepted the truth: our summer romance had meant everything to me and nothing to him.

I'd built a life without him. Learned to breathe around the Alexandre-shaped hole in my chest. Found purpose in the vines, in Claude's teachings, in the steady rhythm of seasons that demanded attention regardless of heartbreak.

And now he was back, sleeping in the house across the valley, probably planning his escape even as I sat here contemplating whether to see him again.

"This isn't about him," I reminded myself. "It's about Henri. About Claude. About what they built."

I moved to the kitchen window, staring across at Domaine Moreau. The light was still on in what had been Henri's study. Was Alexandre going through Henri's papers? Discovering the same financial disaster I'd found in Claude's records? Sitting alone in a house full of ghosts?

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Jean-Marc: Is it true he's staying at the domaine?

I ignored it again. The village gossip machine was working overtime, no doubt. By morning, there would be a dozen different theories about why Alexandre Moreau had returned after fourteen years of absence.

I knew why he was back. Death brought even the most reluctant heirs home eventually. The question was what he would do now that he was here.

The kitchen felt suddenly claustrophobic. I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside, breathing in the night air heavy with the scent of the vines. A faint drizzle had started, misting my face as I looked up at the clouded sky.

The practical thing would be to leave Alexandre alone. Let him make his decisions without the complication of our history. Focus on my own problems—God knew I had enough of them.

But I'd never been particularly practical when it came to Alexandre Moreau.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I headed back inside and to the refrigerator. The ratatouille I'd made yesterday would reheat well. I added it to a basket along with half a baguette, some cheese, and a bottle of Domaine Tremblay's 2018 Merlot—not our best, but drinkable.

"This is neighbourly," I told myself as I covered the basket with a cloth. "What Claude would have done for Henri."

The lie was transparent even to my own ears, but I ignored the voice of reason as I grabbed my keys and headed out into the drizzling night.

The walk between our properties took less than ten minutes, though the muddy road made for slow going.

I hesitated, basket in hand, suddenly aware of how this might look. A pathetic gesture from a man who couldn't let go of the past. But I'd come this far.

I knocked before I could change my mind.