Page 9 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Six

ALEXANDRE

I spent the evening arranging my grandfather's kitchen, placing the market purchases in cupboards that felt both familiar and foreign.

The house creaked and settled around me, its emptiness a physical presence.

After a simple meal, I found myself drawn back to Henri's study, determined to search for anything that might help save the vineyard.

The study remained as I'd left it that morning—Henri's unfinished letter still on the desk, books lining the walls, and decades of vineyard history contained within filing cabinets and leather-bound ledgers.

I needed financial documents, loan agreements, anything that might give me a clearer picture of what I was facing.

I pulled open the top drawer of Henri's desk.

Pens, paperclips, and a half-empty pack of mints—the mundane detritus of a life.

The second drawer held current invoices, neatly organized but revealing nothing I didn't already know from Bertrand's assessment.

The third drawer stuck slightly, and when I yanked it open, I found folders of correspondence labeled by year.

My fingers trailed over the tabs until I reached the most recent.

Inside were letters, mostly business-related, organized chronologically.

Several were from Claude Tremblay, Hugo's grandfather.

I hesitated before opening the first one, feeling like an intruder, but reminded myself this was necessary research.

The letter was typed on Domaine Tremblay letterhead, dated fourteen months ago.

Henri,

The group order of Cabernet Franc rootstock has arrived. I've inspected it personally and can confirm it's the quality we'd hoped for. The grafting can proceed as planned for the south-facing slope on both of our properties.

Regarding the oak barrels, I've spoken with Tonnellerie Darnajou. They can deliver by August, which gives us ample time before harvest. The medium toast you prefer will complement both our productions this year.

The sunset from your eastern terrace last evening was particularly magnificent. The light on the limestone reminds me why we chose this land all those years ago.

à bient?t,

Claude

I frowned, re-reading the final paragraph. It seemed oddly personal for a business letter. I pulled out another from Claude, this one from two years prior.

Henri,

The soil analysis confirms what we suspected. The clay content is higher than ideal for the Merlot. I suggest we meet to discuss amendments before spring planting.

I've set aside the bottles from '85 you requested. Forty years in bottle has been kind to them. Perhaps we should compare notes on how forty years has treated other things as well.

The book you lent me waits on my nightstand. I find myself reading the passages you marked and wondering about the man who found them significant.

Yours,

Claud e

My heart beat faster as I pulled out more letters. Each contained the same pattern—vineyard business followed by personal notes that hinted at something deeper than neighbouring vignerons. I found myself searching for Henri's responses, but there were none filed here.

A reference in one of Claude's letters mentioned "the cellar inventory we discussed" and I suddenly remembered the wine cellar—Henri's sanctuary. If there were answers, they might be there.

The cellar door creaked as I descended the stone steps, the temperature dropping noticeably with each step. I flicked on the lights, illuminating rows of bottles, barrels, and the small desk where Henri had kept his wine records.

The desk drawer contained a leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with Henri's precise handwriting. But these weren't just wine notes. Between vintage descriptions and tasting notes were entries that read like personal reflections.

October 1982 - C says the '69 Bordeaux blend is finally showing its potential. We opened a bottle on the limestone outcropping. So many years of friendship and yet I still value these moments more than anything.

June 1985 - Margot asked why Claude and I spend so many evenings "discussing business." I hate disappointing her with my absences. C says our work benefits both families. Sometimes I wonder if that justifies everything.

August 1999 - The millennium approaches. Eighteen years of our partnership. C suggests we could travel together to visit vineyards abroad, somewhere to study new techniques. But how could I leave Margot? How could I leave Alexandre, who needs this place as his sanctuary?

My hands trembled as I turned the pages, decades of my grandfather's private thoughts unfolding before me.

The man I thought I knew had carried these complicated feelings his entire adult life.

Henri and Claude's relationship clearly ran deeper than just neighbouring vineyard owners—there was an intimacy to these writings I couldn't quite define.

I closed the notebook, feeling breathless. The wine bottles surrounding me suddenly seemed like silent witnesses to a story I'd never been told. The vineyard partnership, the shared equipment, the adjacent properties—all of it suggested a connection more profound than business.

In the stillness of the cellar, surrounded by vintages that marked the years of their relationship, I felt both closer to my grandfather and further from understanding him. He'd experienced something meaningful with Claude, something he'd kept separate from the rest of his life.

And he'd never told me about any of it.

I set the notebook down on Henri's desk, my mind reeling. All these years, I'd thought I knew my grandfather. Now I wondered if I'd known him at all. The familiar cellar suddenly felt foreign, filled with the evidence of a life I hadn't been privy to.

The crunch of gravel outside pulled me from my thoughts. I climbed the cellar stairs and reached the kitchen just as a knock sounded at the back door.

Hugo stood on the threshold, a covered dish and a bottle of wine in his hands, the evening light catching in his auburn hair. For a moment, I saw him as he'd been at seventeen—same warm eyes, same hesitant smile.

"I thought you might be hungry," he said, eyes hopeful yet guarded.

"Come in," I managed, stepping aside. "I was just..."

Hugo's gaze traveled to the letters I'd left scattered on the kitchen table. His expression shifted, something like recognition crossing his features.

"Going through Henri's papers?" he asked, setting the ratatouille on the counter .

I nodded, unsure how much to say. "I found some correspondence between our grandfathers."

Hugo's fingers lingered on the edge of the casserole dish. "I found similar letters at Claude's after he died. Business matters mostly, but..."

"But something else too," I finished.

Our eyes met, and for the first time since I'd returned, I felt something crack in the careful wall I'd built between us. Not just colleagues assessing a vineyard. Not just former lovers avoiding the past. Two grandsons trying to understand the men who'd raised us.

"How did it happen?" I asked, the question I should have asked yesterday. "Claude's death."

Hugo leaned against the counter, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Pancreatic cancer. Six months from diagnosis to the end.

It was... brutal." He swallowed hard. "Your grandfather visited every day.

Brought wine sometimes—the good bottles they'd been saving.

Said there was no point waiting anymore. "

A tightness formed in my throat. "I didn't know."

"How could you?" Hugo's voice held no accusation, just simple truth. "You weren't here."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with fourteen years of absence.

"I've been trying to keep Claude's vineyard going," Hugo continued, his voice softening.

"The bills nearly bankrupted us. I had to let all the workers go.

It's just me now." He glanced toward the window, toward his property beyond.

"Some days I think I should just sell, but then I remember how much it meant to him. "

The parallel to my own situation wasn't lost on me. Two grandsons, two vineyards, two impossible tasks.

"I found Henri's cellar notebook," I said, nodding toward the stairs. "He kept records of everything, but there's... more in there. Personal things."

Hugo's expression shifted. "Would you show me? "

I hesitated only briefly before nodding. Something about sharing this burden felt right.

We descended to the cellar together, our footsteps echoing on the stone steps. The cool air wrapped around us as I retrieved the leather-bound book from the desk.

"Here," I said, opening to an entry from the summer Claude had fallen ill. "He wrote about bringing the '82 Bordeaux to Claude's bedside. Said it was 'their vintage'—the year everything changed."

Hugo's fingers brushed mine as he took the notebook, sending an unexpected current up my arm. He read silently, his expression softening.

"Claude talked about that bottle," he said quietly. "Said it was the best wine he'd ever tasted, but I always thought he meant the wine itself." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "Now I wonder if he meant the company."

I moved to the rack of bottles, running my fingers over the dusty labels. "All these years, they kept their cellars like mirrors of each other. Same vintages, same producers."

"Same experiments," Hugo added, moving to stand beside me. "Claude was always trying some new technique he'd discussed with Henri. They'd split the risk—each trying half the idea so they could compare results."

I pulled out a bottle, its label faded but still legible. "Domaine Moreau-Tremblay, 2006."

Hugo's eyes widened. "I've never seen that label."

"Neither have I." I turned the bottle carefully. "It's not one they sold. Look at the handwriting—'For our twenty-fifth.'"

"Twenty-fifth what?" Hugo wondered aloud.

I thought of the entries I'd read. "The first mention of Claude in the notebook was from 1981. If this was 2006..."

"Twenty-five years," Hugo finished. "Of friendship? Partnership?"

"It must be," I said quietly.

Hugo's gaze met mine, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Claude used to mention Henri all the time. I never realized how much of his life revolved around their friendship."

"Henri too," I said, turning the notebook in my hands. "There are so many entries here about their time together. Vineyard decisions they made jointly, harvests they celebrated..."

We stood in silence among the bottles, surrounded by the evidence of a relationship that had spanned decades—documented meticulously in vineyard notes and business correspondence.

"They were closer than I realized," Hugo said finally. "All those summers we spent here, and I never understood how important they were to each other."

"It was a different generation," I offered. "Men of their era didn't talk much about friendships, I suppose. Henri always seemed most comfortable discussing the vineyard or the wine."

"And yet he spent every evening with Claude," Hugo pointed out. "Remember how they'd sit on the terrace between our properties? Sharing wine, talking until sunset?"

I did remember. Those evenings had provided cover for Hugo and me to slip away, thinking ourselves so clever.

I wondered now if our grandfathers had noticed our absences, if they'd exchanged knowing glances as we disappeared among the vines, each too preoccupied with their own conversation to comment on ours.

Hugo reached for another bottle, his sleeve pulling back to reveal his wrist. I found myself staring at his hands—the same hands I'd once known so well. Slender fingers, now callused from vineyard work. A small scar on his thumb that I remembered from when he'd cut himself pruning.

"Your hands haven't changed," I said before I could stop myself.

Hugo looked up, surprise crossing his features. "What?"

"Your hands," I repeated, feeling foolish but unable to look away. "They're the same."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Not entirely. More calluses now. Claude couldn't afford proper workers this last year, so I had to do everything myself.”

I thought of my own hands, soft from years behind a desk. “As I said before, I don’t think I would even know where to begin."

"You did once," Hugo said, his voice gentle. "Henri taught you everything."

"And I forgot it all."

"Did you?" Hugo challenged. "Or did you just pack it away, like everything else from here?"

The question hit too close to home. I turned away, pretending to examine another bottle. "Tell me about Claude's last days," I said, changing the subject. "Were they... was he in pain?"

Hugo allowed the diversion. "At the end, yes.

But he was lucid until the last week. Kept talking about regrets.

Said he wished he'd been braver, more vocal, more demanding.

" He set down the bottle he'd been holding.

"I didn't understand then. I thought he meant braver about treatment options or something. "

"And Henri?" I asked. "How was he after?"

"Devastated," Hugo said simply. "He came to the funeral, stood in the back. Wouldn't speak to anyone. After that, he just... faded. The vineyard went untended. He stopped coming to the village. Three months later, he was gone too."

"Heart failure," I murmured. "That's what the doctor said."

Hugo's gaze was steady. "The village says he died of grief."

Something broke open inside me at those words. I thought of Henri, alone in this house after Claude's death. No one to share wine with. No one who understood the language of vines and terroir the way they had shared it.

"I should have been here," I said again, the words barely audible.

"Yes," Hugo agreed, but without accusation. "You should have. But you're here now."

I looked up, meeting his eyes. In them, I saw not just the boy I'd once loved, but the man who'd stayed true to his origins and himself—who'd shouldered his burden while I'd run from mine.

"I don't know if I can save this place," I admitted.

"I don't know if I can save Claude's either," Hugo replied. "But maybe..." He hesitated. "Maybe we could figure it out together. For them."

His hand rested on the shelf beside mine, our fingers nearly touching among the dusty bottles that told the story of our grandfathers' lives. Not just neighbours. Not just business partners. Two men who'd found something in each other that had sustained them for nearly half a century.

"For them," I agreed, and for the first time since returning to Saint-émilion, I felt something like purpose taking root.