The sun had climbed higher in the sky by the time Amélie and her father walked the vineyard together, their boots crunching against the gravel paths. The air was warm, the kind of late-summer heat that signaled harvest season was approaching. It was the time of year when the vineyard seemed to come alive, every vine stretching toward the light, every grape ripening to perfection. Yet for Amélie, each step felt heavier than the last.
Claude walked with a steady pace, his cane tapping against the ground rhythmically. He had insisted on this morning walk, despite Amélie's protests that he should rest. But her father was as stubborn as the old vines they tended, refusing to let his age or his failing health keep him from his daily routines.
"This vineyard is special, Amélie," he said, pausing to examine a cluster of grapes hanging from a nearby vine. His hands moved with practiced care, as though the grapes were delicate treasures. "Look at this. These vines have been here since your great-grandfather's time. They've weathered storms, droughts, wars... but they endure."
Amélie watched him closely, her heart aching. She knew how much this place meant to him, and to their family. She had grown up with stories of how her ancestors had tended these very vines, of how they had built the Beaumont name into something synonymous with quality and tradition. The vineyard was more than just land—it was a living piece of their family's history, woven into every bottle of wine they produced.
But no matter how much pride she took in that history, Amélie couldn't ignore the mounting pressures. The market was no longer what it used to be, and while their wine might have been celebrated in the past, now they were struggling to compete with larger, more efficient vineyards. She had tried to find ways to modernize, to cut costs without sacrificing quality, but her father resisted every change she proposed.
"It's beautiful, Papa," she said softly, glancing at the vines. "But beauty doesn't pay the bills."
Claude turned to her, his brow furrowing. "Amélie, we've talked about this. We don't make wine for money. We make wine because it's in our blood. It's who we are."
"I know," she replied, feeling the familiar frustration rising in her chest. "But we still have to live in the real world. And in the real world, we're not selling enough wine to cover our expenses. The market is different now. People want mass-produced wines, cheaper and faster. We can't compete with that."
Claude waved his hand dismissively. "Let them have their cheap wine. We're not like the others. We have a reputation to uphold."
"But that reputation won't matter if we go bankrupt," Amélie said, her voice tight. "I'm not saying we should compromise on quality, but we need to be realistic. We can't just keep doing things the way they've always been done."
Her father's eyes darkened, and he gripped his cane more tightly. "You sound like you're ready to throw away everything we've built. Do you think your mother would have wanted that?"
Amélie flinched at the mention of her mother, the sting of guilt sharp in her chest. Claire Beaumont had been the heart of the vineyard, her passion and vision guiding them through good years and bad. Even after her death, Amélie had done everything she could to live up to her mother's legacy, to honor the traditions that had been passed down to her.
But the world had changed since then. The wine industry had become more competitive, more cutthroat, and their boutique operation no longer had the same appeal it once did. Every day, Amélie felt like she was fighting a losing battle, torn between her duty to her family and the harsh realities of the modern world.
"I'm not trying to throw anything away," Amélie said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "But we have to adapt, or we're going to lose everything."
Claude turned away from her, his gaze drifting over the vineyard. For a long moment, he was silent, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost resigned. "I know things are hard, Amélie. But we've survived worse. You'll see. This year will be different."
Amélie swallowed the lump in her throat, knowing that her father's optimism wouldn't be enough to save them. She wanted to believe him, wanted to hold on to the hope that things would turn around, but the numbers didn't lie. The vineyard was in trouble, and if they didn't make changes soon, they would lose everything.
They walked in silence for the rest of the morning, the tension between them palpable. Amélie didn't push the conversation further, knowing it would only lead to another argument. She loved her father, respected him more than anyone else in the world, but his refusal to acknowledge the severity of their situation was becoming unbearable.