“Nothing’s changed. It looks like she hasn’t even left the apartment today.”

“It looks like?” Blake said, his voice icy.

Fuck.

“I’m alone here. I make the rounds every two hours, but I can’t do more because someone is going to notice something. I haven’t seen her go out. And last time she did go out she was shaky. Today’s cold and there’s ice on the sidewalks. I figure she won’t go out when it’s this cold.”

“Next report, I want more facts. And make sure you brief me on any changes.”

“Roger that,” Kearns said evenly, keeping the resentment out of his voice.

No changes, asshole.Just a pack of navy SEALs.Nothing worth reporting.

* * *

Dinner was something called spelt soup with onion and cheese bread. Joe didn’t actually know what spelt was but learned all about it from Isabel. One of the oldest cereals known to man. Mentioned in the Bible, older than wheat. Isabel said that some specialty microbreweries made beer from spelt and promised to find some for him. She said it had a special nutty flavor.

God.

He’d never eaten like this in someone’s home. Home for him meant takeout or something scrounged from someone else and put in the freezer for a rainy day. Lots of rainy days in Portland.

Metal was a decent cook and Joe loved eating over at his place, but it was nothing like this.

“So. You ran a food blog?” Joe pointed his spoon at Isabel.

She smiled sadly. “Ran is the operative word. I haven’t posted anything since...” She swallowed, kept her voice even. “Since the Massacre. I haven’t even looked at it since then. I’ll have lost all my readers.”

“How many readers did you say you had again?”

“About a million and a half.”

Fuck. “Your readership was more than the number of active personnel in the US military. That’s a lot. Literally an army of foodies.”

She’d been tracing a pattern in the tablecloth with the tines of her fork and looked up. “Yeah. I guess so.”

There was something in her voice.

“You ever think about starting it up again?”

Isabel sighed. “Off and on. And only in the past few weeks. But it would be like starting over and it took years of very hard work to get to where I was. I don’t think I have that kind of energy anymore. And I did a lot of research and sometimes I traveled to get local recipes and pictures.”

“I don’t think you’d have to work that hard,” Joe protested. “I mean these things go viral, don’t they? As soon as word gets around that you’re starting up again, readers will flock back.”

“Maybe.”

“And, well, if you can hold off for when I’m free, I’ll accompany you on your trips. We could do it on weekends. Don’t know anything about food but I can carry your bags for you. Prime bag-carrier, top tier. And I work cheap. For food.”

That brought a smile to her face, a little less sad. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” Joe put certainty in his voice. Very aware of the fact that this was the first time any kind of future was mentioned between them. It was going to keep cropping up because he had no intention of leaving her side. Did she want to go to Tallahassee to research chitlins? Joe was right there. “Is it still online?”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “Do you know—I don’t know. Isn’t that crazy? I haven’t looked at it once since...since the Massacre. It probably is.”

It wasn’t crazy. Joe was firmly of the suck-it-up-and-move-on school. Her life had come to a standstill and she’d just dropped everything. But Isabel loved what she did. It had given her joy and maybe it could give her joy again.

“Lately, even before the Massacre, I’d eased up because I had another project.”

Her eyes had gone back down to the tablecloth.

“Which was?”

“Well, I was taking notes for a book. I wanted it to be a big book, full of beautiful illustrations. Full of information and recipes. A celebration of food. A book you can dip into and always find something interesting. An agent was interested.”

Joe put his hand over hers. “That sounds fantastic. I’m sure it would be a great book, a bestseller. Do you still have those notes?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. Joe looked into those beautiful eyes and saw something that made his heart thump hard in his chest.

Hope.

Isabel had hope again. She was coming back and she would be stronger than before, because that was the way it worked. If you were broken and came back, you were stronger in the broken places.

He squeezed her hand gently. “Sounds like writing a book is going to be in your immediate future. And picking up the blog again too. Can I see it?”

“The blog?” Isabel rose and Joe noticed that she seemed to be moving more easily, too. He was beginning to see the magnificent woman she must have been and would be again. Beautiful beyond words, graceful, smart, knowledgeable. Capable of moving millions of people with her own passion. “Sure. If it’s still there.”

She went to her desk and clicked a key to turn the monitor on. In a second she’d pulled up a home page. She turned the screen so Joe could see better. He pulled up a chair and sat down and was instantly lost.

The blog was beautiful to look at. Across the top a carousel of brightly colored photos floated from left to right. Aged, agile brown hands kneading bread, a smiling farmer holding a bushel of small intensely red apples, two women in hairnets pulling on mozzarella in a vat, making knots, another woman rolling rice inside a grape leaf...the images went on and on. The quality was exquisite, many of the images were in sunlight and all of them celebrated the joys of the products of the earth.

“You’ve got a great photographer.”

She was watching the screen with him, the colors so intense they reflected off her pale skin. “Thanks. I took most of those.”

Astounded, Joe watched more images march across the header. His first impression was right. The photographer was inspired. And the photographer was Isabel.

“These are incredible images. Makes you want to reach into the screen and pull something to eat out.”

“Thanks. I’ve traveled a lot and I like to take photos. I had a whole bunch in my archive so when I started the blog I put together a slide show of some of the photos I’d taken. It was just a question of balancing out the color palette and making sure there was a flow from one photo to the next.”

“Huh,” Joe grunted. He’d never have thought of that for a blog header, not in a million years. The blogs he read had to do with geopolitics and gear. But now that he was paying attention, he saw that from photo to photo there was a slow continuity of color, an intensely pleasing sense of balance.

He scrolled down and saw that the blog was dated two days before the Massacre.

“I didn’t have time to update the blog at all,” Isabel said quietly. “My father was preparing to announce his candidacy and everything was in an uproar. My next blog was going to be a three-parter—celebratory foods throughout the world.” She huffed out a breath. “Because I thought we’d all be celebrating.”

No, they didn’t celebrate. They were all dead.

Joe scrolled down, read the last entry. “The Humble Chickpea.” He read for half an hour, fascinated. The history of the chickpea dating back to the Bronze Age, its nutritional value, the use of chickpea flour, different ways of making hummus. She’d even unearthed some poems praising the chickpea, translated from Lebanese Arabic. At the end of the post were four recipes arranged according to difficulty, which even he, ignorant as he was, saw was smart. The blog appealed to beginners and sophisticated cooks alike.

He scrolled quickly down and saw feature after feature on various foodstuffs, giving the history, interesting factoids, the same scale of recipes. All lavishly, beautifully illustrated.

He couldn’t imagine the amount of work that went into it, the vast research behind the highly readable and entertaining articles. Toggling left, he saw that the archives could be accessed by foodstuff, by recipes, by ethnic cuisine.