Hidden Summit

ask the question. “Fifteen minutes,” he said to the biker. “Can I get you some bread and butter to tide you over?”
    “I’ll be okay, thanks,” he said. “But I’ll have some with the bouillabaisse, if you don’t mind.”
    “My pleasure. Your bike was pretty loud coming into town....”
    “Hope I didn’t wake anyone from a nap,” he said. “I have a couple of problems with the engine and muffler. I could work on it now, but it’s safe, and after I eat, I’m headed home.” He got up, took off his leather jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ready to get down to some serious eating. When he came back to his stool at the bar, Jack couldn’t help but notice the tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm.
    “Where’s home?”
    “Sacramento. How long you been up here?”
    “Jeez, seven or eight years now. Best move of my life,” Jack said.
    “You get a lot of bikers through here?”
    “Just now and then,” Jack said with a shrug.
    “I’m surprised you don’t get a lot of big groups. The roads up this way are just the kind riding clubs go looking for. In fact, that’s what I’m doing—scouting. We have a group ride coming up and I’m putting together a plan for a road trip. From the mountains to the coast, challenging roads, incredible views. I don’t get this far north too often.”
    “You’re welcome to spread the word, as long as we don’t attract gangs,” Jack said.
    “I don’t belong to a gang and I don’t hang with ’em.”
    “Some of the riding clubs can get a little wild, can’t they?”
    The man shrugged. “Maybe. What’s wild?”
    “Get drunk, start fights, tear up the town,” Jack speculated.
    “That sounds awful,” he said. “I wouldn’t hang with a group like that. That sounds like jail time and a big fine, not to mention a bill for property damage.”
    Jack grinned. “We don’t look much alike, but it turns out we think a lot alike.”
    “Looks like you just got out of the service. Seven years up here, you say?”
    “I guess it’s always going to look that way,” Jack said, running a hand over his head. “Twenty in the Marine Corps. You get used to combing your hair with a washcloth and it’s hard to change. You do any military service?”
    “I did not,” he said. “And I thank you for yours.” He put out his hand.
    “My pleasure to serve,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “I’m Jack.”
    “Walt.” Preacher came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl and basket of bread on a tray. Walt actually rubbed his hands together. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
    That brought a slight smile from Preacher. “I’ve only made this once before, but it was a hit.”
    “No menu, huh?”
    “I can’t keep this kitchen on budget if I cater to the town. I do try to keep in mind what the hunters and fishermen like, but that’s so easy it’s almost embarrassing. It’s wet and cold—they have favorite stews, soups, chili, and of course, they want something like their kill or catch—venison stew or chili, salmon or stuffed trout.”
    While Preacher talked, Walt dipped his spoon into the bouillabaisse. The first sip of the creamy broth had him rolling his eyes back in his head and humming with approval. “When’s hunting season?” he asked. “I don’t hunt, but I eat like a champ.”
    “You cook?” Preacher asked.
    “Not at all. The two best things about riding are the views and finding the best places to eat. There are hidden gems like this place all over California—the back roads. My wife won’t even ride with me more than once every couple of weeks anymore—she loves to eat as much as me, but says I’m making her fat.” He shook his head. “Women are funny that way.”
    “I have a wife and four sisters,” Jack said. “There’s a lot of talk about butts and thighs.”
    “I hear a lot about that, too,” Walt said, dipping into that bouillabaisse again. “I don’t know what she’s worrying about, but whatever makes her happy. Look at me? Am I Tom Cruise or something?” He fished out a scallop and popped it in his mouth.
    “Happy wife, happy life,” Preacher said.
    “Preacher, this is inspired. You have a gift.”
    Jack and Preacher both watched as Walt fished a lobster tail out of the stew and halved it with his spoon.
    “There’s this little hole in the wall in Paradise owned by this Hungarian guy. He and his son do all the cooking. It’s amazing—one of my favorite places. Pull up to it and you think