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The Peking Dragon was a small, storefront restaurant between a hardware store and an ice cream parlor. The bottom half of the large window was shielded by a simple dark green curtain. A neon dragon filled a good portion of the upper window, and unlike most Chinese dragons, this one had beautifully pinioned wings.
I paused in front of the ice cream parlor and wistfully read the menu that was taped to the window. For a small town, it had flavors that would rival Ben and Jerry’s. Not only were there five different varieties of chocolate and six of vanilla, but raspberry truffle, pistachio, and butter pecan.
Mark paused at the door to the Chinese restaurant. “Know what you want to have?”
“That crunchy pecan and maple ice cream sounds good. Oh, you mean dinner.” I smiled, trying to
