Sweeter Than W(h)ine by Nancy Goldberg Levine

             
              “I’m sure you won’t get pizza this good at Nutsie Nan’s Café,” Holden said, sitting down to eat the creation he’d made for himself.
                  “No,” Dina admitted. “But you should try her chili.”
                  When she finished her pizza and salad, she helped herself to two bourbon balls. Suddenly, the room began to spin. “Oh, God,” she said.
                  “Dina?”
                  She gripped her favorite chair, a big, overstuffed one with a green and white checked pattern. She remembered this feeling, the first time she’d left ICU and they’d transferred her upstairs and physical therapy had made her sit on the couch so she could look out the window. She hadn’t stayed there very long because of the dizziness. The phone rang and Dina grabbed it since her cell was right next to her on the arm of the chair. “Allo?” she said, laughing as she continued speaking in the exaggerated French accent she’d used earlier. She felt very, very strange.
                  “Dina?”
                  “Allo, Doc.”
                  “Why are you talking with a French accent?”
                  “Holden is here. He made fun of Nan Moskowitz because he likes Molly Buchanan’s food better. I told him zat is his privilege. I had some pizza, salad and bon bourbon ball…”
                  “Aren’t you still taking pain medication?” Rafe asked.
                  “ Qui.”
                  “Dina, you aren’t supposed to mix…I’m coming back.”
                  “Allo? Rafe? Allo?” He had hung up. Was he really coming back? “Rafe’s coming back.” Dina abandoned her accent.
                  “So? I’ll stay and take care of you ’til he gets here. Why’s he coming back, though?”
                  “I don’t know. Something about mixing pain meds and alcohol.”
                  “I told you not to eat Nan Moskowitz’s food. Now he’s going to think I got your drunk so I could have my way with you and all because of those stupid cupcakes.”
                  “Don’t you dare insult my friend’s cooking!”
                  “I’m sorry,” Holden said. “Just stay there and relax until Rafe gets here. Maybe he can straighten this out.”
    ***
                  The snow was all melted; the temperature was a balmy fifty degrees, but Rafe wasn’t thinking about the weather. What was Dina thinking? Rafe remembered her saying that was another thing that the sainted Jay Galloway said all the time, and then wondered why he was worried about his aunt’s nemesis. He should be concentrating on Dina, and what that young police officer would do if she acted like she had on the phone.
                  He wanted to punch Holden’s lights out, but he knew he had to remain cool. If he didn’t, he’d never have a chance with Dina…if he wanted to take it.
                  He got to her condo. She didn’t even have the door locked. He was able to walk right in.
                  “She’s in the chair,” Holden said. “I think she’s asleep now.”
                  Rafe saw that her eyes were closed and that she’d leaned back against the soft cushions of her favorite chair. “You can leave,” he said, trying to look like the professional that he was. “I’ll take things from here.”
                  “But…”
     
                  “It’s okay. I know you need to get home to your puppy.”
                  Rafe hoped he’d gotten his point across. You’re not important.
                  Holden left, but Rafe didn’t miss the fact that he kept his gaze on him before he walked out the door. Rafe crossed the room with a