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hands to keep from calling back, even though the prospect of Rhea answering was equal parts likely and terrifying. But after a few months, the calls became comforting. I’d know Ray was thinking about me, and, in the only safe way he could, he was looking after me. He became my gold standard, my exemplar, my invisible protector against bad boyfriends.
    And God knows I’d had my share of them: the fashion-forward fop who left my bedsheets reeking of Chanel Égoïste. Or Mr. Frugal, who split dinner tabs right down to the penny. And who could forget the infamous Darryl, who’d presented me with a toaster one dismal Christmas? I might have dated my share of losers over the ensuing years, but with Ray Devine’s unspoken opinion to guide me, I hadn’t dated any of them for long.
    It wasn’t much, but it was better than being an adulteress—sort of.
    The calls would come in clusters, sometimes as many as four or five a month, only to be followed by an interminable stretch of nothing. But eventually, they’d always start up again. I’d utilized all available technology to uncover the presence on the other end of the line, installing Caller ID (only to read the words “unknown number” on the screen) and dialing *69 (“out of range”).
    But I’d never really doubted who was calling. Now I had to wonder: Was my conviction nothing more than a case of wishful thinking? If Ray was no longer with us, then who was the mysterious caller who dared not speak his name—or any other words, for that matter?
    I’d pondered the question through all nineteen stops on the journey back home. There’d been no other significant relationship dating from the time the phone activity had begun, no creepy stalker-type lurking around my building’s front stoop. And even if Rhea had been the one keeping tabs on me, wouldn’t she have stopped bothering once Ray stopped breathing?
    I jolted upright and swung my feet around to the floor. Ray Devine was dead. I was never going to see him again. Ever.
    And I’d needed to see him again. I needed answers. I needed to know if we’d really been in love; if he’d really adored me the way he’d claimed; if what we’d had together was as singular as I’d made it out to be for fully half my life. Because if the answer had turned out to be “no” to any of those questions, it would confirm the pathetic truth: I was unlovable, and therefore destined to lead a solitary existence—one that would bealleviated only by occasional, subpar swains who presented me with kitchen appliances on major holidays.
    The phone rang again, and I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes had passed since Vivian’s call, an astonishing display of self-control on her part.
What the hell?
I thought. I might as well find out about the fabulous Givenchy suit she’d stumbled upon at Goodwill, or the client who’d just tossed her a set of keys to the family compound in Saint Bart’s, or whatever enviable endowment had fallen into her charmed lap this week. I reached for the receiver.
    “Hello?”
    Click.
    Had the Quaalude just caused me to hallucinate the sound of a ringing telephone, or was something potentially paranormal going on?
    Whatever the reason, my brain was sufficiently addled to inspire an action that was as brash as it was illogical. I punched in the digits I’d committed to memory twenty-one years ago but never had the nerve to dial. I held my breath while I waited for a voice to come through the line.
    “Hello?”
    Click.
    Now I was the one hanging up. But for good reason.
    Ray Devine was alive.
    Before I could let the air out of my lungs, the phone jangled again. I grabbed it halfway through the first ring.
    “I thought you were dead,” I said.
    “Why, Dana Mayo, that’s just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard in all my born days! Have you gone and lost your mind? Good heavens! Whatever would give you that crazy idea?”
    In that instant, it became obvious that Quaaludes have a much shorter shelf