When Cat opened the door of the well-maintained, three-story brick row house where she lived, she looked exactly as I remembered: thick, blonde hair falling to her shoulders in an enviable natural wave; bare face; long limbs emerging from a preppy sleeveless chambray shirt and pink chino shorts.

“Cat!” I exclaimed, leaning in for a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

“You too!” she said, embracing me in a floral-scented squeeze. Until I was pressed up against her, I’d forgotten just how tall Cat really was; my head only hit her collarbone.

“Come in,” she continued, pulling away and leading me up a set of interior stairs to her unit. “How was the train?”

“You mean aside from Chi-Chi the Chihuahua? It was—” I broke off when I saw Cat’s confused expression. “You saw my Instagram Stories, right?”

She shook her head. “I don’t really use Instagram.”

“I forgot how weird you are about social media,” I teased.

“I just—”

“Relax, Cat, I’m kidding. Anyway …” I trailed off as Cat opened the door to her living area. “Wow. Nice digs.”

The entire second floor was one open space cast in a soft yellow light from the enormous front bay window. The seating area was anchored by a pale gray sofa I’d drooled over in the Restoration Hardware catalog and arranged around a brick fireplace filled with cream pillar candles. A full-size dinner table made of rustic-looking wood separated the living area from her well-appointed kitchen with its shining stainless-steel appliances, espresso machine, and high-end blender. Behind that, a wrought-iron spiral staircase disappeared upstairs.

“This place looks great,” I said appreciatively and a bit enviously, running my fingers along the supple fabric of the sofa. “I know you said you don’t do Insta, but this living room—or even just this fireplace—could get you a thousand likes easy.”

She laughed. “My decorator will be pleased to hear that.”

“Oh, you hired someone?” I asked, instantly relieved but not surprised. Style was my domain. Cat was sweet, but she lacked imagination—she was the kind of woman who walked into J.Crew and bought whatever was on the mannequin. Besides, Cat had the money to splash out on interior designers. She worked at a fancy law firm, and she came from money. In college, she was the only one of us wearing real Burberry, and I’d often wondered why she—smart, ambitious, wealthy—went to a state school. I assumed she’d flubbed her interviews at the elite private schools. Poor thing could be so awkward.

“You think I have the time to decorate? Come on, let’s put your stuff in the guest bedroom.”

Impressed she had a guest bedroom—my guests had always been lucky if I could scare up an extra blanket for the couch—I followed Cat up the tightly coiled staircase.

“Whoa,” I said, clutching the handrail. “This thing is an accident waiting to happen.”

Cat smiled apologetically. “I don’t recommend going down it in socks.”

At the very top of the stairs was Cat’s bathroom. Through the open door, I glimpsed gleaming white tiles and the edge of an old-fashioned bathtub. Cat pushed open the next closest door to the bathroom.