R u free Thursday for lunch? It was a text from Amelia the following Monday. I felt light-headed. I didn’t expect this. I’d been hoping that our relationship would extend beyond photography and babysitting, but I thought it would take several months. I didn’t expect that we’d already be socializing, without the pretext of my babysitting Natalie.

Amelia suggested I meet her at a job site on the Upper East Side so she could show me the town house they’d just finished renovating. She wanted to spend time with me—to share her work with me. She’d already shared her drawings with me, but the invitation was an indication of our growing intimacy. It was a significant step forward in our relationship.

Wednesday night, I spent more than an hour choosing an outfit for my lunch with Amelia. I wanted her to be proud of me if she had occasion to introduce me to someone. I wanted to look like I belonged to the same socioeconomic class that she did. She might choose to take me to a fine restaurant, so I needed something slightly elevated but effortless. After trying on most of the clothes in my closet, I ended up choosing a gray cashmere sweater and black slacks. It wasn’t a unique outfit, but Amelia would certainly notice that the pants and sweater were both very expensive.

When I arrived at the job site at noon the following day, three workers were finishing final touches on the house, installing the kitchen cabinetry, hardware, appliances, and light fixtures. I spotted Amelia. She was wearing a stylish brown coat and a silk scarf around her neck. “My beautiful Delta,” she cried. “I’m so happy you’re here!” It was freezing cold, but Amelia’s words heated every inch of my body within seconds.

I noticed how the workers looked at her, the supreme respect they accorded her. They worshipped her. Her eyes darted to every corner of the kitchen, assessing what needed to be done. “Line up the pull and the hinge.” “Center the sconce.” “Raise the lantern two inches.” When she gave a direction, her confidence and expertise were palpable.

She finished speaking to the workers, then led me through the parlor floor, describing the paths of circulation and the use of space. Not only was the renovation finished, the home was almost completely decorated. It appeared that many of the original walls were intact, as opposed to the first floor of the Straubs’ home, which was largely open.

We entered the library in the back of the house. “The clients wanted to keep all the dark wood and the paneling,” she said. “They think they’re respecting history. I tried to tell them it was added in the sixties. And even if it was original, it’s ugly.