I stare at him from across the room. It’s strange to hear your father call jail camp. Especially while he’s doing yoga.

“Dad,” I say. “Could you quit that for a minute and talk to me?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Dad says. And comes back to his feet.

I can’t believe this. He’s clearly moved in. His suitcase is open—and empty—on the window seat. His shoes sit by the dresser, lined up as neatly as if he were in the military. There’s a typewriter—a typewriter!—on the antique desk, along with a tidy stack of stationery. He’s wearing a set of blue pajamas with darker blue piping, and there’s a fat green tea candle burning on his nightstand, along with a copy of a Lincoln biography.

“My God,” I say, shaking my head. “How did you get in here? Did you break in?”

“Of course not,” Dad says, looking indignant. “I learned a lot of things at camp, but I didn’t acquire any tips on picking a Medeco lock. Your young man invited me to stay.”

“My—” I feel my eyes roll back into my head. “Dad. I told you. He is not my young man. You didn’t say anything to him about how I lo—”

“Heather.” Dad looks sad. “Of course not. I would never betray a confidence like that. I merely expressed a dislike in front of Mr. Cartwright for my current living situation, and he offered me accommodation here—”

“Dad!” I groan. “You didn’t!”

“Well, the Chelsea Hotel was hardly a suitable place for a man in my position,” he says patiently. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Heather, but many people with criminal records have resided in the Chelsea Hotel. Actual murderers. That’s not the kind of environment a person who is trying to rehabilitate himself should be in. Besides which, it was quite noisy. All that loud music and honking horns. No, this”—he looks around the pleasant white bedroom happily—“is much more me.”

“Dad.” I can’t help it. I can’t stand up anymore. I sink down onto the side of the queen-sized bed. “Did Cooper say how long you could stay?”

“In fact,” Dad says, reaching out to ruffle Lucy’s ears, since she’s followed me inside, “he did. He said I could stay as long as it took in order for me to get back on my feet.”

“Dad.” I want to scream. “Seriously. You can’t do that. It’s not that I don’t want to work on our relationship—yours and mine, I mean. It’s just that…you can’t take advantage of Cooper’s generosity this way.”

“I’m not,” Dad says matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be working for him, in exchange for rent.”

I blink. “You’re…what?”

“He’s taking me on as an employee of Cartwright Investigations,” Dad says…a little proudly, I think. “Just like you, I’m working for him. I’m going to help him tail people. He says I’ve got just the right looks for it…sort of unnoticeable. He says I blend.”

I blink some more. “You blend?”

“That’s right.” Dad opens up the drawer to his nightstand and takes out a small wooden flute. “I’m trying to take it as a compliment. The fact that I’m so unnoticeable, I mean. I know your mother often felt that way, but I wasn’t aware it was true of the world in general. Oh, well. Listen to this little tune I learned at camp. It’s quite restful. And after the night you’ve had, I’m sure you could use a little relaxation.” He proceeds to lift the flute to his lips and begins to play it.

I sit there for a minute more as the notes—plaintive and, as he’d mentioned, oddly restful—wash over me. Then I shake myself and say, “Dad.”

He immediately stops playing. “Yes, dear?”

It’s the endearments that are killing me. Or possibly making me want to kill HIM.

“I’m going to bed now. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

“Well, all right,” he says. “But I don’t see what there is to talk about. Cooper is obviously a man of good sense. If he wants to hire me, I don’t see why you should object.”

I can’t see why I should object, either. Except…how am I going to get Cooper to realize I’m the woman of his dreams if my DAD’s around? How am I ever going to make him that romantic steak dinner for two I’d been planning? There’s nothing romantic about steak for three.

“I realize I haven’t been the best father to you, Heather,” Dad goes on. “Neither your mother nor I provided you with very good role models growing up. But I hope the damage isn’t so serious that you are incapable of forming loving relationships now. Because it’s my sincerest wish that that is what you and I can have with one another. Because everyone needs a family, Heather.”

Family? Is that what I need? Is that what’s wrong with me? I don’t have a family?

“You look tired,” Dad says. “Which is understandable, after the day you’ve had. Here, maybe this will help soothe you.” Then he starts playing the flute again.

Okay. This I don’t need.

I lean down, blow out Dad’s green tea candle, and snatch it from the nightstand.

“These are a fire hazard,” I snap, in my most assistant residence hall directory voice.

Then I stalk from the room and upstairs to my own apartment.

The snow doesn’t stop. When I wake up in the morning, I look out the window and see that it’s still coming down—slower now, and less of it. But still in big fluffy flakes.

And when I get out of bed—which isn’t easy, considering how snug it is in there, with Lucy sprawled half across me—and go to the window, I find myself looking out at a winter wonderland.

New York City looks different after a snowfall. Even an inch can make a difference—it covers all the dirt and graffiti, and makes everything look sparkly and new.

And twenty inches—which is what it appears we got overnight—can make the city look like another planet. Everything is quiet…no honking horns, no car alarms…every sound is muffled, every branch straining under the weight of so much fluffy white stuff, every windowsill coated in it. Gazing out at it, I realize, with a sudden zing to my heartstrings, what’s going on:

It’s a Snow Day.