Of all the extreme weather possibilities, snow had become my favorite, especially here in the Heights, where, in those early hours after it stopped falling, everything was white and the cars were all covered. A Volvo could be parked next to a Volkswagen, and you’d have no way of knowing, which was what I loved most about it: Snow made us all equal.

I was working from home when Anna called.

“Am I interrupting you?”

“Yes, but it’s good you are,” I said. “Tim and the boys are expecting me.” I explained that they’d taken the toboggan and gone over to the park near the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. “It has the best hill for sledding.”

“So you’re going there now?”

“Yes, as soon as I get dressed.”

“Oh.”

“What is it?”

“I have a favor to ask of you. Could you stop over on your way?”

I promised I would stop by.

One of the housekeepers opened the door. She looked at me with an annoyed curiosity. Maybe she couldn’t recognize me under the stocking cap and ski goggles. And yes, admittedly, my bright purple snowsuit was a tad enthusiastic, but I was dressed for the hills.

“May I tell Mrs. Ashworth your name?”

“It’s Kate. She’s expecting me.”

I did my best not to track in snow. I stood in the vestibule for at least five minutes and had begun to sweat from being indoors. When Anna finally appeared, she said, “Take all that off.” Then, disappearing up the stairs, she said, “There’s something I want you to try on.”

I struggled to unlace and pull off my boots.

Anna called from somewhere on the second floor, her voice an eerie, faint echo: “Hey, Kate—we’re pretty much the same size, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” I shouted, although I’d never thought of us that way.

Then she peered over the stair rail and said, like a teenager to her best friend during an all-night sleepover, “Don’t be shy. We’re the only ones here.”

Just us and the housekeeper and who knows what other members of the staff . . .

“Okay,” I said as I stepped out of my snowsuit.

I found Anna upstairs as she emerged from her changing room. She smiled at how I was dressed—long underwear and thermal socks—and she said, “Try this on.” She was holding a bright red chiffon dress, which I soon realized was vintage Valentino. She led me into the master bedroom and hung the dress on the brass hook on the back of the door. “Let’s hope it fits.”

Alone in the room, I stripped down to my ratty bra and tired old underwear. I quickly slipped into the dress. The silk lining felt like a softer, smoother second skin.

“Ready,” I said.