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"No kidding. All the way all by yourselves, huh? And your mother let you?" he asked.

"My mother . . . and father were killed in a fire," I replied as quickly as I could.

"Fire?" He shook his head. "What fire?"

"The hotel burned down and they were trapped in the basement," I explained. Even now, talking about it brought heavy tears to my eyes, tears that blurred my vision.

"Well, I'll be. That's terrible," he said. "So there's no more hotel, huh?"

"My uncle is rebuilding it," I said. I couldn't imagine why that would be of any importance to him. Why wasn't he more upset about what had happened to Mommy?

"Oh, sure. There must have been insurance. So . . . your mother's . . . gone." He shook his head and looked at the woman. "Why don't you put up some coffee?" She smirked as if he had asked her to perform a major feat and reluctantly strutted toward the kitchen. "That's er . . . that's er . . . Catherine. She's a singer at one of the studios in town. Here," he said, moving toward the sofa to clear away some of the clothing, "have a seat. Tell me about yourself. How old are you now?" he asked as I moved Jefferson and myself to the sofa.

"I'm sixteen." How could he not remember how old I was? I wondered.

"Oh yeah, sure. And how old's . . ." He nodded toward Jefferson.

"Jefferson's nine," I said.

"Almost ten," he added.

"Well, that's a ripe old age," my father quipped, but Jefferson didn't smile. He simply stared up at him with that characteristic fixed glare of his that unnerved some people. My father laughed. Then he sat on the easy chair, not bothering to remove the skirt that had been draped over the back of it.

"So . . . it must have been horrible for you guys . . . a fire, and they couldn't get out." He shook his head. "She was something else, your mother, quite a beautiful woman and quite talented. I could have made her a singing star, but . ." He shrugged. "So," he said, "who's in charge of you guys? Your uncle?"

"No," I said quickly. "We don't want to live with him."

"Oh no?" He leaned forward. "Why not?"

"He and our aunt Bet are not very nice to us," I said. Something my real father detected in my expression or tone made his eyes narrow as he weighed my words. He had shrewd, sophisticated eyes that seemed to know all the wicked and tricky ways of the world.

"I see."

"Neither is Richard and Melanie," Jefferson added.

"Who?"

"Their children, twins," I said.

"Uh huh." His eyes shifted to our suitcases. "Now let me understand this. You two left and came here on a bus?" I nodded. "Does your uncle know this?"

"No. We ran away," I said.

"Oh, I get it now. How did you find me?" he asked with interest.

"I just called all the Michael Suttons until I found the right one."

He laughed.

"Well," he said, clapping his hands together, "you guys have got to go back. You can't just run off like this. Everyone back there is probably worried sick about you."

"We're never going back," I said firmly.

"Well honey, you didn't expect . . ." He smiled. "You didn't imagine you could live here with me, did you?" I said nothing; he understood. His smile faded and he sat back, contemplating us a moment. "How much money do you have with you?" he asked.

"Only twenty-three dollars left," I replied.

"Twenty-three . . ." He shook his head again. "Well, what about inheritance? You must have inherited quite a bit."