Alex MacLean picked up his battered leather traveling bag and hurried away from the ferry terminal. He was glad to leave behind the awkward stares of his fellow passengers. He hated feeling like an object on display. Even after three and a half years, he still hadn’t gotten used to the looks he received—some of pity, some of revulsion, and some of curiosity. He probably never would. Alex headed for the Hotel Grand Victoria, his destination. Inside the pocket of his faded blue work shirt was the job advertisement he had torn from a Los Angeles newspaper. Down to his last few dollars, he needed this job, but he hadn’t come all this way just for the work. Alex wanted to see the hotel. The sepia picture postcard he’d come across up north had whet his interest. Besides, there had been nothing and no one to keep him in Los Angeles. He wished there had been someone. Anyone. Fifteen minutes later, Alex turned into a wide carriage drive and whistled softly. Cone-shaped towers covered with red shingles topped a white gingerbread-style castle adorned with balconies, verandas, and decorative railings.
