Chapter One

Kathleen lay on the massage table and looked up at the casement
windows high above her. The sashes were fashioned of rough oak, the
glass uneven and bottle-thick. Propped open on green sapling
sticks, they were windows from an enchanted castle. Having been a
children's librarian for twenty-five years, Kathleen Levine
considered herself something of an expert on the subject of
enchanted castles.

She smiled and closed her eyes. The massage was a birthday present
from her coworkers at Edison Elementary. They'd given her the gift
certificate at a surprise party for her fifty-ninth birthday,
almost five months ago. When Madge Feeney, the school secretary,
had learned that Kathleen still hadn't used it, Madge had
harrumphed and made the appointment for her.

Kathleen stretched her neck from side to side. "Comfortable?" asked
Marla, who stood at the far end of the table, kneading Kathleen's
left instep. Marla Fletcher, who was nearly six feet tall, sounded
as though she were far, far away. Like the giant wife in the castle
of "Jack and the Beanstalk," Kathleen thought, and smiled
again.

She sighed, letting go of the tension of driving from school to
this odd, out-of-the-way place. Kathleen had thought she knew every
last side street on Cape Ann, but Marla's directions had taken her
along unfamiliar roads leading, finally, up a rutted, one-way lane
that looped around the steep hills overlooking Mill Pond. She
nearly turned back once, convinced she'd lost the way. But then she
spotted the landmark: a stone gate, half-hidden by overgrown lilac
bushes, weeks away from blooming.

It must have been a stunning estate in its day. Much as she hated
being late, Kathleen slowed down for a better look. The great lawn
had been designed to show off the pond, which shone platinum in the
spring sun. Beyond it, Mill River glittered into the distance,
silver on mauve.

She turned the car toward the sprawling hewn-granite mansion. Those
windows seemed piteously small to be facing such a magnificent
scene, she thought. And the four smaller outbuildings, made of the
same majestic stones, with the same slate turrets, seemed oddly
grand for servants' quarters.

Kathleen drove past two young couples in tennis whites standing by
the net on a pristine clay court. They turned to watch as she
pulled up beside the round stone tower, where Marla waited by the
door. Rapunzel, thought Kathleen, at the sight of her waist-length
golden hair.

Lying on the massage table, Kathleen wondered whether she could
translate this amazing place into "once upon a time." She had tried
to write children's books, she had even taken classes. But that was
not her gift. Kathleen was good at matching children to books. She
could find just the right story to catch any child's imagination --
even the wildest boys, who were her pet projects, her special
successes. It wasn't as grand a gift as writing, but it was a gift.
And in her own private way, Kathleen was proud of it.

Yet, here she was, in a castle on a hill in the woods, stroked and
kneaded like a happy lump of dough by a kind lady; it seemed like
an engraved invitation. Was this the kind of scene that had
inspired Charles Dodgson to become Lewis Carroll? Was this the
world that Maurice Sendak visited whenever he set out on a new
book?

"Time to turn over," Marla said, draping the sheet so Kathleen
remained covered. Warm oil trickled over Kathleen's sloping
shoulders, velvet drops that soothed and tickled. "Nice," she said,
overcome by gratitude to this pleasant stranger who made her feel
so well cared for, so...cradled. Curious word, Kathleen thought.
Curiouser and curiouser. She closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, two warm hands cupped her face. "Take your
time getting dressed," Marla whispered. "I'm going to get you a
glass of water."

But Kathleen was no dawdler. She saw from the clock beside her that
nearly two hours had passed since she had lain down. She swung her
legs over the edge of the table and reached for her bra, fastening
the hooks in front, bottom to top, just as her sister had shown her
when Kathleen was twelve years old, before she needed a bra at all.
She had no idea she was weeping until Marla raced back up the
winding stone staircase, an empty glass in her hand.

Kathleen tried to regain control of her breathing. "I have breast
cancer," she said, staring down at her chest.

"Oh my God," Marla said softly. She sat down and took Kathleen's
hand. "I wish you'd told me. I would have brought up my amethyst
crystal. I could have burned myrrh instead of sage."

Kathleen sniffed and stifled a laugh. "That's okay. It was a
wonderful massage."

"Do
you want to make an appointment for another one? That might be a
good thing to do."

Kathleen wiped her nose on her slippery forearm and turned the bra
around, filling it with her breasts -- first the good one, and then
the traitor. "I'll call you after I know when...After..." Her
throat closed. Marla put an arm around her shoulders.

The only sound was the volley on the tennis court below. The juicy
pop of ball hitting racket, court, racket, sounded back and forth
for a long time before someone finally missed a shot. The players'
laughter filtered up through the windows, like an echo from another
day, another story.

Excerpted from GOOD HARBOR © Copyright 2001 by Anita
Diamant. Reprinted with permission by Scribner, an imprint of Simon
and Schuster. All rights reserved.