“I brought my umbrella,” Libby said. “Just in case.”
“Here, let me take your jacket for you,” Margaret said as she reached up to help Libby take it off. She hung it in the hall closet along with the umbrella.
“Come into the kitchen,” Margaret said, “and I’ll show you what I found.”
“I can’t wait to see,” Libby said, rubbing her hands together.
Margaret walked over to the kitchen table and Libby followed her. There, in the middle of the table, was a light purple jar.
Libby gave Margaret a curious look. “I don’t understand. She specifically said it was a clear canning jar.”
“Yes, I know,” Margaret replied. “Please, take a seat. I have a story to tell you that I think you’ll find quite interesting.”
Libby did as she was told, staring at the purple jar the whole time.
Margaret sat across from her. “A friend came to visit me a few days ago, and she drank out of the ‘good luck’ teacup you had last time. I mentioned your visit and how you were looking for a special jar your great-grandmother had that came from America. My friend Bee asked me if I might have a colored canning jar in my cupboard. I told her I didn’t know, because we hadn’t been looking for a colored jar, we’d been looking for a clear jar.
“She asked if she could look through my collection, and so I agreed. When she pulled out this jar, she said, ‘I think this is what the girl might have been looking for.’ ”
“But why?” Libby asked. “Why would she think that?”
Margaret laughed. “That’s what I asked her. You see, Bee knows her antiques very well. And she knows that during the First World War, a certain ingredient they used in canning jars was cut off by German blockades.” She stood up and went to the counter, where she picked up her reading glasses and a piece of paper. “I wrote it down because I knew I wouldn’t remember the name.” She read the words off the piece of paper. “Manganese dioxide. Bee said prior to the start of World War One, manufacturers used manganese dioxide as their chemical agent of choice to clarify glass. But when manufacturers couldn’t get it because of the war, they switched to a different chemical, selenium, instead. And they didn’t change back later.”
Libby shook her head. “I’m so confused.”
Margaret sat down again. “I know. It is confusing. You see, Libby, we now know that when a jar with manganese dioxide is exposed to sunlight, the glass reacts to the sunlight and it changes color.”
“Changes color?” Libby asked. She looked at the purple jar and then back at Margaret. “You mean, it changes from clear to light purple?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. We didn’t notice this jar when you were here before because it wasn’t clear. Your grandma must not have realized this was her special jar, because it was a different color than she remembered.”
“Wow,” Libby said, looking at the jar differently now. “So whenever you find a purple canning jar that looks like this one, you know it was made before the First World War?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “They are not easy to find. Many people collect them, for as time goes on, they’ll be more and more valuable.”
“But Mae visited Grandma Grace in the forties,” Libby said. “That was a long time after World War One.”
“Maybe the jar had belonged to her mother,” Margaret replied. “Or someone else in her family. It’s hard to know, really.”
One question still lingered in Libby’s mind. She knew the chances were slim to none, but still, she had to ask. “What about the poem? Did you find any sign of it?”
Margaret set her reading glasses on the table. “I’m afraid not, no. It’s hard to know what may have happened to it. She may not have even noticed it was in the jar when she gave it to me, in which case, the poem wouldn’t have survived the water and the flowers.”
Libby stared at the table, trying not to show her disappointment.
“May I ask why you are so interested in that poem?” Margaret asked.
“It probably sounds silly,” Libby said, “but I hoped it would help me with the problems I’m having with my best friend. When I read about the jar and Mae’s poem in Grandma Grace’s journal, it felt like it was a sign. A sign that I should find it and maybe it would tell me what to do about Rebecca.”
Margaret nodded sympathetically. “You know, poems are often about feelings. Mae probably wrote it to tell your great-grandma how much her friendship meant to her.”
Libby thought about this for a second. “So, it wouldn’t have really given me any advice?”
“My guess to that question is no, probably not. I’m sure it would have been fun to read, but it probably wouldn’t have been very helpful to you.”
Libby sat up straight as an idea came to her out of the blue. “Maybe I don’t need to read the poem after all,” she said. “Maybe I just need to know that when Mae wanted to tell her friend how much she meant to her, she used poetry to do that. And if I’m looking for a way to tell Rebecca how much she means to me and how much I miss her, maybe I should try writing a poem too.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “I think you’re onto something, Libby.”
Libby sunk back into her seat again. “But I don’t know how to write poetry. I know they don’t all have to rhyme, but still, it seems like it would be hard. I don’t think we study poetry in school until next year.”
“Do you know what a haiku is?” Margaret asked.
“I’m not sure,” Libby said. “I think I’ve heard of it, but …”
“It’s a very popular type of poetry,” Margaret explained. “When I was a teacher years ago, I’d have my students create haiku. We’d go outside and the kids would take notes about the things we saw, paying special attention to the weather, the sky, and the trees and plants. Then they’d come back inside and put their thoughts and feelings into the five, seven, five format. That is, the first line has five syllables, the second line has seven syllables, and the third line has five again. They really enjoyed it. Let me see if I can do one for you as an example.”
Margaret went to the counter again and got a pen and a piece of paper. She worked for a few minutes on her poem and then she read it out loud to Libby.
“Warm tea and biscuits
soothe the heart and frazzled nerves,
like a faithful friend.”
“I love that,” Libby said. “I’ll have to try it.”
“Here,” Margaret said, “you can have this one as an example. Remember, five, seven, five. And it’s perfectly fine to count out the rhythm using your fingers.” She chuckled. “I do it all the time.”
Libby took the poem and then she stood up. “Thanks for your help. I should get home. We’re doing a photo shoot for Mr. Pemberton’s pretty soon, and I need to get ready.”
Margaret picked up the jar and handed it to Libby. “Don’t forget this.”
Libby’s eyes got wide. “But it’s yours.”
“No. I want you to have it. Maybe you won’t ever find the poem from Mae to Grace, but this jar can be a reminder to you that friends are kind and generous with each other. Mae brought peaches all the way over from America in this jar, as a token of her friendship. And then, many years later, your great-grandma gave it to me with some flowers, another lovely gesture. Friendship is about giving and receiving. Not just of things, but of time and thoughts and feelings. Let this jar remind you of that, sweet Libby. All right?”
Libby took the jar and hugged it close to her chest. Something told her that the time she’d just spent with Margaret, listening to her wise words, was probably more helpful than any poem might have been.
All the way home, Libby couldn’t stop thinking about what Margaret had said.
Friendship is about giving and receiving.
It was like the friendship bracelet she shared with her camp friends. They took turns wearing it, adding a new charm each time — giving and receiving the bracelet over and over again. Now, more than ever, it seemed like the perfect sy
mbol of their friendship.
But what about Rebecca? She and Libby didn’t have anything like that. Would they ever get back to a place where they happily shared each other’s time and thoughts and feelings, like Margaret had said?
Libby just knew she should write Rebecca a poem and try to express how she felt about all of this. The thought of doing that in three little lines seemed nearly impossible, however. Margaret made it look so easy, the same way Cedric made drawing comic books look easy.
Libby was so glad Cedric had shared that part of himself with Libby, a part he probably didn’t share with many people. It showed he felt comfortable with her and trusted her to not laugh or make fun of him, but to accept him for the person he was.
And she did. So why was she so scared about him accepting her the same way? Mostly, about accepting that her family owned the other sweetshop in town? Why didn’t she give Cedric more credit than that? He was a nice guy, who liked dogs and going for walks and making art. He’d understand, wouldn’t he?
By the time Libby got home, she felt really horrible about keeping this big part of her life a secret from him. If she wanted to stay friends with Cedric, and she did, she realized she needed to tell him the truth. Today. She couldn’t wait any longer, because it just wasn’t right.
When she walked in the front door, she heard her aunt and uncle talking in the kitchen.
“I’m home,” Libby called as she took off her coat and hung it in the coat closet.
“Oh good,” Aunt Jayne replied. “We could use your opinion, Libby. Come and tell us what you think.”
She went into the kitchen and found the two of them looking at a couple of ties Jayne held up in each of her hands. One was red with green-and-white stripes while the other one was paisley done in light green and blue colors.
“Which one do you like better?” Aunt Jayne asked.
“The one that doesn’t scream Christmas,” Libby said as she set the canning jar down on the counter before she went to get a drink of water.
“See?” Jayne said to Oliver. “Just like I thought. The shop’s lovely decorations will say happy holidays, so your tie doesn’t have to.”
Uncle Oliver chuckled. “All right. You win.”
“Who’s covering the shop while you pick out a tie to wear?” Libby asked.
“Papa and Nana,” Uncle Oliver said. “They’re staying at Grandma Grace’s house for the rest of the month. You know how much they enjoy helping out around the holidays.”
Her grandpa Pemberton (whom she called Papa) and Uncle Oliver had worked at the sweetshop together for years before Papa finally decided to retire. Papa and Nana lived in London now, so they didn’t help out much around the shop anymore, except during December.
Uncle Oliver picked up the purple jar. “What’s this?”
Libby set down her water glass as she said, “A gift from Margaret. It belonged to Grandma Grace.”
He turned it over in his hands. “Wow. Is it old?”
“Yes,” Libby said. “A friend brought it over from America on a ship. We’re pretty sure, because of the color, it was made before the First World War.”
“That was very nice of Margaret to give it to you,” Aunt Jayne said. “In the spring, it will make a lovely vase.”
“Can I keep it in my room?” Libby asked.
“Sure,” Aunt Jayne replied. Oliver handed Libby the jar, and then Jayne handed Oliver the ties.
“Shall I go get dressed, then?” Uncle Oliver asked.
“Let’s have a bite to eat first, and then we’ll all change,” Aunt Jayne said, turning toward the refrigerator.
“Ah, brilliant idea,” Uncle Oliver said. “That way we don’t risk spilling anything on our nice clothes.” He snuggled up to his wife and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Since I let you pick out my tie, do I get to pick out what dress you wear?”
“No,” both Jayne and Libby said, quite loudly. Everyone laughed.
Uncle Oliver threw his hands in the air. “My taste isn’t that awful, is it?”
Libby looked at her aunt. Then Aunt Jayne nicely said, “Oliver, that green-and-red tie is hideous. I can’t even imagine why you bought it in the first place. And then to think it would be a good idea to wear it today?”
“But it’s festive,” he argued. “Don’t you like festive?”
“Except we really don’t need to be walking Christmas trees,” Aunt Jayne said. “No, Libby and I can manage just fine choosing what we wear this afternoon.”
In the end, Libby chose a simple black skirt and an off-white sweater with a pretty lace collar. Her aunt Jayne wore a light green dress that matched Uncle Oliver’s tie almost perfectly.
As they started to step outside, they stopped. It was raining.
Jayne looked at Oliver. “Do you think we should reschedule? I’m not sure the drowned-rat look will sell sweets very well.”
“There’s no time for that,” Uncle Oliver said. “We need the photo done today so we can run the ad next week. Remember, the shop has a nice-sized awning. We’ll stand under that and we should stay dry. For the most part.”
But as they drove to the shop, the rain came down harder and harder. When they arrived, the three of them ran inside the shop and found the photographer, Mr. Liken, waiting for them, along with his assistant.
“I think it would be best to do the photo shoot another day,” Mr. Liken said.
Uncle Oliver explained the urgency of the situation and pleaded with him to take a few photos for them. “We can be quick about it. And we don’t need anything too elaborate.”
As Oliver and Mr. Liken talked the situation over, Libby went to speak to Papa and Nana. After they greeted her with a hug, her nana asked, “How are you? Anything exciting happening in Libby’s world?”
Libby quickly told them about the purple jar, because she figured her nana would like to hear the story, since Grandma Grace had been her mother.
“Mother talked a lot about Mae,” Nana said. “They were good friends for a long, long time.”
“I guess Mae wrote a sweet poem when she came to visit all those years ago,” Libby said. “Grandma Grace said she’d stuck it in the jar, but it’s not there anymore. I wish I could have read it.”
“All right, Libby,” Uncle Oliver called out just then. “Time to step outside and smile like we are absolutely thrilled to be standing in the middle of a big rainstorm. Don’t worry, we’ll try to get this over with in a hurry.”
“See you later,” Libby said to her grandparents.
Papa and Nana gave her a little wave as Libby hurried over to her aunt and uncle. Mr. Liken’s assistant held a very large umbrella for Mr. Liken to stand under while Oliver, Jayne, and Libby huddled up against the building, underneath the awning. The three of them tried their best to look like they were happy about the whole rain-drenched situation.
As they posed and smiled, changing their posture or positioning according to Mr. Liken’s instructions, Libby realized something.
If the nasty weather continued, the dog walk later would be impossible. And if she couldn’t walk the dog and meet up with Cedric, she couldn’t tell him what she really, really needed to tell him.
It had to stop raining. It just had to.
After the photo shoot, Libby rode home with her aunt while her uncle stayed at the shop so his parents wouldn’t have to worry about closing up later in the day.
Libby kept eyeing the clock, wondering if the weather would let up in time to meet Cedric at the park. She and her aunt got home around three that afternoon, each going their separate ways to change out of their nice clothes.
Once she was comfortable in jeans and a sweater, Libby sat at her desk and pulled out a piece of paper along with the haiku Margaret had given her. Since she had some time to kill, she figured she could work on the poem she wanted to write for Rebecca. She sat there, pen in hand, thinking about what she might possibly say that would make Rebecca understand how much their friendship meant to her.
She sc
ribbled words on the piece of paper only to cross them out a little while later. Over and over again she wrote something and then crossed it out.
Nothing seemed right, and it was even harder than she’d imagined.
When it was fifteen minutes before four o’clock, she stood up and went to the window. Miraculously, the clouds had parted a bit and the rain had stopped. For now, anyway. Libby ran downstairs, grabbed her coat and galoshes, which she hurried to put on, and called out, “Since it’s stopped raining, I’m going to take Dexter for a walk.”
“Take an umbrella, just to be safe,” Aunt Jayne called back.
“All right,” she replied. Dexter approached her, so she fastened his lead to his collar. Then she grabbed an umbrella before heading out the front door.
With every step, Libby’s stomach felt more anxious. But she knew she couldn’t change her mind this time. She had to tell him. It wasn’t right to keep this secret from him if she wanted to keep Cedric as a friend. And she did.
She really, really did.
When she got to the park, Cedric was already there, standing next to the play structure. When Libby walked up, she smiled and pointed to the big puddle at the bottom of the slide. “That could be fun, landing in that. Want to try it?”
He stared at the puddle and shook his head. No words came out of his mouth, which seemed strange.
“Cedric?” Libby asked. “Are you all right?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. A long moment. Finally, he looked at her and said, “How come you didn’t tell me?”
Libby gulped. “Tell you what?”
“I saw you,” he said softly. “Standing in front of the shop, getting your photo taken. With your parents. I mean, your aunt and uncle.”
Libby’s heart raced as she tried to figure out what to say. Before she could think of anything, Cedric continued, “My mum wanted to see how Mr. Pemberton’s is decorated for the holidays. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you.” He shook his head and looked down at the ground again.