Free A Basket Brigade Christmas by Judith Mccoy Miller

crowd. We might at least thank them for their support.”
    “You do it,” Lucy said. “You’re the store manager. Besides that, without your and Mrs. Tompkins’s enthusiasm, this wouldn’t be happening at all.”
    Mr. Tait—never one to call attention to himself, Lucy realized—asked Mr. Friede to join him. As the door opened, a titter of expectation sounded from the gathered ladies—and, Lucy noted, more than one gentleman. Mr. Tait began by introducing “one of the finest jewelers in the Midwest.” He lauded Mr. Friede’s generosity and then looked toward Mrs. Tompkins as he said, “And now, without further ado, the Golden Needle Award.”
    The instant Mrs. Tompkins removed the veil, Mrs. Collins, who had been sure to arrive early enough to be standing right in front of the display case, leaned close. It seemed that every other woman in the crowd held her breath, waiting for the irascible woman to suggest what they should think. When Mrs. Collins finally spoke, Lucy sighed with relief.
    “It’s magnificent,” she said, and then looked over at Mr. Tait. “What did I tell you? Speak with Meyer Friede. He does fine work.” She glanced about her. “Mr. Collins had a piece designed for me just last year.”
    As ladies spilled into the mercantile, Lucy pulled Mr. Tait to the side. “I didn’t know you’d consulted with Mrs. Collins about the award.”
    Silas shrugged. “Neither did I. Although now that I think about it, I might have mentioned Mr. Friede in a conversation right before I left for St. Louis. I don’t recall that she said anything about his skill one way or the other. How fortuitous for us all that she approves the design.”
    “I know you were at least partly joking when you first mentioned a Golden Needle Award, but it was an inspired idea. Truly inspired, Silas. Thank you.”
Silas.
Somehow the familiarity felt right. After all, hadn’t they become more than employer-employee in recent weeks? Still, she shouldn’t presume. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you by your Christian name,” she said. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”
    “I would never think you did. You needn’t have asked permission.” He hesitated. “I would not, however, want you to invite disapproval on the part of Mrs. Collins. She’s already caused you quite enough difficulty questioning your decisions in matters that were not her concern.”
    Lucy pondered the warning. Finally, she said, “Perhaps we shouldn’t worry quite so much about Mrs. Collins. In fact, if we’re going to give her something to disapprove, let’s do it right. Please call me Lucy.”

Chapter 8

    O nce the Golden Needle Award was on display at the mercantile, the number of ladies joining in the work at Lucy’s house increased daily. Mrs. Collins began to come every day. Lucy suspected that her motivation was a desire to keep an eye on her competition. Whatever the reason, Lucy was thrilled to see how well the community had responded overall. It made her wish that she’d opened her home on behalf of the cause long ago.
    When someone suggested that the ladies tuck anonymous notes of encouragement in with their gifts to the wounded, Lucy cleared off her father’s desk in the library to facilitate that part of the project. On days when there were more notes than blankets or socks, the ladies simply handed notes out along with the food. No soldier ever refused. Every soldier was pleased.
    Lucy began to join the ladies writing notes at every opportunity, especially when Silas was using the machine to attach binding to comforters. Unexpected friendship blossomed at Father’s desk, as Portia Dameron, who was, like Lucy, still single, threatened to sign her letters and to invite soldiers to Decatur to meet an “old maid” who wasn’t yet “totally resigned to spinsterhood.”
    “You wouldn’t!” Lucy said, horrified.
    “Of course not,” Portia replied. But then she gave a wicked grin and leaned forward to whisper, “but