Page 62 of Safe Hands

Carly hung Berkeley’s lead on the peg over Reggie’s and took off her coat. By the time she’d hung that too, Lauren was on her feet, wringing her hands.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I’m sorry. That’s rough. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one with MND.”

“I know, but…”

Carly pointed down the hall, where Reggie stood in the kitchen doorway looking expectant. “Shall we?”

“Oh. Yes!”

Passing the living room, Carly saw the blanket from earlier now draped over half the sofa, and the floor already strewn with toys.

In the kitchen, Lauren filled the kettle at the sink under the window. “Tea?”

“Something cold would be great. Thanks.”

Carly rested a hand on the back of a pine chair, one of four round a small table. Worn varnish, but clean. A pair of battered running shoes by the back door, laces undone. Like Lauren’s car, it was dated but tidy.

Lauren abandoned the kettle and produced two chews from a drawer. “Can Berkeley have one?”

Carly nodded and watched her ask each dog for a paw before handing over the prize. They trotted off down the hall.

“So,” Lauren said, hands on hips. Then she leapt into action again and produced a packet of shortcake from a different drawer.

Carly smiled. So much for her theory about homemakers and weed-free lawns. Paige had been gone for weeks, and the woman still buying shortcake and keeping a spare blanket for somebody else’s dog was standing right in front of her.

“I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid.”

“You’re never too old for a shortie.” Lauren tore the packet open and held it out. “Listen. I’m sorry about the dad thing. If I’d known, I’d have kept my big mouth shut.”

“Nothing to apologise for.” Plenty of people knew. His old customers ran fundraisers for MND charities now. That was the sort of community he’d built.

“Still. Is that why you had to leave the army?”

“I didn’t have to do anything.” It came out sharper than she meant, and she tried to soften it with a shrug. “I wanted to help.”

Lauren clocked the nerve she’d touched. She turned away, mixed two glasses of orange squash, and changed the subject. “So what did you want earlier?”

The truth was that Carly had been about to book a massage. In the gym, that would have been professional. In Lauren’s kitchen, it felt personal, and they’d already been personal enough for one evening.

“Sorted. Don’t worry. How’s Paige?”

Lauren handed her a glass and dug her phone out of her jeans. “Shit, I completely forgot about Paige. It’s been on silent since my five o’clock.” She swiped at the screen. “He was born twenty minutes ago. Nearly nine pounds. And they’ve called him Sam.”

Carly set her glass down, surprised by a creeping warmth in her chest. She’d thrown that name across a table in the clubhouse with a battered Fireman Sam book in her lap, expecting it to be picked up and put down again. They’d kept it.

“Is nine pounds big or small?” Lauren frowned at the screen. “I genuinely have no idea.”

“Big,” Carly said, grateful for a practical question. “One of my nieces was seven-two. My sister brought it up every Christmas for about a decade.”

“Why? Is that bad?”

“It’s a baby, not a deadlift.”

“Which sister?”

“Samantha.”