Page 2 of Tastes Like Summer

“How’s Emiliana doing, by the way? With her diagnosis?”

My gaze drifts over to my daughters, watching as they play in the sand, barefooted, with some other kids from the wedding party. I smile, feeling relief when I hear them laugh and giggle with their new friends. They need this summer of relaxation and rebuilding as much as I do. The divorce has been difficult for Camila, my oldest. But it’s been brutal for Emiliana. It wasn’t enough for her parents to separate, for her whole family life to destabilize. Nope. Her body decided it was also time for it to fail on her. At least, her pancreas did.

“I don’t think she gets how type 1 diabetes works yet. I mean, we only just found out ten months ago and I barely get what best practices are. But she’ll get there. And I will, too. It’s just been difficult. Her life is the one that’s changed the most, and I just wish I could protect her from it, somehow. Protect them both.”

Rosie nods, taking a sip from her champagne flute. “You’re doing your best, though. And that’s all anyone can ask of you. You know that, right?”

I sigh, my eyes on my kids’ happy faces. Warmth spreads through my chest as I watch them play, looking more themselves and relaxed than they have in months. It brings me hope. It dismisses my previous concerns on whether or not I made the right call by taking them away from their home for the next twelve weeks.

“I hope you’re right,” I reply, slightly appeased. Still, I pick at my crab cake, appetite nowhere to be found.

Eventually, Rosie leaves me at the table to join Asher on the dance floor. And while I meant what I said and am happy for her and all the lucky couples holding each other as they sway to the music, there’s only so much I can take. So I snuggle into my wrap and slip off my sandals. Feeling the cold, soft sand between my toes, I move closer to where all the kids run around, chasing each other. I’m not clear on what the rules of the game they’re playing are, but I couldn’t care less. They’re happy and enjoying themselves, which is all I can hope for nowadays. My girls may not realize it yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re excited about this summer, too. They’re in desperate need of this distraction. Try as I might to protect them, to protect their relationship with their father, it’s become increasingly obvious to me that they know he’s not the man they thought he was. Through small comments here, certain looks there, I’m starting to believe my daughters are more aware of the situation than they lead on. And that must be impossible and confusing for them.

They’re strong, though. I can tell by the way they carry themselves, even at this age. They’ll adapt and grow from this experience. I just need to protect them enough that they don’t get hurt.

I adjust my wrap when it slips off one shoulder, wind tugging at my dark hair as I watch them with a smile on my face. It isn’t until I see a man approach the children, balancing several plates with large slices of cake on them, that my stomach drops. I run over to my girls, dropping my sandals and wrap as I do, and pull them to my side.

In a panic, I pull the plates from both my daughters’ grasps and toss them on the sand as if they were made of poison. A slight overreaction, I know. But you try being a parent to a newly-diagnosed type 1 diabetic daughter.

“Mom!” my oldest whines. “We were gonna eat that.”

“Your sister can’t have cake, Camila. I’ve told you guys this a thousand times. She needs to watch what she eats, on top of the medication she takes.”

“Is everything okay?” the man with the plates asks.

At average height, the man stands before me in a chef’s coat. His light brown hair mussed, he stares wide-eyed at me as he finishes passing the remaining plates of the cake to the rest of the kids around us.

“I was just⁠—”

“You were just handing out food to unmonitored children without asking their parents if it was okay. Without asking whether they had any food allergies or any other health concerns,” I snap.

His golden-brown eyes widen, his back straightens, and even under his chef’s coat, I can see the way his muscles tense. “I—I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“You didn’t mean to, but you did. And how dare you just approach a group of children with sweets?” I hiss. “Can’t you see the way that looks? Are you some kind of weirdo or something?”

“Whoa!” He lifts his hands in the air as if I were pointing a gun in his direction (which, to be honest, I probably would if I could—momma bear instincts, and all of that). “I am not some sick predator, alright? My daughter—Rachel, come here,” he calls out to one of the girls who was playing with Camila and Emiliana and takes hold of her hand. “My daughter was over here playing, just like yours, and I wanted to offer her and her new friends the cake I spent hours making.”

“The cake you made?” I lift an eyebrow.

He points to himself. “Uh, chef? Can’t you see my jacket? I obviously catered the wedding. Why else would I be wearing this coat?”

I grow even more irritated with him because, dammit, his food was delicious.

“I don’t know your life,” I tell him haughtily.

Weirdo Chef snorts and shakes his head. “I just wanted the kids to have a piece before the adults ate it all. I didn’t mean anything malicious by it. I thought I was doing something good. I was being nice.”

“Well, if you think a normal parent would ever be okay with a stranger offering their kid food without their permission, then you’re off your rocker. Or just a really bad parent yourself.”

At my words, his expression suddenly shifts from apologetic to anger. “Are you calling me a shitty parent? Seriously?”

I shrug once. “If the chef’s jacket fits. How else would you ever, in your right mind, think what you did is okay? Or that cursing like that in front of them is acceptable?”

I know it’s a low blow for any parent to hear even a whisper of a suggestion that their parenting skills suck, so I’m pretty sure that stung. But by the expression on his face, it seems like I’ve pushed the right button a little too hard.

“Mami, please,” Camila begs. “I promise neither one of us will eat the cake. But can we go? You’re embarrassing us.”

I look down at my daughter as she pulls at my hand, trying to get me to move. “Embarrassing you?” God, when did she grow up? “Camila, I’m having a conversation with—with⁠—”