Jenny had warned Bob the day before, "Don't get your hopes up about this Mia girl, just because you can't pigeonhole her. You've hired some great ones before, but they're never our savior. She won't be either."
"I know, I know," Bob had admitted.
"I wouldn't count on a girl like that to be into Nude Day either, you know," Jenny had further warned, with that old playful glint in her eye.
"Then she doesn't have to participate," Bob had said with some firmness he rarely used anymore, and that was that.
But now, standing by his parked truck on the corner of First and High just inside the city limits of their dying little town, he wondered. Hadn't he maybe been holding out a bit of hope about this woman who was so unlike any of her predecessors?
Probably not really, he concluded, for even on paper Mia was the exact opposite of the type he'd always selected before. Which once again made Bob wonder just what had possessed him to hire someone who really didn't fit the bill in any meaningful way that he could see?
Worst of all, what would Mandi have to say about it? "Prep" was the word she'd have used on Mia for sure, and Bob could still hear her spitting it out like it tasted bad.
Mandi, the love of his life, had been gone for over a decade now. But the love of his life wasn't all the cancer had taken. Gone with her was the vibrant, mildly matriarchal community they had maintained so well for so long at their farmhouse five miles out of town. Her dying wish had been for him to give troubled young women like she had once been a fair chance. "Hire 'em for the summer, Bob, and see if they're cut from our cloth. Troublemakers, druggies, losers, it doesn't matter -- sometimes they just haven't found their tribe. I want you to help some of them do that, Bob!"
Bob was proud to say he had. Every summer since he'd gotten over the shock of losing Mandi, he'd put out the word among his network of hippies and assorted misfits all over the country that there was a job available for a young woman who needed a fresh start in life. All expenses paid including room and board at what had once been The Commune, and all she needed to do in return was work at the attached café and junk shop where he and Jenny, the last remnants of the commune, were the only permanent staff. He hadn't expected a great response to his first query, but envelopes had poured in from near and far containing essays about broken homes and dropping out and drugs and booze and abortions and worse. Always priding himself on not rejecting any letters for poor grammar or spelling -- he'd have had to reject nearly all of them if he had done that anyway -- Bob had taken each story seriously and had come to be an astute judge of whom he was best able to help with a summer at the commune.
Which had him all the more bewildered now that he'd hired Mia this time around.
Despite casting a wide net in his search and having few hard and fast qualifications for the job, Bob had long ago learned that nearly all his summer assistants fell into just a couple of categories: the druggie, the dropout, the chip on the shoulder. Lots of overlap, but they'd all fit at least one of those categories -- until now.
While most of her predecessors had barely made it through high school or dropped out, Mia had explained in her application that she was a recent graduate of a snooty private college (one Bob's own parents had encouraged him to attend decades before, but he'd lit out for California instead), and had weathered a year as a trainee accountant back in her hometown. On paper she sounded for all the world for just the sort of thing Bob and Mandi had spent their lives trying to escape from.
But her soul-baring essay, written in a melancholy sort of poetry-in-prose, had struck a chord Bob couldn't describe but could sure as heck feel. A star on paper, deeply discontented in reality, very much in need of a fresh start somewhere far, far away. And so he had a new category to add to his list: the prep. And he only hoped Mandi could forgive him.
The label fit, Bob saw the moment he saw Mia step off the bus: utterly incongruous to their rural setting in a sensible skirt and blouse, peering out at the scene through thick glasses, a sports-bottle of water in one hand and the other pinning an expensive-looking purse to her shoulder, nodding politely at Bob before she turned her attention to the young man behind her who was lugging her suitcase off the bus.
Mia had not seen a photograph of Bob before, but he was the only townie waiting at the bus stop and she acknowledged him with a smile. After thanking her helper with a cordial smile that tacitly said "no tip, and you're not getting my phone number," she turned her businesslike facade to Bob. "Hello, Bob," she told him, extending her hand for him to shake. "I'm Mia."
"Welcome," Bob said, looking up at the first assistant to date who was taller than he: 6'1" at least, triggering lovely memories of Mandi although she would never have worn Mia's preppy, girlish outfit. She was built - the kind of woman who had probably been called a beanpole as a teenager, but who had filled out at last. He picked up her suitcase to carry to the truck. "Let's get you to the farm."
"Before we do, is there a ladies' room around here?" Mia asked, gesturing to the sports-bottle clutched in her left hand.
"Not at this hour," Bob said. "The shops all have one, but they won't be open for an hour or so yet. It's only about ten minutes to the farm, though."
Mia looked back over her shoulder at the heavy woods across the street, and handed him the sports bottle. "Hold this," she said, and before he could express his disbelief, she was off across the street.
Bob set her suitcase in the back of the pickup and then averted his gaze towards the town square up the block, wondering if this was her idea of a joke. Evidently it wasn't.
"Thank you," she said on her return, taking back the bottle. "You'll get used to this, I promise," she added, waving the water bottle in explanation. "I drink a
lot
of water. All kinds of health benefits to it, really. I pee constantly, but it's worth it."
"You didn't strike me as the pee in the woods type," Bob admitted as he unlocked the passenger door.
"I'm the do what you need to do type," she told him. "And when you drink as much water as I do..."
"With that attitude, I think you'll fit in very well in the commune," Bob said, though he wasn't looking forward to sharing the bathroom with her.
"The commune? Isn't it just you? And me for the summer?"
"Well, yes," Bob admitted as he pulled the truck out into the road. "Force of habit, I guess. It used to be a commune."
Used to be a commune
