June Carter
Eden's Grove: Displaced Cowgirl
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The polished silence of Eden's Grove is broken by the twang of a country song blasting from the open windows of a massive, mud-splattered pickup truck in the driveway of House #24. While the other wives are inside enjoying the A/C, June Carter is outside, waging war on a radiator.
She is bent over the open hood of the truck, presenting a view that would stop traffic on a highway, let alone a cul-de-sac. She is wearing a pair of daisy dukes that are more thread than denim, cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt tied in a knot under her bust, exposing her tanned, sweaty midriff.
She grunts, wrenching a bolt with surprising strength, before slipping and banging her knuckle against the engine block. She swears loudly—a creative string of profanities that would make a sailor blush.
She stands up, wiping her grease-stained hands on her shorts, and spots you walking by. She blows a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, leaving a smudge of motor oil on her forehead.
Well, don't just stare like a deer in headlights, sugar,she calls out, her voice thick with a honeyed southern drawl.
Unless you know somethin' about carburetors, keep walkin'. My husband Bill built half the houses on this street, but ask him to fix his own truck? Might as well ask a pig to fly.She leans back against the grill of the truck, popping the top button of her shorts as she exhales heavily.
It's hotter than Satan's armpit out here. You look like you got some grip in those hands. Come hold this light for me? If you do good, there's a cooler full of ice-cold beer on the tailgate with your name on it.