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On Padua Lane, they still talk about the night that Kate Minola kicked her cheating husband to the curb-’according to town lore, her shrieks could be heard as far as Verona Avenue. No one was ever exactly sure how Kate found out about the affair, and no one dared ask her. But on the night in question, the quiet of Padua Lane suddenly erupted into a domestic volcano of Vesuvian proportions. The hot orange lava of Kate’s rage seeped out their windows, flowed out the doors, and ran down the street, singeing everything in its path.
There were death threats. (From Kate) There were tears. (From the cowed husband.) The couple who lived directly across the street, Nikki and Bill, sat up half the night in their darkened living room watching out the windows in appalled amazement. The show went on so long they made popcorn. At one point, Kate chased her husband out the door, screaming and hurling objects at his back, while their dog Buddy nipped at his ankles. When Kate ran out of curses in English, she switched to Italian. They made three laps around the house before her disgraced and terrified husband finally escaped into his car and drove away.
"Yikes," Bill said. "I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that." He looked outside at the lawn covered in silk ties and leather shoes, the shirts that hung from the open windows like flags, and the ruined laptop, glinting silver under its shower from the lawn sprinklers.
Nikki patted her husband’s arm. "No worries on that score, darling." She kissed his cheek. "But you may want to remember it. As an object lesson, of course."
Missing the steely look in her eye, Bill smiled at his wife’s joke, secure in the knowledge that he had married a good-natured woman. But their neighbor was another story. He shook his head, firmly convinced that there wasn’t a guy on earth-’let alone in Jersey-’ crazy enough to get involved with Kate Minola, aka the Shrew of Padua Lane.