Friction and Fire

Misfire Part 1

The Lancaster estate never looks more like a fortress than at dinnertime. The dining room is a minor cathedral—ceilings so high they could host a hot-air balloon, walls lacquered to a gloss, windows tall enough to embarrass a confession booth. A table, longer than Rhonda’s childhood home, stretches the length of the room, polished so bright it’s a mirror for every anxious face.

The air is charged and antiseptic: lemon oil, fresh-cut lilies, the invisible tang of money scrubbed so clean it stings. The place settings are little works of art. Crystal glasses—three per person—spark like icicles in the dusk light, and there are so many forks it’s clear the meal will either be a marathon or a test of faith.

Rhonda stands in the entry, boots planted wide on the lacquered floor, every inch of her radiating the resolve to not bolt for the nearest fire escape. The dress Alicia picked for her is a deep red—one of those numbers that hugs everywhere, making her look less like a mechanic and more like the villain in a telenovela. The only part that feels like her are the boots: scuffed, matte black, unrepentant beneath the hem.

Alicia looks at her with a mixture of nerves and hero worship. She’s in a pale blue number, hair curled and pinned back, shoes so new they still have the price tag hidden under the left sole. Her whole body vibrates with the effort of appearing calm.

“We’re early,” Alicia whispers, as if the house can hear her.

“They make clocks for a reason,” Rhonda says, but she softens it with a nudge. “Just means we get the good hors d’oeuvres before they run out.”

Alicia bites back a laugh, then worries at her lower lip. “Should I go in first?”

“It’s your show,” Rhonda says, but she makes sure to step in beside her, not behind.

The room is already alive with the low thrum of staff—black-clad servers drifting around the edges, prepping bread baskets, uncorking wine with the kind of dignity that suggests they’d rather be performing surgery. A butler—a real one, not the fake kind from television—gestures them to the far end of the table, where Mark waits. He looks like he’s spent the last hour practicing smiles in the mirror, and is stuck somewhere between “thrilled” and “hostage tape.”

“Hey,” Mark says, standing up so fast he nearly launches his chair into the antique sideboard. He kisses Alicia on the cheek, then gives Rhonda a handshake so formal it feels like a dare. “You both look amazing.”

“You look like you need a drink,” Rhonda replies, squeezing his fingers until he winces, then letting go. “Where’s the rest of the death squad?”

“Mother’s upstairs with the florist. Vondrel is—” Mark glances at the empty chair at the head of the table, lips thinning. “He’ll be here.”

Alicia slides into her seat, smoothing her dress and offering up a smile that could melt steel. “This is beautiful, Mark. Really.”

He relaxes a notch. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. For you.”

Rhonda makes a face, but under the table she finds Alicia’s hand and squeezes it once, quick and warm.

The silence starts to stretch, so Mark fills it. “Did you two find the place okay? I know it’s a maze.”

“Your security guy frisked us for explosives,” Rhonda says. “He looked disappointed when he only found a pocket knife.”

Mark laughs. “Old habits. You’d be surprised how many board members have tried to torch the wine cellar.”

Alicia giggles, and for a second, the tension lightens.

Then the temperature in the room drops three degrees.

Cynthia Lancaster arrives.

She doesn’t enter so much as glide, all posture and poise, her suit a precise shade of winter-gray, hair swept back in a silver chignon so severe it could be a helmet. Her eyes—steel-gray, same as her son’s—scan the table with the efficiency of a missile lock. She lands on Alicia first, bestows a gracious nod, then lets her gaze travel to Rhonda. There is no flicker, no tic, nothing but a microsecond’s calculation. Then she’s smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you check your wallet.

“Ms. Taylor,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m glad you could join us.”

Rhonda accepts the handshake, noting the chill and the grip, both fine-tuned to a perfect, bloodless courtesy. “Thanks for having us,” Rhonda replies, matching her volume but none of her venom.

Cynthia’s eyes move to the boots, linger, then flick up to the dress. “You wear it well,” she offers, and the compliment is almost genuine.

Alicia beams. “Rhonda can make anything look good.”

“Especially handcuffs,” Rhonda mutters.

Cynthia doesn’t blink. “I’m sure.”

A butler materializes to pull out Cynthia’s chair. Once seated, she addresses Alicia. “How are the wedding plans? Mark tells me you’ve been working tirelessly.”

Alicia nods, looking down at her lap. “It’s all coming together. I just want it to be—” She glances at Mark, then finishes, “special.”

“I’m certain it will be,” Cynthia says. She folds her napkin with surgical precision. “This family has a long tradition of memorable weddings.”

Rhonda wants to say, Yeah, I bet the in-laws remember them for years, but she clamps her jaw shut.

A hush settles over the table, broken only by the faint clink of glasses and the shuffle of servers setting out appetizers: bite-sized towers of something that probably cost more per ounce than gasoline. Mark tries to bridge the silence.

“Alicia made the centerpiece for tonight,” he says, gesturing at the arrangement of wildflowers and wheat in the middle of the table. “She thought it might bring a little—”

“Charm,” Alicia says, interrupting with a shy smile.

Cynthia studies the centerpiece as though it might move on its own. “How… inventive,” she says. “Did you gather these yourself?”

“I did,” Alicia says, proud. “I wanted to remind Mark of his roots.”

Cynthia’s lips quirk. “Lancasters are not known for roots. We’re more of a… canopy family.”

Rhonda can’t help herself. “All that shade, you mean?”

A tiny pause. Cynthia acknowledges the barb with a nod. “Very much so.”

There’s a beat, then Alicia jumps in. “Rhonda owns her own shop. She rebuilt Mark’s old Mustang last year. Did he tell you?”

Cynthia sips her water. “I heard. I’m glad it’s finally roadworthy. It’s been a conversation piece for decades.”

Rhonda tries to imagine Mark as a reckless teenager, then immediately imagines Cynthia as a mother tracking every second with a stopwatch and a clipboard. It fits.

A parade of servers enters, gliding through the room like they’re on rails. Dishes are set and cleared, wine is poured, and every gesture is so smooth it’s like choreography. Through it all, Cynthia maintains a running tally—what’s said, what’s implied, what’s left unspoken.

Rhonda has a growing suspicion that every guest at this table, herself included, is part of an audition.

It’s not until the soup course that Cynthia starts her next act.

“I understand you’re close with your father, Ms. Taylor.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda says. “We still do Sunday dinner when we can.”

“Lovely,” Cynthia says. “Mark, do you remember Sunday dinners?”

Mark nearly chokes on a spoonful of bisque. “Uh, sure.”

“We always made time for family,” Cynthia says, looking past him at Rhonda. “No matter how busy, no matter what crisis was brewing.”

There’s a challenge there, and Rhonda reads it loud and clear.

Alicia clears her throat, rallying. “Maybe we could try a Taylor-Lancaster Sunday dinner after the wedding. Blend the traditions.”

Cynthia considers, then smiles, brittle as a snowflake. “It’s possible. But the logistics might be tricky. Our family is very… particular.”

Rhonda feels the urge to snap the breadstick in her hand, but she settles for breaking it with deliberate slowness. “We like particular. Keeps things interesting.”

There’s another silence, and Rhonda’s boots tap under the table, a metronome for her patience.

At last, Vondrel enters.

He’s late, and everyone knows it, but he acts like time is something that only applies to other people. His suit is navy, shirt open at the collar, hair slightly mussed from rain or rage or both. He gives a nod to Cynthia, a nod to Mark, and a longer look to Rhonda that says everything he’s not allowed to say out loud.

“Apologies,” he says, moving to his seat at the head of the table. “The market never sleeps.”

Cynthia looks at him, and for a moment Rhonda can see the battle lines, drawn and redrawn over years.

“We started without you,” Cynthia says.

Vondrel shrugs. “You always do.”

The tension crackles, but it’s not anger this time. It’s something older, half-resigned, half-sport.

Rhonda finds herself staring at him, trying to decode his mood. He seems tired, but not defeated—there’s a current under the surface, a game being played that no one else is in on.

Mark tries to keep things light. “Vondrel, you missed the wildflowers. Alicia picked them herself.”

Vondrel glances at the arrangement, then at Alicia. “Perfect choice,” he says, and for once, it sounds real.

The servers arrive with the main course: roast lamb, rare and glistening, flanked by towers of vegetables too beautiful to eat. Wine is poured with the solemnity of a blood pact.

As the plates are set, Rhonda catches Vondrel watching her. He raises his glass, just a hair, and she returns the gesture, matching his stare. Across the table, Cynthia misses nothing.

Conversation stumbles, then picks up in strange, nervous fits—wedding plans, guest lists, the weather. Every word is loaded, every smile sharp as cut glass. Alicia tries her best, laughing a little too loud at Mark’s jokes. Mark clings to her hand under the table, the two of them a bulwark against the storm.

Rhonda feels her old instincts kick in. She’s the only thing standing between her sister and this family’s appetite. Every word, every gesture, every bite—she takes it all in, ready to shield or deflect as needed.

But as the meal rolls on, she finds herself less angry and more amused. The Lancasters are just like any other family, only with better silverware and a bigger capacity for bullshit.

She sits back, polishes off her lamb, and wonders what it would be like to face off with Cynthia in a fair fight.

The idea makes her smile.

At the end of the first course, a lull settles. The candles burn lower, the wine flows more freely, and for a brief, perfect moment, everyone is quiet.

Rhonda glances at Vondrel. He’s looking back at her, an unreadable smile at the corner of his mouth.

Game on, she thinks.

And the real meal hasn’t even started yet.