"I'm sorry about the wait, ma'am. Can I get you something?"
"Just a coffee, please. Black."
"Of course. Right away."
Tara hurried to the galley. Brenda looked up from her magazine as Tara reached for the coffee pot. The magazine folded shut with a crisp snap.
"What are you doing?" Brenda asked.
"She pressed the call button 7 minutes ago."
"I'll decide when passengers get served on my aircraft, not you."
Tara froze. Her hand hovered over the coffee cup. She could feel Brenda's stare on the side of her face like heat from an open flame. "She asked for a coffee, Brenda. That's all."
"I know what she asked for." Brenda leaned in close. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the kind of whisper that's designed to travel, the kind that wants to be overheard. "That woman does not belong on this plane. I don't know who she called or whose name she borrowed, but I've been doing this for 22 years, and I know exactly what our clients look like. She is not one of them. Not even close."
Tara said nothing. She poured the coffee with unsteady hands, placed it on a saucer, and brought it to Olivia. The cup rattled faintly against the porcelain as she set it down.
"Here you go, ma'am. I'm sorry for the delay."
Olivia looked at Tara: saw the red flush creeping up from her collar to her jawline, saw the way her eyes were saying something her mouth couldn't form into words, saw a young woman caught between knowing what was right and fearing what it would cost her.
"Thank you," Olivia said softly.