March 14, 1939
"I noticed you didn't sleep much."
Jennifer looked up from the newspaper when Detective Buchanan spoke. "You noticed?" she asked, her brow raised curiously.
It was their first morning together, following their first night together as 'husband and wife' sharing a bedroom and thankfully not a bed. Jennifer's single bed was beside the wardrobe and it had been comfortable enough but sharing a bedroom with a relative stranger, even if he was in another bed four feet away and not nestled under the covers beside her, was uncomfortable to say the least. And add to that the fact that she was on an operation with the FBI. She wasn't Jennifer Mapplethorpe, Private Detective anymore. She was Trish Claybourne, married to Wesley Claybourne and living above the shop they owned in Bushwick.
The first day in the apartment was fine. She and Detective Buchanan—Wesley—had spent their time looking over their new home first and then the store downstairs. They'd have to be at home here in order to carry off the operation. It was their home, they ran that shop, they were a happily married couple. They'd spent days nonstop learning about the Claybournes in order to be able to impersonate them effectively. Getting to know their surroundings was a big part of that. As was getting to know each other, but they hadn't really gotten a hang of that yet.
Detective Buchanan answered, "I'm a pretty light sleeper. I noticed you were tossing and turning a lot. Do you usually have trouble sleeping?"
Jennifer figured it was a fair question, given their circumstances. But she couldn't help bristling at the personal question. Still, she answered. "Not at home. Hopefully just the first night in a new place. And I'm not used to having another person so close by."
His eyes widened, as though he just now realized that there might be some impropriety about it, an unmarried man and woman sharing a bedroom. Jennifer had already taken to changing her clothes in the bathroom. Really, she didn't mind much if he saw her partially undressed, given that they were professionals and they were going to be living and working side by side for the next six months, but Jennifer thought it best to not invite any further awkwardness between them. Nick Buchanan seemed like a gentleman, and she wasn't about to push the limits of that, just in case he wasn't.
"It's alright," she assured him. "I've got a cat at home who wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes by standing on my face. So as long as you don't do that, I think we'll be fine."
His lips quirked into a smile at that. He took a sip of his coffee and otherwise did not respond.
Jennifer went back to reading the newspaper, trying to feel some sense of normalcy from the day. Though obviously nothing was normal about this. She was used to living alone and sleeping in as she pleased and going out on an investigation or heading to her office whenever she needed to that particular day. One of the benefits to being a private detective was answering to her clients on her own terms and otherwise having no one to answer to at all. Things were going to be very different for her the next six months.
If trying to sleep with a man in the next bed was odd, it was nothing compared to how the morning had started. She had eventually fallen asleep but was then woken not by an alarm or the sun or even the sounds of her 'husband' getting up and moving about. No, instead she was woken by the smell of bacon. Jennifer got up and put on her robe and slippers and went to the kitchen to investigate. There, she found Detective Buchanan fully dressed in a pair of beige slacks and a white shirt with red pinstripes over which he wore a frilly pink apron.
Apparently Jennifer was now living with a morning person. A morning person who liked to be up and dressed for breakfast. A morning person who was up and dressed and cooked breakfast himself. She'd never heard of such a thing from a man.
Before she could question the odd circumstances, he noticed that she'd arrived, and he directed her to the table and the newspaper, and before she knew it, a cup of coffee and a plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon were all in front of her. The meal had been absolutely delicious.
"If we're supposed to be married, shouldn't I be the one to do the cooking?" Jennifer asked him.
He shrugged. "I cook for myself usually, so I don't mind doing breakfast. I like getting up early and getting the day started."
She hummed noncommittally.
"I take it you're not an early riser?"
"I work a lot of late nights, so I'm in the habit of sleeping in. Though I suppose a happy wife helping her husband running a shop should be up and dressed with properly set hair first thing in the morning."
"We can work up to that. I don't expect you to wait on me like a wife, not when we're alone here."
"Still, I should break my habits of living alone and put on a better show. We wouldn't want to slip when we aren't alone here," she pointed out.
He nodded. "You can make lunch and dinner, if you want."
Jennifer couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah, alright. I do a great turkey sandwich."
"I don't really like mayonnaise," he informed her.
Her small smirk grew into a genuine smile. "Duly noted, Wesley. Any other preferences I should keep in mind?"
He thought for a moment, taking her request seriously. That was another interesting thing about him. He knew how to play along with a joke, but he always seemed to take her opinion and her questions to heart. A very strange man. And even stranger, he answered, "I don't eat porkchops or ham. My favorite food is roast chicken with a baked potato with all the fixings."
"I can do that," she confirmed. "Are you a gin or vodka drinker?"
"Vodka when it's around, but I'd rather have a beer. You?"
"Gin or whiskey or wine. But I'm not too picky," she said. "And I can't stand beets."
"I've got a great borscht recipe that I guess I won't be making for the next six months." His eyes sparkled as he lightly teased her. She smiled in response.
Nick Buchanan had never run a store before. His mother was a seamstress and worked out of their apartment, and Nick went to school and right to the police academy as soon as he finished. The only experience he had with shops like this was as a customer.
Miss Mapplethorpe, however, was a natural. They'd given themselves a little tour when they arrived yesterday, and she hadn't said much. He noticed that about her. She was a little chattier than he was, and very direct thus far, but she was sharply observant and focused on the task at hand. Probably came from her experience as a private eye working by herself. But today, now that they'd opened the store, it was like someone had flipped a switch inside her. She was friendly and bright and charming. Not at all the wary, reserved woman he'd known the last few days.
They only had a couple customers in the morning, but she had been the absolute picture of a saleswoman to each and every one of them. Nick was a bit in awe of her, if he was honest. He didn't know how she did it. Though he took note of her demeanor and did his best to match it. Maybe she was used to going undercover like this in her work. Nick had done a little bit here and there, but usually just to observe. If he was going to be shop owner Wesley Claybourne, he'd have to get better at putting on the charm the way Miss Mapplethorpe—Trish—seemed to do so easily.
But when they closed up for lunch, the façade fell quickly. Her whole countenance shifted when they flipped the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed' and Nick was surprised by her heavy sigh.
"I'm going to have pace myself if we've gotta do this for six months," she grumbled.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"All the smiling and cheerful assistance with the customers. It's exhausting."
"You're wonderful at it," he told her sincerely.
"Thank you," she answered. "But we'll see what happens when we get some shady characters coming in."
That was certainly something to consider. "I think you play it the same way. A smart dame makes most men, especially those shady characters, a little on edge."
She nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. I can be the sweet, doting wife and eager about assisting customers. Are you good with playing shrewd?"
"I've been thinking about that, actually. Wesley Claybourne wears clothes like this," he said, pointing to his ridiculous striped shirt. "I've gotta have the personality to match. Fun and breezy. In on the joke, you know?"
"I think that's just right," she complimented. "We'll have to get used to playing off each other, though, if we're going to carry it off."
"Yeah, true. We can see how it goes on some customers this afternoon." He unlocked the door to their apartment at the top of the stairs.
Miss Mapplethorpe went in when he held the door for her. "I'm starving. I think a turkey sandwich is just the thing, don't you?"
"Fine," he agreed. Nick was walking behind her and couldn't help but notice the sway of her hips in that skirt. She had a red skirt with white polka dots and a white blouse on top. The seam of her stockings was slightly off-center.
Nick got a couple glasses of water for each of them while she made the sandwiches. He wasn't sure how this was going to work, being side by side in the kitchen like this. They didn't know each other, and they were both used to living alone. To Nick's surprise, she seemed to anticipate where he was and moved around him as elegant as a dancer. And he was able to do the same. He wasn't sure how he knew where she was going to go, but they both seemed to just…know. Hopefully that would bode well for their future together.
"This is great," he commented after taking a bite of the sandwich she made.
She put a hand over her mouth as she chewed and thanked him. For some reason, Nick liked that she did that.
Everything Nick learned about this Jennifer Mapplethorpe seemed to give him more questions. She was quite intriguing. Beautiful and smart and skilled, and he was fascinated.
"So when—"
"Miss—"
They both spoke at the exact same time and got cut off by the other. They chuckled awkwardly about it. It seemed they could work around each other in the kitchen by they weren't quite aware enough of each other to have an easy conversation.
"You go ahead," Nick insisted.
"I was going to ask when you thought we'd be getting going with the proper evidence-gathering, but were you going to call me Miss Mapplethorpe?"
Nick felt the tips of his ears grow warm. "I was. I guess I shouldn't."
"No, you should get in the habit of calling me Trish. Though even if you don't, 'Miss Mapplethorpe' isn't a good alternative. We could explain away a slip of you calling me Jennifer, but no husband is going to call his wife 'Miss Mapplethorpe,'" she pointed out. "And I'll have to get used to calling you Wesley and not 'Detective Buchanan.'"
It was in his mind to tell her to call him Nick, but she was right, they had to get used to using their names as the Claybournes. She was Trish. And he was Wesley. Wesley with the weird, wild clothes. As much as Nick wanted to sigh in disbelief at the stupid clothes he was supposed to wear, he knew it did no good to complain. He'd get used to it. They had six months. They'd get used to a lot of things. Today was just the first day of many.