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Connect}:-)
     

Connect}:-)

by Nan McCarthy
 
ALL IT TAKES IS THE DESIRE TO

connect}:-)


In the second novel of her acclaimed cybertrilogy, Nan McCarthy resumes the compelling story of Bev and Max, the two intriguing strangers who met online in Chat. As you "eavesdrop" on their private e-mail correspondence, their relationship continues to unfold entirely

Overview

ALL IT TAKES IS THE DESIRE TO

connect}:-)


In the second novel of her acclaimed cybertrilogy, Nan McCarthy resumes the compelling story of Bev and Max, the two intriguing strangers who met online in Chat. As you "eavesdrop" on their private e-mail correspondence, their relationship continues to unfold entirely through electronic messages. With their lives now unexpectedly -- and irrevocably -- intertwined, Bev and Max must contemplate the consequences of their deepening intimacy. Revealing themselves in what they choose to say -- and leave unsaid -- Bev and Max soon usher their romantic adventure into unexplored territory...


With a gifted ear for the ups and downs of romance in the technological age, Nan McCarthy has created a story that is as seductive as it is surprising.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780671023409
Publisher:
Pocket Books
Publication date:
06/01/1998
Series:
Griffin and Sabine for the '90s Series
Pages:
125
Product dimensions:
4.64(w) x 6.20(h) x 0.49(d)

Read an Excerpt

Session: One > Private Mail
> Date: Monday, January 1, 1996 12:53 a.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: Please
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Beverly,

Why won't you answer my messages? I've been writing to you since the end of October -- since the night we last "spoke" online. Would you please send me one response? I don't care if you tell me to go to hell -- I just want to hear from you and know that you still exist and that what happened between us wasn't a dream.

Besides, I still haven't figured out which Macintosh to buy and I need your advice.

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Monday, January 8, 1996 11:41 p.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: No Regrets
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Bev,

Another week has gone by with no response from you. I don't know why I thought I would hear from you this time. You haven't answered any of my other e-mails, so why would you answer the last one, or the one before that, or this one, or the one after this one?

I've thought about apologizing to you, but to tell you the truth, I'm not sorry for anything that's happened between you and me. I'm only sorry that you won't talk to me anymore.

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Monday, January 15, 1996 9:09 p.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: Tiny Little Pieces
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Hi Bev,

It's me, your old friend Max, sending you my weekly monologue. I know you're receiving these messages -- or at least *someone* is receiving them -- because they're not bouncing back to me as undeliverable. So either you are there and you're ignoring me, or you've left your job and your office mates are retrieving your mail and having themselves a knee-slapping good time reading all of my pitiful pleadings to you. Or maybe your husband is retrieving these messages from your home computer because he found out about us and he's already chopped you up into tiny little pieces and put you in Ziploc baggies in the deep freeze in the basement and is now trying to figure out how to track me down so he can do the same to me. If so, hi Gary! How ya doin'? Wasn't Bev a real piece of work?

Maximilian


> Private Mail
> Date: Monday, January 22, 1996 10:33 p.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj:
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Bev,

I know you're mad because I didn't tell you as soon as I realized it that I was the stranger you had the one-night stand with at Macworld. I let you continue confiding in me about your feelings for that "stranger" even after I figured out you were the woman I had been with and had fallen in love with that night. You think I made a fool of you, but I'm the one who's a fool. I thought that by not telling you who I really was, I could at least keep our friendship going, even if I couldn't have you as my lover. But the more we talked through e-mail, the more deeply I fell in love with you. When you told me you were wondering about the man you had the affair with, what he was doing, if he was thinking about you, I could barely contain myself. I hated the way I was deceiving you, and I began to hate myself. I went on a three-day martini binge and nearly got fired from my job. I finally realized I had to tell you who I was, even if that meant losing you. I knew once you found out, you would be upset, just like you are now. But there's a part of me that hopes I can still get through to you, that something I'll say will crack the surface and you'll open up to me once again.

I miss you so.

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Sunday, January 28, 1996 9:09 p.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: thoughts of you
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Bev,

I really didn't do much of anything today except think of you. Watched hockey on TV. I hate that new thing they're doing with that little blue fuzzy spot that follows the puck around the ice on your TV screen. It reminds me of those asinine circles John Madden draws on the screen while he's blabbering about football games. Cripes. If you can't keep your eye on the puck then you shouldn't be watching hockey, for Chrissakes.

I wondered what you were doing today. Did you work at home on your computer while Gary putzed around the house? Did you go outside and make angels in the snow? (I don't even know where you live -- is there snow where you are, too?) Or did you curl up with a good book and an afghan and a cat on your lap and have one of those Maxwell House Moments?

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Monday, February 5, 1996 6:19 p.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: Crazy
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Bev,

You must think I'm crazy because I keep writing to you, even though you never respond. Maybe I am a little crazy. You make me crazy. Or I make myself crazy. But I'm not going to stop writing to you. Sometimes I tell myself that I don't care if you never respond to my messages -- that just being able to talk to you through e-mail and share parts of my life with you is enough.

Then I'll fire up my computer at work in the morning, and while I'm popping open my first diet Coke of the day and waiting for the computer to boot and my telecom program to launch, in the back of my mind I think maybe, just maybe, there'll be a message from her. I stare at the computer screen, and when it says I have a message waiting, I hold my breath and wonder what it is you're finally going to say to me and how should I respond -- should I act casual, maybe wait a few days before I answer your message? Pay you back for all the times you've made me wait? Or should I reply right away, and tell you once again how much I love you and how happy I am to know that yes, you've been receiving and even reading all of my messages?

I don't realize how rigidly I'm sitting in my chair or how far I'm leaning forward, holding the can of Coke to my lips, riveted to the screen, watching that stupid little pendulum swing back and forth as I'm waiting for the message to download.

It's from dick@miller&morris.com and he's decided that the Macintosh is dead and that all the writers and designers in the ad agency must immediately dispose of their Macs and learn how to use PCs by the end of this week.

Bosses. Gotta love 'em.

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Saturday, February 10, 1996 2:48 a.m.
> From: Maximilian@miller&morris.com
> Subj: First Class
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

So there's this blonde woman and she's sitting in the First Class section of an airplane, even though her ticket says she's supposed to be in Coach. The stewardess (oops, I mean flight attendant) walks up to her and says, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but your ticket isn't for First Class so you're going to have to take your seat in the Coach section." To which the blonde woman replies, "I'm blonde; I'm smart; I have a good job; and I'm staying in this seat until the plane reaches Jamaica."

So the flight attendant goes and gets the head flight attendant, and the head flight attendant says to the blonde woman, "Ma'am, your ticket is for Coach, not First Class, and so you really must go sit in the Coach section now." To which the blonde woman replies, "I'm blonde; I'm smart; I have a good job; and I'm staying in this seat until the plane reaches Jamaica."

The two flight attendants go get the co-pilot and tell him what's going on. The co-pilot then walks over to the blonde woman, leans over, and whispers something in her ear. The blonde woman promptly gets out of her First Class seat and goes and sits in the Coach section. Amazed, the flight attendants ask the co-pilot what he whispered in her ear, and he says, "I told her that the front half of the plane wasn't going to Jamaica."

Max


> Private Mail
> Date: Wednesday, February 14, 1996 11:44 p.m.
> From: Maximillan@miller&morris.com
> Subj: Green Things
> To: BevJ@frederic_gerard.com

Beverly,

I had a date tonight. Are you jealous? Her name is Steffanee -- not Stephanie -- isn't that cute? (She wants me to call her Steffee.) She works for one of those plant services, where they send people out to high-rise office buildings every day to water the plants, wipe the dust off the leaves, put those little fertilizer sticks in the dirt, and stuff like that. They all wear yellow polo shirts with a picture of a flower in a pot with a smiley face in the middle of the flower embroidered in green on the pocket of the shirt, and they walk around with these little spritzer bottles clipped to their belts. Steffee works on my floor on Wednesdays. She even wears a yellow and green baseball cap that matches the shirt.

Anyhow, she's kind of cute, and everyone in the office always teases me about the plants in my office being the shiniest in the whole building. I guess that's because Steffee makes extra certain my plants are in tippee toppee shape.

It was about 4:30 and Steffee's in my office picking the dead leaves off my Benjamin Ficus, and I'm thinking about how it's Valentine's Day, that I have nothing better to do, and that pretty soon she's going to run out of dead leaves to pick -- or maybe she'll just start picking off the green ones, because I'm sitting there at my desk smiling dreamily at her and she knows I'm watching. So right before she plucks off the last brown leaf I ask her if she'll have dinner with me, and she says yes of course, but she'll have to go home and change first and could I pick her up at six? I say yeah, sure, and ask her where she lives, and even though I'm sitting at my desk and there's scraps of paper all over the place, she takes the Sharpie marker out of my Carpe Diem coffee mug and writes her address and phone number in real big letters on the inside of my forearm. I'm thinking maybe this Valentine's Day isn't going to be so bad after all.

Neither of us was in the mood for anything fancy so we ended up at a delicatessen near Steffee's apartment. Most of the women I've gone out with order a salad on the first date. I hate that. What do they think? That they're going to fool me into thinking they eat salads all the time? Especially because like, by the fourth or fifth date, we'll go to the movies and while I'm enjoying a box of Junior Mints, the woman who daintily picked at her salad on our first date is now snarfing down the jumbo-size bucket of popcorn with extra butter. So I was pleasantly surprised when Steffee ordered a salami on rye, extra chips, and an entire dill pickle. Even more surprised when she ate it all, too. The dill pickle finale was especially entertaining.

Happy Valentine's Day, my love.

Maximilian

Copyright © 1996 by Nancy J. McCarthy

Meet the Author


Nan McCarthy was born in Chicago in 1961. A former computer journalist, Nan is the author of the cybernovels Chat, Connect and Crash. She is currently working on her next book, a blues novel set on the South Side of Chicago. Nan lives in Grayslake, Illinois, with her husband, their two sons, one dog, five cats, and an amazing goldfish named Elvis. You can visit Nan's Web site at rainwater.com or write to her at nan@rainwater.com.

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