The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
One
The story goes like this.
Thirty-year-old Bartholomew von Coffenberg comes out of Madison Square Park Tower’s underground garage in his red Corvette. The only child of an investment magnate, Bartholomew graduated from Harvard and now has a corner office at Goldman Sachs. He’s in a rush to get to brunch at Elio’s with his fiancée, Charlotte Astor. Charlotte is tall, slender, classy, and a successful attorney with a top law firm in NYC and the perfect match for him. Their parents made sure of this, just like they made sure the relationship was planned all the way to the wedding at the luxurious One and Only Reethi Resort and the honeymoon in the Maldives this summer.
What Bartholomew doesn’t know is that his fiancée will not show up at Elio’s. Instead, she will be on a plane to Italy to meet for the first time a man she fell in love with online.
A few streets away, thirty-four-year-old Natalie Bechamel enters a Starbucks on Park Avenue South. She’s there every morning, and her order never changes—a grande, iced, sugar-free, vanilla latte with soymilk. Natalie is a widow and has two boys; one is eight, the other thirteen. She’s been working as the personal assistant for the owner of IMG Models for years. The coffee’s not for her; it’s for her boss. She could never afford the $6 daily order, the $35 vegetarian lunch, or the eco-laundry where she drops his clothes on her way home. At 7 PM, Monday through Friday, Natalie picks up her boys from the upstairs neighbor and starts on dinner while helping the young one with homework and fighting with the teenager who misses his father and resents her. She never imagined life would look like this. She never imagined the kind, loving man she married would drink himself to death, leaving her all alone.
Natalie doesn’t know yet that one evening very soon, as she crosses the street, a car will almost run her over. A red Corvette. That night will end with a bruised knee and a man driving her home while his eyes linger on her a bit too long. By Christmas, Natalie will fly with her two boys to the Maldives, where a happy and in love Bartholomew will say ‘I do’ to her and them forever.
My name is Maya Maas, and I write love stories. All the time and ever since I can remember.
Bartholomew and Natalie are just people I saw on the street. I don’t know their real names or anything about their lives. What I do know is that they both seem lonely, and nothing makes me happier than imagining people are happy. And in love. And living happily ever after.
My ‘silly little scribbles,’ as my boyfriend David calls them, put a smile on my face and carried me forward through tough family times, school anxieties, making and losing friends, boyfriend dramas, life on my own, and job frustrations. Surrounded by books as a child, I didn’t have many friends, but I had a big imagination, and that was enough for me. It still is. Writing also gives me an excuse to watch people—my favorite pastime. A random person on the street, a barista, or a bus driver all spark ideas. I love imagining who they are, their names, where they come from, and what they do. I usually put them in a tough spot and save them in the end and give them the smiles and laughter and love they yearn for.
I used to dream of becoming a published author. Years ago, I wrote a novel, then another, and sent them both to literary agencies. All I got in return was silence, polite nos, or painful critique I wasn’t ready for. ‘Too sappy, too unrealistic, too 1960s. Why do all your female characters search for love? Not all women need someone to complete them.’
I always thought you can have both. And you can be both. Being in love doesn’t make you weak or dependent. Staring at the night sky together, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes gives you wings. It fills your heart and body with energy to accomplish everything else. I think so. I hope so. Yes, my characters all lived happily ever after, but I don’t see anything wrong with that. There’s enough sadness in the world as it is.
At first, I was determined to stand behind my stories and push forward. Still, even the most confident of us need reassurance, and mine never came. Instead, more critiques piled up. ‘The market is too competitive, and these books don’t have what it takes. There’s nothing there. Cardboard characters, unrealistic plot. It suggests immaturity; lack of experience.’
That last rejection discouraged me. I started doubting whether I’d ever become a full-time writer, which was all I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. At the same time, I knew I had to make a living, so journalism was the next best thing. I’ve put six years into my journalistic career, and all I have to show for it is a role as a junior reporter for a Brooklyn-based magazine.
I never attempted to pen another novel, but I continued with my stories. I don’t care if they’ll never be seen by anyone else but me. I’m not writing for an audience. I’m doing this for myself and because when I’m inspired, I can’t help but write. Most of the time, inspiration hits when I meet people I wish had different lives: better, happier. Inconveniently, that seems to happen at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Last week, I shadowed a senior reporter—which means prepping interview questions and taking notes—when I saw a janitor in front of Yankee Stadium. I named him Ian. He ran after a loose dog and returned it to its owner, a sharply dressed businesswoman. Elizabeth, I thought, suited her perfectly. Minutes later, instead of taking notes during the interview, I was writing my best love story yet—Ian and Elizabeth’s.
That’s who I am. Happy in my made-up worlds where anything is possible. Where someone like me, like her, like him, can have everything. Saccharine and all.