The alarm clock sounded. It was a new summer day—Friday, 6:00 a.m. Rachel Kemp sprang up in bed, glared at the displayed time, then plopped back down to the mattress.

"The price I pay for starting and running my own advertising agency," she muttered through a frown, sensing again the vacant space beside her.

Stretching her arm toward the clock, she turned off its buzzer with a smack of her hand, sat up, and hugged her knees to her chest, thinking. It wasn't every day she turned forty years old.

Still, it wasn't Rachel's "new age" that troubled her most. It was, though, the fact that she wasn't married, which gnawed at her gut—especially today.

My goodness, Rachel hadn't even been dating! For the past two years, she had been a "work-work-work" gal. Now, that was all fine and good, but, at what price glory? Her way of life had set her up in business, yes, but it had not helped her social life in any positive way. All you had to do was to look at Rachel's sporadic dates, over the last two years, to know that if she didn't meet a husband soon, she was going to be alone forever. And, deep down inside, that's not what Rachel wanted.

"Isn't there a man out there somewhere for me?" she asked, gazing out her bedroom window, from her mattress top.

That, too, had been the question Rachel had often asked herself. Usually during breakfast, over the past two years. While staring into her coffee cup—as though the beverage were a crystal ball—she'd wait for it to give her an answer. It never did, of course.

So, here she was, forty years old today, successful in business, waking up without a husband beside her, and spending her birthday alone. Although balanced there, Rachel now considered her life lopsided. Could such a scale tip—in her personal favor—on her fortieth birthday?

Rubbing morning grogginess from her eyes, Rachel wondered about her next three days...alone. "A vacation weekend," she harrumphed. "Who needs it?"

Not having taken off in two years, Rachel found it odd that she'd convinced herself to do so this year for her birthday.

Still, she knew why she had to take off. Turning forty had made her want to re-evaluate her life—both personal and professional. Yikes! Rachel hadn't really looked at herself, since before she'd started her business. Could she now, actually, stomach "seeing" herself at forty years old?

If Rachel were a gambling gal, okay, she might be able to do so. But the only thing that Rachel had ever gambled on was business. Her personal life? Ugh! With that, she just allowed the chips to fall where they may. And, look what that had gotten her: no real dating and no husband. Wow, she had a perfect scorecard of "nos."

So, Rachel had to take off for her birthday and the weekend—if she knew what was good for herself. But, she had set her clock's alarm to wake her up at 6:00 a.m. That was her workday rise-and-shine time. Hmm, did she really plan not to work on her birthday?

Being true to form, though, Rachel always fell back on rationalizing her way of life. A subliminal safety mechanism, if you will.

"How can I make a living in advertising," she said, pleading her case to herself, "if I don't plant any roots in the industry, and work my tail off? That's why I've been working nonstop, for the past two years!"

With that, Rachel jumped out of bed. And, as she readied for the day, she thought about how best to tackle her free "Birthday Friday" with vigor.

"I'll...get the...grocery shopping out of the way first...I guess," she dithered at her reflection, as she wiped the bathroom mirror clear of shower fog.

Grocery shopping? On your birthday?

Uh-oh. Laura Harris's words, again, creeping into Rachel's head. Hmm. Sure, Laura was her best friend, but, come on! Even on Rachel's birthday—when she chose not to see, or to talk to Laura—her friend has to weasel her way into her thoughts?

A grin crept to Rachel's face, as she blew dry her hair. "I need to eat, don't I, Laura?"

Oh, that Laura Harris. What an angel on Rachel's shoulder. Although, she'd often refer to herself as more of a devil's advocate, when it came to Rachel and prodding her to find a husband.

Regardless, though, of how Laura was seen in the eyes of Rachel, she was one who never held her tongue and, thus, quite an asset for the workaholic.

No one wants to marry an old lady, Rachel.

Playfully defiant, Rachel said back to her reflection, "Well, today, Laura, I am officially one of those. Grocery shopping, here I come!"

* * *

Rachel took the first vacant parking spot she saw. "Good thing this is a twenty-four hour place," she said, turning off the ignition. "Otherwise, what would I do at this time of the morning, on a day off?"

She grabbed the shopping cart next to her car and entered the supermarket. As she shopped, she wondered about the shoppers. "Any men in here looking for an 'old lady' to marry?" she griped under her breath.

No man is going to propose to you, if you don't go shopping for him.

"Oh, come on, Laura," Rachel huffed, lowly. "I go shopping for food, not men."

Need I say more?

No righter words had Laura ever spoken to Rachel. True, Laura's "Need I say more" comment had to do with another conversation, yesterday, that she'd had with Rachel, regarding business. But, Rachel's "getting older" state of mind today, had her brain mixing and matching bits and pieces of conversations she'd had with her best friend. It all just fit, perfectly, here.

Continuing on her way, zipping through the aisles, Rachel filled her shopping cart. In short order, powdered donuts and chocolate candy topped a cart full of consoling goodies for her long birthday weekend.

"No low-fat ice cream, or reduced-calorie dinners," Rachel remarked, as she reviewed her cart's mouthwatering frozen contents. She was tired of watching her weight. She was fed up with accepting cooking ads that suggested how a woman should eat. She had run out of patience with magazine health ads that emphasized eating right can be delicious and the way to a man's heart.

"Mom had always told me that 'cooking' was the way to a man's heart, not 'eating' healthy," she barked at her cart's contents.

A passing elderly shopping couple, curiously, eyed her.

"I've eaten right for years," Rachel, lightly, voiced the couple's way, "and it's gotten me nothing except a lonely fortieth birthday!"

The senior couple just glanced back with cryptic grins and kept on their way. It all said to Rachel that they knew the tale she was telling, and were sending her wisdom regarding it.

After a moment's pause, Rachel eyed the frozen double-cheese pizza in her cart, and took her place on a checkout line.

* * *

Back on the road, as the radio played and the air conditioner whirled, a sense of happiness surged through Rachel.

"I did it! I actually accomplished something for myself. Happy Birthday to me!"

Just then, Rachel's car began to sputter and lose speed. A ding sounded. The "Gas" light on the dashboard illuminated.

"You've got to be kidding!"

From the right lane Rachel, carefully, steered her rolling car onto the highway's shoulder.

"Not back to the dealer again," she whined.

The car stopped. She put the gearshift into the "Park" position, and turned the key back, then forward again to start the engine, but the motor only cranked.

It was then that the dealership's supervisor's words echoed in Rachel's head, that he'd said to her last week: There's nothing wrong with the gas indicator, Ms. Kemp. Just remember to fuel up, when the gauge reads a quarter full, and you'll never run out of gas again.

"So, sue me for not having paid attention today," said Rachel to her car full of groceries.

Rachel thought about contacting Laura for help here, but she wasn't in the mood to be lectured to again—as she had been a day earlier.

Stop calling yourself old, Laura had said yesterday, during a meeting with Rachel, as they discussed taking on an ad campaign for a new senior-meal drink. You're only going to be forty. I'm forty-five and I don't consider myself old. To which Rachel had answered: You're also married, have two kids, a loving husband, and a Saint Bernard. Your life's perfect.

Laura had shrugged and said: Need I say more? What do you want from me? Get a dog. Then at least you won't be alone.

Rachel's face scrunched, after having recalled that conversation.

"I can fix my own car!"

Stepping out onto the highway's shoulder, Rachel opened the car's hood. Then she remembered the problem: the car needed gas.

She sat back in the car, and resigned herself to use the auto's "Help" call button feature for roadside assistance. But, just then, she noticed a tow truck driving on the other side of the highway, heading in her direction.

Without a second thought, Rachel exited her car and jogged along the shoulder, waving, hoping to catch the driver's eye.

Then a highway exiting motorist's steady horn sound startled Rachel.

"What am I doing?" she said, stopping cold, watching the car exit—with reduced speed—by her. Thanks to that driver, Rachel had realized the dangerous position in which she'd placed herself—at the start of the highway's exit ramp. She sent a weak smile and shaky hand wave of thanks to the driver. Then she turned and hurried back toward her car. "Some birthday vacation day."

Just then, a Bureau of Highways truck pulled up behind Rachel's car. Gas-powered cleaning equipment was secured in the pickup's rear bed, and its rooftop emergency lights were whirling and blinking. A very able-looking, physically-fit man, sporting a baseball cap, work boots, jeans, and a colored T-shirt, emerged from the truck's cab. He stepped to Rachel's car and peered in through its window.

Rachel called to the man, but the roar of the traffic drowned her words. Then, wildly waving her arms, she began to run toward him. "That car's mine!"

He looked at her, in disbelief. "You shouldn't be out there," he said, her close enough to hear him. "It's dangerous." He directed her to step even further onto the safety of the road's shoulder, next to his pickup's passenger side.

"I didn't think," Rachel said, breathing hard, taking his re-position hint. "I saw a tow truck. Thought I could flag it down." She hadn't run that far, or that fast, since her high-school track days. But, had her sprint here been the only reason why she was breathless now?

The man's demeanor softened. "Are you all right, Miss?"

Rachel nodded "yes," as she spotted the name "Mark" sewn on his T-shirt. His concern for her well-being caused her to smile up at him. "My car's not abandoned."

"I understand that, but I've got a crew a mile back," he replied. "It's my job to get these lanes clear, so that debris can be collected."

"But my car ran out of gas. It's full of stuff that'll spoil: frozen pizza; ice cream; TV dinners! Can't you help me? It's my birthday."

"I'm sorry about your groceries. And," he tipped his hat, "Happy Birthday. But, I have a schedule to keep. If I have a slowdown here, it'll disrupt everything. All I can do is call a tow truck to help you out."

Rachel's brow wrinkled. The man, initially, seemed to be so caring. Now he appeared not to be concerned for her at all.

"Call a tow truck? And then let me wait here, alone, for it? Is that how the city taught you to treat motorists who are in trouble?"

"Please understand, Miss—"

"Rachel—"

"Miss Rachel—"

"No...Rachel's my first name."

He smiled with satisfaction. "Oh."

"Ms. Kemp," she said, her eyes locked on his. She held up her left hand for him to see her bare-ring finger.

Secretly, Mark fingered his own vacant wedding-ring digit, then blurted out, "Holy mackerel! Rachel Kemp?"

She eyed him, lost.

"Remember me? 'Mark Springs.' Joe Farrington's a friend of mine. You handled some advertising for him—'Farrington's Computer World.' We met at his party last year."

"I...remember...you," Rachel giggled, as she, playfully, tapped his arm once, then put her hands under her armpits, forming "wings" with her bent elbows. "You led everybody in that wacky duck dance," she continued, flapping her "wings."

He laughed. "Hey, quite the chicken dancer are you. And that's some memory."

"I'm not so 'old' that I'd forget."

"Old? You? If anybody's old, it's me. I've been doing this job for fifteen years. You look great, no matter what your age."

Rachel beamed with delight.

"Been a real Murphy's Law kind of a day, huh?"

Her heart fluttered. "You know about those, too?"

Mark removed his baseball cap, and finger-combed his hat hair. "Was having one myself...until I ran into you."

"How...coincidental."

"Say, listen...," Mark continued.

She was all ears.

He placed his cap back onto his head and added, "I've got a five-gallon gas can in the back, for the crew's road equipment." He shrugged. "I can spare a gallon or two. Then you can run your car's a/c, and have enough gas to make it to a station to fill up. It'd be a shame for frozen pizza and ice cream to spoil...Rachel."

"A double shame for me to eat those alone...on my birthday...Mark."

Both of their faces brightened, as though Cupid's arrow had struck.

"I'll get the can," he said, and went to do so.

She followed after him.

"Probably just had something on your mind, that caused you to overlook the gas gauge," Mark said, carrying the can to Rachel's car.

"Only you," she whispered.

Mark removed the car's fuel cap. Grinning, he poured the gas into the car's empty tank.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"Running out of gas is the oldest trick in the book," he chortled. "My father had done that, so he could get his future wife to be—my mother—alone, to ask for her hand in marriage, out in the countryside."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Mom was one of fourteen siblings, and someone was always around at home on her parents' farm. Dad wanted his proposal to be unique and without interruption. Running out of gas, I'd say, granted his wish."

Thinking about her own "gas tale" here, Rachel teased, "A future dad can't be the only one to figure to do that, I'd say."

Mark lifted his brow. "You mean...this here?"

She shrugged, kiddish-like. "Maybe...it could qualify for us?"

"Yeah, maybe," he said, wide eyed.

"W-Why don't we discuss that tonight over...pizza?"

"And a duck dance?" he joked, capping her fuel tank.

"I'm free all day," said Rachel.

"Mine ends at three, 'birthday girl.'"

She was delighted that he remembered she'd told him that it was her special day. "Stop by after work?" she asked, filled with hope.

He nodded. "It's a date. What's your address?"

In a quick second, Rachel raced to her car's passenger side, pulled open the door, searched the glove box, and snatched a ballpoint pen from it. Then, leaving the door open, she hurried back to Mark.

He chuckled. "I thought you were taking off on me."

She twisted back and forth in place, like a nervous schoolgirl. "You asked for my address."

"I did, but...I don't have any paper. You?"

"Uh...."

Without a moment more of hesitation, Rachel took hold of Mark's hand and penned her address on his palm.

He looked down at her scribble. "Phone number, too, huh?"

"In case...you have to cancel."

"Won't need to, Rachel," he said, blissfully happy.

"Okay," she replied, smiling from ear to ear.

She got into her car, from the passenger side.

He closed the door for her.

She slid over to the driver's side. "See you soon," she said back through the closed window.

He gave her a wink and a "thumb up."

She sent him a wide-eyed smile, driving away.

A shopping spree on my fortieth birthday—what a perfect way to have found my future husband!