I put on a record and listen as that old fashioned jazz stirs my bones. I smile a crooked-old-man kind of smile and slowly dance. My feet shuffle across the linoleum of the kitchen, repeating the far-off memory as I begin to hum along.

The shrill voice of my housekeeper breaks through, shattering the trumpet's notes. "Mr. Bowman! You really shouldn't be dancing at your age!"

I shoot her my best attempt of a glare and wave my hand dismissively as I hobble over to the table. "You young ones are all the same. Worried us older folk'll just fall apart. I tell you what- we fall apart because you lot make us stop moving." The housekeeper rolls her eyes and moves from the doorway.

"In any case, I have your mail." She places a pile of envelopes and advertising brochures on the table. "Yell if you need me." She adds before beginning her usual routine.

"Yes ma'am." I mock good-naturedly as I shift through the piles of junk mail and scams. Sometimes I wonder why I even hired that girl. I suppose I just got lonely without any children to visit me. Humming along with the record, I walk to the trash and throw the pile of junk at it. A few rebellious pieces fall to the ground in front of it. I grumble and slowly bend over to pick them up. Suddenly, I notice something new among them- an unopened letter postmarked "Los Angeles, June 5th, 1973". I lower my reading glasses over my eyes, and stare at the dainty words in the return address. It was from Meghan McGinley. The Meghan McGinley.

God, I haven't seen that name in over 40 years. Seeing it now makes my tired heart pound. I wonder why, after all these years, she finally sent me a letter.

I started working for the McGinleys’ near the end of the depression. I was a handyman back then- painting houses and even doing some minor repairs. It wasn't much money, but it was better than nothing. Besides, the McGinleys’ paid better than most; too much in my opinion, since he also bought most of the supplies I needed to fix that old mansion. I once tried to pay for paint out of pocket, but Mr. McGinley stopped me.

He said "Don't you worry about that, Gerald. It's my house, not yours. Besides, a McGinley always gives what's deserved." So, I trusted his judgment. Meant I brought home more money anyways.

I will never forget the first time I met Mrs. McGinley. I was two stories high on my ladder, painting the front of the house. I was busy slathering a new layer on top the imperfect panels when the window to my right burst open. Out peaked the most angelic face I have ever seen, then and since. She seemed untouched by time and sorrow. In fact, as I stared at her, time and sorrow stopped for me as well. Her rosy cheeks and pure blue eyes crinkled as she smiled at me. Her teeth were stark white, brighter even than the white paint I was using. Mr. McGinley always bought the most expensive, purest white.

Her pink lips danced as she said, "Oh, hello there!"

I didn't reply. I couldn't, I was so stunned. She must have been used to her effect on people, though, because she only laughed at my silence. It was a perfect laugh, full of bird songs and crystal bells. I heard the front door open and close somewhere below me.

"I'm off, darling." Mr. McGinley called up.

"Kisses!" The Mrs. returned.

"Keep up the good work Gerald." Mr. McGinley said as he got into his new car.

"I will Mr. McGinley. Thank you." I waved with my brush. Mrs. McGinley and I watched as he drove away.

"Does he always leave so early?" I questioned.

"Every day but Sunday." She replied as she leaned dreamily on the window sill.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. McGinley, that must get lonely." I replied. The McGinleys’ had no children to speak of, so it was just her and me most days.

She laughed devilishly, "Oh, I manage, Gerry. And call me Meg."

The housekeeper walks back into the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker.

She sees the letter and asks "Is that from a secret admirer?"

I chuckle. Meg was never that secret with her adoration. Instead of explaining, I simply reply, "No, just one from an old friend."

"What does it say?" The housekeeper asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. I roll my eyes and huff although I’m used to her honest nosiness. I open the envelope and remove the letter. A newspaper clipping falls out with it. On examination, it appears to be an obituary for Mr. McGinley. I hurriedly turn to the letter. Familiar lacy curls greet me, and entice me. "Let's meet again- in our usual spot." I turn the letter over and over, but nothing else is written.

"Well?" The housekeeper reminds me I haven't answered her.

"My friend's husband died, and I'm invited to the funeral." I inform, tucking the letter away in my jacket pocket.

"That's terrible!" She gasps.

"Yes." I can barely contain a smile.

The first note I ever received from Meg was unexpected. I was packing my supplies into the McGinley's storage shed when that vixen waltzed up to me with her sunshine smile.

She slipped my first payment into my hand and said with a wink, "Keep up the great work, Gerry."

I was astonished to find a piece of paper among the crisp bills. I instinctively waited until I returned to my little one-room apartment to read it. I'm glad I did.

I ended up staring at the message for long time before actually reading it, just admiring Meg's penmanship. Each letter was perfectly curved, seeming to mirror the writer's womanly figure. It simply contained a "433 Robertson Road" with a promising "See you this weekend" underneath.

I'm still not sure why I took the invitation. Maybe I was just curious. Or maybe I was already helplessly entrapped, bewitched by the spell that woman cast on all men. The address was the McGinleys’ country home. It had apparently been passed down through the family as an heirloom. However, the only one to ever use it was Meg, and seeing it for the first time I wondered why. It was a gorgeous house perfectly secluded in spacious farmlands.

We met there any time Mr. McGinley was absent for two or more days. It started innocently enough- we simply enjoyed each other's company, dancing to her favorite jazz records in the dining room and taking long walks through the adjacent woods. Then, we began making love in the lush master bed. Although I felt, somewhere deep down in my gut, that this was wrong, I was happy. Truly happy. For once, I actually felt alive. My life of turmoil and hardship suddenly made sense. It seemed everything was finally falling into place, with Meg at the center. I actually told her I loved her one night.

She only laughed and said, "There's no such thing as love."

I sit on my bed and fiddle with the tie I was packing.

"I shouldn't go." I tell the housekeeper.

She clicks her tongue in annoyance and replies, "Mr. Bowman! Why not?" She continues to rummage in my closet, picking out the various sundries I need to pack.

I hear myself say, "It's been so long… and I don't know if…" I can't finish. I don't know if I really loved her.

"She obviously still cares. Why else would she invite you?" The housekeeper scoffs.

I can't think of another reason, but we're a bit old for a lover's rendezvous. I wonder what Meg really wants from me. Might as well find out.

"Fine, I'll go." I stand and resume packing my worn suitcase.

"Do you need your razors, Mr. Bowman?" The housekeeper asks.

"Yes, you'd better go fetch those." I say to her and She disappears into the adjacent bathroom for a few seconds to emerge with the little wooden box I always keep my straight-edges in. Looking at it now reminds me of another nostalgic memory. I take the box from my housekeeper and say, "You know, this reminds me of my friend."

She seems perplexed by my sudden confession as she quietly asks, "How so?"

"Oh, you wouldn't be interested in hearing an old man ramble." I carefully place the box under my old socks.

She laughs and says, "Sure I would."

Well, my friend Meg had a summer home that I often visited. She took to cooking dinner for us on the nights I stayed over. While waiting for her to finish these meals, I would explore the house and grounds. That's how I found it. The chest this box reminds me of, I mean. This chest was of finely carved oak, and just radiated an air of royalty even though it was only about the size of a shoe box. I was captivated by its beauty. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I'm sure you can relate. I tried to open it, but it was locked. I decided to question Meg about it over dinner.

"Oh, that is just another of my darling husband's secrets." She scoffed, wrinkling her cute, button nose before continuing, "He has so many of those wretched things! And the only thing he ever has to say about them is 'don't you worry your pretty little head'. He treats me like a pet, I swear." She rolled her eyes in annoyance.

I began to eat, thinking about her response. I still wonder why she stayed with a man she hated so much, especially when she could have found the closest thing to love so easily.

"Well dearest, you have your own secrets." I pointed out.

She laughed and replied, "Oh, those are only retaliation against his."

This comment struck me as odd. Was retaliation really her only reason for keeping secrets? For keeping me?