His steps were slower than usual that June morning in 1987. Fred Astaire, once the heartbeat of Hollywood’s golden age, sat near the wide windows of his Beverly Hills bedroom, quietly humming a tune from “Funny Face” while sipping lukewarm tea. His eyes followed the slow drift of sunlight across the floor, his thoughts flickering between memory and the moment. He turned to his longtime housekeeper, Maria, and said softly, “The world feels quieter now, doesn’t it?” It was one of the last things he said. Later that same afternoon, June 22, 1987, he passed away peacefully in his sleep at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles from pneumonia. He was 88.

The final years of Astaire’s life were a tapestry of solitude, brief public appearances, private joy, and personal reflection. After stepping away from full-time film work, he focused his days on calm, routine living. Each morning began at 6:30 with a walk along the garden paths outside his house. His gait was careful, but there was still rhythm in it. He followed this with a light breakfast, usually toast, fruit, and tea, while listening to jazz or classical vinyls.

He lived quietly with his second wife, Robyn Smith, a retired jockey nearly 45 years younger than him. Their union had drawn public attention when they married in 1980, but in the privacy of their home, their bond was genuine and affectionate. Fred found joy in her company, often calling her “my second spring.” Robyn was his daily companion, whether during long drives along the California coast or reading books together in the sunroom.

In the rare interviews he gave between 1982 and 1987, he spoke not of fame or nostalgia but of gratitude. “I’ve danced with luck all my life,” he once told a journalist visiting for a magazine feature. His tone was never grand, always grounded. He frequently mentioned how content he felt watching young performers take the stage. He admired the rise of new dance-centered films like “Flashdance” and “Footloose,” though he confessed privately to friends that the elegance of his era felt distant.

He spent much of his time at home but occasionally made appearances for causes close to his heart. In 1984, he participated in a small charity event supporting children’s arts education in Los Angeles. Although no longer dancing, he offered words of encouragement to young performers and stayed long after the cameras had left, shaking hands and sharing stories.

Television remained a part of his life. He watched old film reels in his study, especially clips from “Top Hat,” “Swing Time,” and “The Band Wagon.” Sometimes, he’d pause them, smiling, murmuring lines under his breath. He also took pleasure in watching late-night talk shows and followed the careers of actors and dancers who cited him as inspiration. Letters from young fans arrived weekly, and Fred made it a point to reply to as many as he could, writing slowly, his penmanship neat but aging.

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One of his final professional appearances was a voiceover cameo for a 1985 documentary on classic Hollywood musicals. Recording it took just a few hours, but he requested a full week to prepare. “I want to give them something honest,” he told the director. His voice, though weaker, still carried warmth. In it, he said, “The dance was never about showing off. It was about feeling the music in your bones.”

Physically, the last two years brought frequent hospital visits due to respiratory issues. Still, he maintained a dignified routine. Robyn would drive him to appointments, and he’d dress impeccably, pressed slacks, a crisp shirt, polished shoes. He never left the house in casual wear. “Presentation matters,” he told a nurse who once complimented his tie.

Astaire spent his final spring quietly. Days were filled with books, piano melodies, and calls from his sister Adele and children from his first marriage. As June came, he grew noticeably weaker. Doctors confirmed pneumonia had set in. On the morning of June 22, he asked to sit near the window. Maria adjusted his blanket, and he whispered, “It’s a good day for light.” Moments later, he drifted into unconsciousness.

He died that afternoon, hands held gently by Robyn, age 88. The house was silent except for the soft murmur of music playing in the next room, “Cheek to Cheek.”

He spent his last years embracing quiet grace, finding joy in memory, music, and love, never once stepping out of rhythm with the man he had always been.