​In September of 1996, I was performing at a small Italian cafe in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I’d been there a year, singing and playing guitar three nights a week, and recently the owner had put me in charge of auditioning and hiring musicians to fill the rest of the weeknights. Cafe Romana was located on Burro Alley, which connects Palace Avenue and San Francisco Street, one block from the famous Santa Fe Plaza. On the opposite side of the alley was the tall, solid wall of the historic Lensic Theatre. The cafe had excellent food and wine and a comfortable European ambience.

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Customers entered through a door between two very tall bay windows fitted with built-in benches. At dusk the table in one of the windows was moved to make room for the evening’s musician and their gear. Twelve tables filled the dining room, and the cash register and kitchen were at the back of the room.

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A small cafe in the middle of a long, narrow alley isn’t the easiest place to attract passersby, so a small speaker was set out on the sidewalk to broadcast whatever act was playing that evening. Curious pedestrians were drawn toward the music drifting down the alley, then the enticing aromas of garlic and fresh bread would pull them in. A poster in one of the windows advertised NIGHTLY MUSIC all week, and business was booming.

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On a crisp Fall afternoon I was auditioning a male folk duo. They were playing through my amp and speakers, so it was a good opportunity to walk through the restaurant and check my setup. There was a good lunch crowd, and as I wandered between the tables I discretely watched the diners to see if they were enjoying the music. Most were couples and families; eating, laughing, talking. The fact that they were talking comfortably, and not having to shout over the music, was good.

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A dark-haired man in his mid-forties was eating alone at a window table near the duo. Pale and thin, he wore a dark windbreaker and kept his gaze firmly downward, concentrating on a plate of ravioli, my own favorite dish from the menu. The only thing separating him from the musicians was a few feet of supporting wall, and he didn’t seem disturbed by the volume, so in that moment my subconscious made note of that. Soundcheck completed, I returned to the duo and told them they were hired, then left to run some errands.

Three nights later, I was in the middle of a song when the door opened. I tilted my head from my microphone and looked up to smile at the newcomer. My subconscious quickly retrieved the image of him, from the afternoon of the duo’s audition. Window table. Ravioli. My conscious mind acknowledged the memory with, “There’s that guy.” 

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So many moments from those early days have blurred with time, but my first thought upon seeing the man who would become the love of my life has remained crystal clear, if uninspired: There’s that guy.

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His eyes scanned the dining room, then he headed for the only available seats, at a table for six near the kitchen. I watched as Karen, the beautiful blonde waitress, went over to “that guy” to take his order. She said something. He said something. She said something else. He frowned and seemed to ask a question. Karen hesitated, unsure, then went to the cash register across the room from me and talked to the night manager, Rene. Rene walked over said something quietly to the guy, who rose, looking resigned. He went to the register counter and stood there, watching me.

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The rest of the diners were completely unaware of the small drama that had just played out across the room, including my on-again/off-again boyfriend/bandmate, Tim. He was sitting at a table near me, with two friends. He rarely came to hear me play, but we had broken up recently and now he was trying to win me back.

 

I was, at best, a mediocre guitar player. As a kid I learned chords from a Mel Bay Guitar Chords book and worked out some strumming and picking styles. I played just well enough to accompany myself for solo gigs, and to provide some rhythm guitar in bands. A full-time working musician for most of my life, I couldn’t afford to buy sheet music every time I wanted to learn a new song. Instead, I would pop a cassette tape into a boom box, turn on the radio, and go about my day. When a song I was waiting for came on, I’d make a mad dash for the RECORD button. Then I’d play the new song over and over again, learning the lyrics and figuring out the chords as best I could. I did fine with basic and barre chords, but if the songwriter had used an alternate tuning, or a flat diminished seventh with a dislocated pinky, I fudged it, knowing the average listener wasn’t likely to notice. And that technique had served me well for over twenty years. In all that time, to the best of my knowledge, no songwriter ever witnessed me mangling their carefully crafted chords.

 

And so, unaware that singer-songwriter Dan Fogelberg was standing directly across the room from me, I launched blithely into “Leader Of The Band,” his loving homage to his late father. It was a crowd favorite that I played every night and, like many people, I thought of my own father while singing it. As the last chord faded to light applause, Dan headed for the door. Stopping at my amp, he said, “You’re really good.” 

“Thank you,” I said, demurely.

“That’s a good song,” he said, baiting me shamelessly. Feeling a bit verklempt, which that song does to you, I nodded and vigorously agreed, “That’s a great song.” 

He smiled, stuck his hand out, and said, “I’m Dan Fogelberg.” 

 

When I was a kid, I got out of bed one night to sneak candy from the kitchen freezer. Grandma had brought a one pound box of See’s Candy from Santa Barbara on her last visit, and its siren song proved irresistible to a girl with insomnia and a mouth full of sweet tooth’s. Moving silently down the hall on orange shag carpet, I passed the front bathroom and heard my parents talking and splashing as they shared the tub. Popping two of the chocolatey orbs in my mouth, I closed the box and put it back in the freezer. Then I hurried back toward my room to melt and nibble at my leisure. Just as I was passing the bathroom door though, it opened. Mom came out, warm and relaxed in her thick fuzzy robe. Concerned at my flushed cheeks and the pained look on my face, she asked what I was doing up, and if I was feeling okay. I couldn’t answer. The frozen candies took up my whole mouth and intense shame flooded my brain, rendering it useless.

 

That’s exactly how I felt now, as I watched my hand reach up, of its own accord, to shake Dan’s. Mortified, I stammered, “I’m…so sorry.” He smiled and released my hand, looking at the large ceramic jar marked TIPS FOR MUSIC on the top of the amp between us. He began fumbling around in his jacket pockets and jeans, I assumed for his wallet. We chatted very briefly about...what? I have no idea; my brain had blown a fuse. Finally, to save him from his awkward search, I made a don’t worry about it wave and motioned to the little plastic gum ball dispenser next to my tip jar, saying, “That’s okay, have a piece of gum.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he smiled, said good night, and walked out the door. When he was down the alley and out of sight, I leaned away from my mic, toward Tim and his friends, and said quietly, “That was Dan Fogelberg.” They looked toward the door. “What?! The guy that just left?” 

 

I think some of us might have recognized him with the beard, and a little more weight, but he was clean shaven and gaunt. Once Karen and Rene learned who they’d ejected from the six-top, they were mortified. But that was the house rule: seating in the cafe was limited, so if you wanted to sit and listen, you had to order food. As it all unfolded, my mind had added things up logically, if erroneously: 

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   Didn’t order dinner.

+ Thin and haggard.

+ Couldn’t find money for a tip.

= A once famous musician, fallen on hard times.

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I didn’t know! I’d never owned one of his albums, never been to one of his concerts. For all I knew, he had stopped recording and touring years before and was flat broke. Well, the reason he didn’t order dinner was because he had eaten elsewhere. He tried talking Karen and Rene into letting him stay where he was until the table was needed, but rules are rules. He was used to being recognized and getting any table he wanted; he never expected to meet so much resistance, but he wasn’t the kind of person who said, “Don’t you know who I am?!” He couldn’t find his wallet because he was naturally shy, and looking at me while we talked had him flustered. And he was thin because he was coming off of a grueling split with his wife.

 

The end of his second marriage had been sudden and unexpected. He was at the old captain’s cottage he owned in Maine, expecting his wife to join him for his August birthday. Instead, someone called from Colorado to tell him that she had packed up her things and was gone. He flew back to his Colorado ranch to try to work things out with her, but she had moved on; the marriage was over. Once the divorce was underway, he decided to head for Santa Fe, three hours south in New Mexico. With its fine restaurants, galleries, and nightlife, Santa Fe was the perfect antidote for his depression. His friend and bandmate Kenny Passarelli lived there as well, and the two of them went way back. Dan contacted a rental agency and requested a casita within walking distance of the Plaza. 

 

On that fateful day, Dan set out for lunch, intent on finding an Italian restaurant. He’d asked a stranger on Palace Avenue where he could go for some good ravioli. “Cafe Romana,” came the immediately reply. “Just down the street, then turn left into the alley.” Concentrating on his lunch and lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t seen me walking around the room, listening to the auditioning musicians. But as he was leaving the restaurant, he turned away from Palace Avenue, and towards San Francisco Street. The “NIGHTLY MUSIC” poster in the window stopped him in his tracks. For once, I’d spent the money for a professional headshot, and the overhead lighting and dark backdrop made my long blonde hair glow, creating spider webs of light on the shoulders of the black turtleneck dress I was wearing.

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“Who’s this?” he thought, then, “She’s probably married.” But he had come to Santa Fe with the express intention of looking for a lady, so he leaned in to see what nights I was performing.

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Later on he told me that, as he stood there at the counter listening, he’d seen a golden light around me that made him feel at peace. He hadn’t noticed my mangled chords - it was the first time he’d seen an aura (which most likely was the light shining in the window behind me, but who was I to argue?)

 

We both left Cafe Romana that evening, unaware that our first chapter had just been written. In the years to come, we would happily recount the story whenever someone asked how we met. And sometimes we’d be talking, or laughing, or making love, and he would pause and say, “Thank God for ravioli.”