Breakfast dishes barely in the dishwasher, Stephen orders, “Give me a tour of your studio.” Then, he pulls me with him.

“There’s really not much to see,” I state, passing him to take the lead.

I pull the French doors open. I’m suddenly nervous about sharing my happy place with him. I fear it might seem silly to a non-painter.

“Pardon the mess,” I murmur. “It’s organized and makes sense to me.”

“Show me,” he says, lifting his chin toward the ...