Robert had prepared the studio with care. It was a small room at the back of the house, windows facing north to catch the steady light that artists prized. The easel was antique, passed down from his grandmother, its wood worn smooth by generations of hands. Canvases were stacked in one corner, paints arranged on a table by color and type, brushes cleaned and ready in ceramic jars.

"You don't have to use it," Robert told Emma when he showed her the space. "I just wanted you to have the ...