Leaving Petaluma, we follow directions that Will’s deputy, Leon Jentz, has passed along to Will over the radio, skirting the Petaluma River along 116 before cutting farther inland, through lush farmland and then into wine country. Emily said her brother had done well for himself, but as we drive through the more commercial, kitschy part of town, over the Napa River and onto the Silverado Trail, it becomes obvious that Drew has done much more than well. Extravagant estates glow like jewels next to big-name wineries like Stag’s Leap and Mumm, their tasting terraces etched into the hillsides with million-dollar views. “Scenic” isn’t the word. This is paradise, with a staggering price tag.

Will whistles as we roll through the gated entrance to Provisions, Drew Hague’s private vineyard. Leon did some research for us and learned that Emily’s brother and sister-in-law don’t bottle or distribute their own wine, just sell the grapes in and around the valley. Their product is widely respected apparently, even prized, but it’s obvious that their money was made well in advance of their success here. The curved drive carries us past sculpted cypress trees toward a Grecian-looking manse with high columns surrounding a central courtyard. It’s like Tara, or the Parthenon.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will says with a chuckle.

The struts and pediments on the main house seem borrowed from the Greek Empire. Creamy-looking stucco goes on and on in every direction, much of it strung with ivy. Near the vast marble entryway, two slender deerhounds doze, barely noticing our arrival, as if like everything else they’re strictly ornamental.

When we ring the bell, an assistant in a striped suit with a lapel mic lets us in, looking like a security guard crossed with a marketing director.

“Wait here, will you?” she says, depositing us in a thickly carpeted library. Custom cherry shelves gleam from floor to ceiling, filled with hardbound volumes and cataloged sets that appear to have been arranged by color. In the hearth a grand fire blazes, though it’s barely October. I can feel it from across the room, and begin to sweat.

After what seems an unreasonably long interval, Lydia Hague arrives in a plain yellow T-shirt and the kind of overalls you’d buy at the local Farm & Fleet. I do a double take and watch as Will does the same before he introduces us. Whatever we’ve been expecting, it’s not this.

“It’s harvesttime,” Lydia says, as if that explains everything from her unkempt silvering hair to her shoeless state, her white athletic socks plain and bright on the rich carpeting. Since she doesn’t seem embarrassed, maybe it does. “My husband will be tied up for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and into the night, too. We pick our whites after dark a lot of the time, to keep the sugar levels stable.”