When I first met Jack and Grace at their home in Pasadena, Jack had only just begun to show signs of the illness I’d heard rumors about. His wife, Grace, whom I’d tried not to loathe before even meeting her (how was he going to fall for me if she was there?), exuded a warmth and authenticity that, I had to admit, drew me in at once; I understood immediately how one of Hollywood’s brightest stars could have so easily turned his back on the pretense and shallowness of so many industry women to marry a “commoner.”

Their daughter, Bree, just a few weeks past her seventh birthday, had her father’s extroverted charm and intense blue eyes, along with her mother’s kindness and even-keeled personality. Her kindergarten art hung everywhere in the house, having been given the treatment usually reserved for original Picassos. Within a few minutes of my arrival I was pulled along on a tour of her work by the young artist herself.

I’d been there over an hour before Jack, Grace, and I finally sat down to talk about the book. I steeled myself for in-your-face zealousness, televangelist fervor and sheen, but instead I found myself drawn to this down-to-earth couple who neither took lightly nor exploited the influence they had. So far they were what I’d hoped they would be, yet I had a hard time believing they wouldn’t eventually turn out to be die-hard religious nuts. I wondered how long they could keep up their facade of normality during our conversation. Despite my hopes, I was convinced this type of kindness and guilelessness would never last; they would probably try to lull me into a false sense of security so they could suck me into their cult. I found myself warming to the thought of exposing them through my hard-nosed research and reporting. The schoolgirl crush was finally fading. My interest was plowed.

I’m the kind of person who can’t resist a challenge, and to me their charm and easy conversation were the throwing down of the gauntlet. I accepted the job then and there, signing on to write the story of a couple whose romance and lifestyle were already the stuff of legend in their corner of the world. I broke out the minirecorder and, over the next six months, became like a fourth member of the Harrington family. We’d sit together in the living room, on the deck, or in the kitchen—wherever they felt like being at that moment—and I would listen to their stories.