By the time Leona took a seat at the back of the cavernous, cathedral-ceilinged sanctuary, it had been the subject of congregational conflict for a number of years. Prominent members of the congregation who had clashed over whether it should be radically altered during the much needed renovation of the synagogue or reverently preserved in its minutest details, were now greeting each other across the central aisle that divided the massive room along its main axis. The president of the congregation, Ben Pollock, his expression alternating between subdued rage at opposing congregants, and evident pleasure at recognizing allies and friends, positioned a kipa over his bald spot and clipped it in place. Clusters of eminent physicians, high-profile lawyers, affluent retailers, and academics-turned public intellectuals acknowledged one another while waiting for the widow and three children of Nate Grand and the rest of their families to file in behind the rabbi and the cantor. Were it not for the presence of the casket, incongruously draped in a log cabin quilt, it would seem to be a High Holiday, so quickly were the rows beginning to fill. Leona was relieved that she had arrived early enough to secure the least conspicuous aisle seat in the very last row, so she would be able to leave quickly, possibly unobserved.
She had always found it difficult to settle down and focus on the service when the sanctuary was full. There were just too many faces to be scanned, identified, reacted to, interacted with, and mentally filed in the...
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