field.”
“I've heard that.”
“Half the time I don't know what he's talking about. It's funny, when your child knows more than you do.”
He nodded, trying to think of something else to ask her. It wasn't easy: although he had sat in meetings with Kaplan for years, he knew little about her personal y.
She was married to a professor at San Jose State, a jovial chubby man with a mustache, who taught economics. When they were together, he did al the talking while Stephanie stood silently by. She was a tal , bony, awkward woman who seemed resigned to her lack of social graces. She was said to be a very good golfer-at least, good enough that Garvin wouldn't play her anymore. No one who knew her was surprised that she had made the error of beating Garvin too often; wags said that she wasn't enough of a loser to be promoted.
Garvin didn't real y like her, but he would never think of letting her go. Colorless, humorless, and tireless, her dedication to the company was legendary; she worked late every night and came in most weekends. When she had had a bout of cancer a few years back, she refused to take even a single day off. Apparently she was cured of the cancer; at least, Sanders hadn't heard anything more about it. But the episode seemed to have increased Kaplan's relentless focus on her impersonal domain, figures and spreadsheets, and heightened her natural inclination to work behind the scenes. More than one manager had come to work in the morning, only to find a pet project kil ed by the Stealth Bomber, with no lingering trace of how or why it had happened. Thus her tendency to remain aloof in social situations was more than a reflection of her own discomfort; it was also a reminder of the power she wielded within the company, and how she wielded it.
In her own way, she was mysterious-and potential y dangerous.
While he was trying to think of something to say, Kaplan leaned toward him confidential y and lowered her voice, “In the meeting this morning, Tom, I didn't real y feel I could say anything. But I hope you're okay. About this new reorganization.”
Sanders concealed his surprise. In twelve years, Kaplan had never said anything so directly personal to him. He wondered why she would do so now. He was instantly wary, unsure of how to respond.
“Wel , it was a shock,” he said.
She looked at him with a steady gaze. “It was a shock to many of us,” she said quietly. “There was an uproar in Cupertino. A lot of people questioned Garvin's judgment.”
Sanders frowned. Kaplan never said anything even obliquely critical of Garvin.
Never. But now this. Was she testing him? He said nothing, and poked at his food.
“I can imagine you're uneasy about the new appointment.”
“Only because it was so unexpected. It seemed to come out of the blue.”
Kaplan looked at him oddly for a moment, as if he had disappointed her. Then she nodded. “It's always that way with mergers,” she said. Her tone was more open, less confidential. “I was at CompuSoft when it merged with Symantec, and it was exactly the same: last-minute announcements, switches in the organization charts. Jobs promised, jobs lost. Everybody up in the air for weeks.
It's not easy to bring two organizations together-especial y these two. There are big differences in corporate cultures. Garvin has to make them comfortable.” She gestured toward the end of the table where Garvin was sitting. `Just look at them,” she said. “Al the Conley people are wearing suits. Nobody in our company wears suits, except lawyers.”
“They're East Coast,” Sanders said.
“But it goes deeper than that. Conley-White likes to present itself as a diversified communications company, but it's real y not so grand. Its primary business is textbooks. That's a lucrative business, but you're sel ing to school boards in Texas and Ohio and Tennessee. Many of them are deeply conservative. So Conley's conservative, by instinct and experience. They want this merger
“I've heard that.”
“Half the time I don't know what he's talking about. It's funny, when your child knows more than you do.”
He nodded, trying to think of something else to ask her. It wasn't easy: although he had sat in meetings with Kaplan for years, he knew little about her personal y.
She was married to a professor at San Jose State, a jovial chubby man with a mustache, who taught economics. When they were together, he did al the talking while Stephanie stood silently by. She was a tal , bony, awkward woman who seemed resigned to her lack of social graces. She was said to be a very good golfer-at least, good enough that Garvin wouldn't play her anymore. No one who knew her was surprised that she had made the error of beating Garvin too often; wags said that she wasn't enough of a loser to be promoted.
Garvin didn't real y like her, but he would never think of letting her go. Colorless, humorless, and tireless, her dedication to the company was legendary; she worked late every night and came in most weekends. When she had had a bout of cancer a few years back, she refused to take even a single day off. Apparently she was cured of the cancer; at least, Sanders hadn't heard anything more about it. But the episode seemed to have increased Kaplan's relentless focus on her impersonal domain, figures and spreadsheets, and heightened her natural inclination to work behind the scenes. More than one manager had come to work in the morning, only to find a pet project kil ed by the Stealth Bomber, with no lingering trace of how or why it had happened. Thus her tendency to remain aloof in social situations was more than a reflection of her own discomfort; it was also a reminder of the power she wielded within the company, and how she wielded it.
In her own way, she was mysterious-and potential y dangerous.
While he was trying to think of something to say, Kaplan leaned toward him confidential y and lowered her voice, “In the meeting this morning, Tom, I didn't real y feel I could say anything. But I hope you're okay. About this new reorganization.”
Sanders concealed his surprise. In twelve years, Kaplan had never said anything so directly personal to him. He wondered why she would do so now. He was instantly wary, unsure of how to respond.
“Wel , it was a shock,” he said.
She looked at him with a steady gaze. “It was a shock to many of us,” she said quietly. “There was an uproar in Cupertino. A lot of people questioned Garvin's judgment.”
Sanders frowned. Kaplan never said anything even obliquely critical of Garvin.
Never. But now this. Was she testing him? He said nothing, and poked at his food.
“I can imagine you're uneasy about the new appointment.”
“Only because it was so unexpected. It seemed to come out of the blue.”
Kaplan looked at him oddly for a moment, as if he had disappointed her. Then she nodded. “It's always that way with mergers,” she said. Her tone was more open, less confidential. “I was at CompuSoft when it merged with Symantec, and it was exactly the same: last-minute announcements, switches in the organization charts. Jobs promised, jobs lost. Everybody up in the air for weeks.
It's not easy to bring two organizations together-especial y these two. There are big differences in corporate cultures. Garvin has to make them comfortable.” She gestured toward the end of the table where Garvin was sitting. `Just look at them,” she said. “Al the Conley people are wearing suits. Nobody in our company wears suits, except lawyers.”
“They're East Coast,” Sanders said.
“But it goes deeper than that. Conley-White likes to present itself as a diversified communications company, but it's real y not so grand. Its primary business is textbooks. That's a lucrative business, but you're sel ing to school boards in Texas and Ohio and Tennessee. Many of them are deeply conservative. So Conley's conservative, by instinct and experience. They want this merger
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