It was marked as a protected tributary feeding into the French Broad River.

“We have the preliminary designs completed,” Trevor said, covering the map with his hand.

“That slope is over thirty-five percent grade,” I said, remembering the geological survey I had done when I inherited the cabin.

“Our engineers can handle it,” Trevor said.

“The Asheville steep slope ordinance strictly prohibits high-density building on anything over thirty percent,” I said.

Trevor’s face went rigid.

“And that creek is a designated trout stream,” I added, my mind racing through the local environmental zoning codes I had studied for my own renovations. “You can’t build within a hundred feet of it without a state variance.”

“We’ll get the variances,” Trevor said, his voice losing its smooth edge.

“No, you won’t,” I said. “The county commission has been denying those variances for the last three years to protect the watershed.”

My mother looked between us, her confusion growing. “What does that mean, Trevor?”

“It means nothing, Denise,” Trevor said quickly. “Meredith is just trying to scare you.”